He cut their trail in Raton.
There had been a fracas in the saloon, and several people remembered the squint-eyed man called Milt who had tried to pistol-whip a man he thought was cutting in on his conversation with one of the girls. A heavyset, black-haired man had intervened, and when the sheriff had turned up, smoothed things over by saying they were moving out right away heading for Las Vegas.
It figured, Angel thought.
Cravetts and his men had been out for a long time, and there was money from the Fort Riley robbery burning a hole in their jeans. They would head somewhere they could spend it. Las Vegas might hold them for a while. Two days later he rode into the town and hitched his horse outside the Plaza Hotel. There were shade trees planted in the square, and everywhere the indolent air of Spain: it was like another world after the flat harshness of Kansas and the cool heights of Colorado. Somewhere in one of the low-lying adobes across the square he could hear a woman laughing, and the random strum of a guitar came from one of the cantinas.
He asked for a room, and the desk clerk pushed the book across for him to sign. Frank Angel scanned it quickly, but the scribbled names gave him no clues. He needed time.
The clerk sent a Mexican out to take care of the horse and Angel paid him in advance for the room. He went out again into the square and methodically visited the cantinas one by one. His eyes checked off every white man he saw — for there were many shades of skin here: Indian, Mexican, even one or two Negro troopers from Fort Union — but saw no one who gave him any faint flutter of recognition. In the cantinas though, they all looked at him.
Frank Angel was tall, and wide-shouldered, and the cold eyes had the look of a wary wolf in them. His travel-stained clothes, hard used on the long journey, and the old Army Colt slung high on the right hip drew attention. Men like him were hardly rare in places like this: but the look on his face, the way his right hand stayed always near the revolver, set him apart.
He had to start somewhere, so he went back to the hotel. The desk clerk looked up when he spun the gold coin Hickok had given him on the desk, and made change for it without comment.
‘Where’s the best place in town for poker?’ Angel asked him. The clerk didn’t sneer but he came close to it.
‘The big games,’ he said, emphasizing the adjective, ‘are at the Cattleman, down the street, two doors along from the Optic offices.’
Angel looked his question.
‘The Optic, the newspaper,’ the clerk explained impatiently. ‘But I was you, I’d try one of the cantinas. Twenty bucks won’t get you more than two hands at the Cattleman.’
‘Big stakes, huh?’ Angel said.
‘You could say that,’ the clerk said. ‘Take my tip an’ try something more your size, son.’
‘I might at that,’ Angel replied and went out into the plaza. He walked down to the southern end and turned left along the street. The stores and business buildings were dark now, closed tight for the night, but here and there pools of light spilled out on to the sidewalk from cantinas, and throngs of passers-by bustled from one saloon to the next. The Cattleman was a brick building with plate glass windows on both sides of the batwing doors, crowded inside with tables and chairs, a long bar going the length of the building on the left hand side. In back of the room, a round table with a green felt top was lit by an overhead lamp, and around it sat seven men.
Kibitzers crowded around the table, which was littered with poker chips, glasses and bottles. Cigar smoke wreathed upwards towards the light, where dozens of moths fluttered around the hot glass.
Frank Angel bought a drink at the bar and carried it across the room to where he could lean against the back wall of the saloon and watch the game. The stakes, as the desk clerk had warned him, were big enough: he reckoned there was about forty dollars in the pot. The dealer was a thickset man with a black broadcloth coat and a fancy vest across which a gold watch chain was linked. His hands were cleft as they flicked cards to each of the players, two deeply-tanned men, obviously local ranchers, a slim young fellow with his hat tilted forward over his eyes, an elderly man with grizzled hair whom the dealer referred to as ‘Doc’, a middle-aged man in a blue serge business suit, and a narrow-shouldered man of about forty who sat with his back towards Frank Angel and drank regularly from the bottle on the table in front of him.
Angel stood and watched the game for an hour, nursing his drink. He listened as the conversation ebbed and flowed between hands, putting names to the players. The dealer’s name was Singer, he learned. The two ranchers, although they did not look at all alike, were brothers, Brian and Peter something. A few rough jokes here and there established the fact that ‘Doc’ was the town’s doctor, and the man with the hat tilted over his face was called Kamins. The narrow-shouldered man now drawing to a pair of sevens was the only one for whom Angel did not have a name, but as the dealer flicked the cards across the table the one called Kamins said ‘Come on, Milt, see if you can get some o’ your money back.’
‘Hell, Kamins, he ain’t lost that much,’ Singer expostulated.
‘If you call five hundred not much,’ the one called Milt growled, ‘you ought to let me know what much is, some time.’
‘Aw, play cards or fold, Sharp,’ one of the ranchers said. At the last word, Angel straightened up and then edged around until he could see Sharp’s face. The man looked up at him and their eyes met. Milt Sharp had a peculiar cast to his eyes, Angel realized. It wasn’t exactly a squint, but you had the curious impression that he was looking just past you when in fact he was looking at you.
‘What the hell you starin’ at?’ he snapped at Angel.
‘Sorry,’ Angel said, holding up a hand in the peace sign. just waiting for a chance to sit in.’
‘You can sit in soon enough if I don’t get some cards soon,’ growled Sharp. ‘I can’t do a thing with this shit.’
‘You bettin’ or foldin’, Sharp?’ complained the dealer.
‘He’s doin’ whatever he wants to do, Singer,’ said the one called Kamins softly. There was no edge to his voice at all, but Singer looked at him sharply and paled visibly.
‘See here, Howie,’ he said, ‘no call for that kind of talk.’
‘Then let Milt play his hand the way he wants to,’ Kamins said amiably.
‘Sure, Howie, sure,’ Singer hastened to say. ‘No hurry. No hurry at all.’
Kamins looked up across the table. He pushed back the Stetson with his thumb, exposing a bright thatch of auburn hair, growing thick and sharp to a widow’s peak in the centre of his forehead.
‘I reckon I’ll quit after this hand, Milt,’ he said. ‘Just not my night.’
‘Mine, neither!’ scowled Sharp, slamming his cards down on the table and taking a gulp of the whiskey from his bottle. If they noticed Angel leave the saloon by the rear entrance they did not react. They waited for the hand to finish and then got up, saying their grumbling farewells to the other players with the joking words that expressed good fellowship but in fact concealed their seething rage at losing to what Sharp kept constantly referring to as ‘small town hicks’. They came out into the street arguing, Sharp’s voice slurred and angry, Kamins talking soothingly, reasonably.
They walked along the street until they came to the plaza. Sharp was still sulking over his losses at the card table.
‘Bastards,’ he said and spat on the sidewalk.
‘Sure, Milt,’ Kamins said. ‘But no trouble, right? That’s what we said. A nice layover. A few drinks, some girls - an’ no trouble. We told Dick: no trouble.’
‘I know,’ Sharp said after a moment. ‘It ain’t the money, it’s … ’
‘Come on Milt,’ Kamins grinned in the darkness. ‘It ain’t as if it was your own money.’ The two men laughed.
‘Hey,’ Sharp said. ‘l got an idea. Let’s go over to Angela’s.’
‘Jesus, Milt, you must have had every puta in town twice,’ Kamins said. ‘You still lookin’ for more?’
‘Keeps you healthy,’ Sharp leered. ‘You comin’ or not?’
‘I’m going back to the hotel,’ Kamins told him. ‘You go get laid if you’ve a mind to. I need a drink.’
They stepped off the sidewalk into the wide dusty street and as they did so Angel stepped off the walk on the opposite corner and came towards them. When they were about twenty feet apart he stopped.
‘You two!’ he said. ‘Hold it right there!’
Kamins stopped dead but Sharp leaned forward blearily and said petulantly ‘What the hell is this?’
‘I’m going to kill one of you,’ Angel said flatly.
‘Ain’t that the kid that was watchin’ the card game?’
Kamins said, his voice cool and unpanicked. Then to Angel: ‘What beef you got with us, boy?’ He started to walk towards Angel, his hands spread in an attitude of reasonable inquiry but Angel stopped him with his next words.
‘I’m from Kansas,’ he told them.
Sharp swore and moved as he did so, his hand stabbing for the gun in the holster at his side. In the same moment Kamins grabbed for the gun in his shoulder holster. He was about two seconds behind Sharp and in that time Angel shot Sharp very coolly through the top of the head and Kamins screamed as he was splattered with the grey-black ooze from Sharp’s shattered skull. The gun he had yanked out of his shoulder holster went off wild, and then he cocked it again, but now Angel had run across the space between them, light-footed as an Apache, swinging the long-barreled Colt in a looping arc that ended in a vicious, smashing blow just above Kamins’ ear. The red-haired man went down to the ground in a thrashing heap of arms and legs, dust boiling up in a cloud as he rolled helplessly, half-conscious.
Angel kicked away the gun which had fallen to the ground and stood above the fallen man. There were shouts along the street, and men were coming out of the saloons. He heard feet running along the wooden sidewalks, hoarse shouts.
‘Where’s Cravetts? Angel snapped at the fallen Kamins, who was trying to sit up, shaking his head. Angel kneeled down and jammed the barrel of his gun under Kamins’ chin, jerking the man’s head back.
‘Where are they?’ he repeated. ‘Where’s Cravetts and the rest of them?’
‘Who … who are you?’ Kamins managed.
‘You’ve got ten seconds to answer my question, Kamins. Or I’m going to kill you.’ Angel said it without any attempt at bluster. It came out icy and convincing.
‘Santa Fe!’ he gasped. ‘They were heading for Santa Fe!’
‘Where after that?’
‘I dunno,’ Kamins muttered. There was a lot of activity in the street now. He knew help was on the way, and his courage was returning. There was no chance of his being shot in front of twenty or thirty bystanders.
‘Kamins,’ Angel said warningly. ‘You better tell me.’
‘Go to hell, kid,’ Kamins said, and Angel shot him through the knee. The man screamed in blinded agony as the bullet smashed the bones of his leg, and as Angel had expected, the sound of the shot drove the oncoming townsfolk back towards shelter. They receded into the shadows along the street, into doorways and saloon porches, awaiting developments. A man didn’t prove anything by getting himself shot, knocked down by a stray bullet. Vegas had a sheriff. Let him handle it.
Kamins was moaning in agony in the dust on Santa Fe Street. Angel looked dispassionately at him. ‘Now: the truth,’ he said.
Kamins loosed off a stream of obscenities, every foul thing he could lay his tongue to being directed at the flint-faced man standing over him.
‘You got ten seconds, Howie,’ Angel said. ‘Then you get it in the other leg.’
‘You wouldn’t do that!’ Kamins gasped. ‘You wouldn’t deliberately make a man a cripple for life.’
‘Try me,’ Frank Angel said and cocked the Army Colt.
‘Who … who are you?’ Kamins managed. His face was still screwed tight with the pain from his leg, both hands gripping the hurt limb fiercely.
‘You never heard of me,’ the younger man said. ‘My name is Frank Angel and you’ve got five seconds.’
‘Angel?’ Kamins was playing for time and Angel knew it.
‘Three,’ he said.
Kamins looked into the empty eyes and watched as Angel raised the gun.
‘No,’ he choked. ‘I’ll tell you!’
‘Make it good, Howie,’ Angel said softly. He knelt down and laid the barrel of the gun against Kamins’ good leg. ‘And make it fast.’
‘Santa Fe,’ Kamins gasped, hastily. ‘They was goin’ to lay over a while in Santa Fe, get fresh horses. Torelli has a brother in Socorro.’
‘Torelli? Who’s Torelli?’
‘Frank Torelli,’ Kamins said, ‘one of the boys.’
‘Give me all their names,’ Angel said. ‘Every man on the Fort Riley job.’
‘There was me, Milt—’ Kamins turned to look at Sharp’s shattered head and shuddered. ‘Cravetts, Monsher, Vister and Juba.’
‘First names,’ snapped Angel. ‘Come on, come on!’
‘Dick Cravetts, Lee Monsher, Johnnie Vister, Denny Juba!’ Kamins rushed. ‘Listen, you got to get me to doctor!’
‘Sure,’ Angel said. ‘Where does Cravetts hail from?’
‘Arizona,` Kamins said. ‘Tucson way, I think.’
‘How much did you boys lift from the Army payroll?’
‘About sixteen thousand,’ Kamins muttered. ‘Listen, Angel, I ain’t talkin’ no more till you get me a doctor. I’m gonna bleed to death.’
‘No chance,’ Angel said, and, shot him through the heart. Kamins went back down flat and hard, and Angel heard someone shout in alarm. The people who had been watching from the safety of the ramadas on the sidewalk about thirty or forty feet away scampered back out of range to the safety of their doorways. Along the street Angel heard the sound of running feet. Someone in the darkness shouted ‘It’s the sheriff?
He had only moments. Without hesitation or shame he rifled Kamins’ coat pockets, and then Sharp’s. Both men had wallets stuffed with banknotes and both had pokes of what felt like gold dust. He jammed everything into his pockets and ran for the tree-filled plaza, where the shadows were like the bottomless pits of Hell.
‘Hey, you!’ he heard someone shout.
He had traced his return path carefully earlier in the evening and knew every step of the way even in the pitch blackness of the empty square. He came out of the trees on the northern side of the plaza and crossed over to the ramada of the hotel. A group of men was standing in the doorway craning their necks to see what the fuss was down the street. He came up behind them and asked a question. A burly man in a business suit looked him up and down.
‘Some kind of fracas down the street,’ he said. At that moment the desk clerk came up the sidewalk from the direction of the street and the men outside the hotel clustered around him, Angel among them.
‘Two men shot dead down there,’ the clerk was saying excitedly. ‘Some feller shot them dead and robbed them right in the middle of the street!’
‘Anyone see who it was? someone asked.
‘I dunno,’ the clerk said. ‘Sheriff’ s down there now!’
‘I reckon I’ll go down there take a look,’ another man said. ‘You comin’, Harry?’
‘Hell with it,’ the man called Harry said. ‘It ain’t no concern o’ mine. Someone gets his liver shot out once a week in this burg.’
The knot of people began to dissolve. Some went down the walk towards the scene of the affray, others went back inside the hotel. Angel went in with them and asked the clerk for his key. The clerk handed it to him without even taking time to look at Angel. He was anxious to get back to talking about what had happened.
Angel went to his room and locked the door. He sat on the bed and waited a long time until his hands stopped shaking. Much, much later he fell asleep fully dressed.