Read Kill Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #6) Online
Authors: Frederick H. Christian
Tags: #old west, #outlaws, #piccadilly publishing, #frederick h christian, #sudden, #frank angel, #wild west fiction
Kill Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #6) (15 page)
Nineteen
The sound of the shots brought Angel
instantly awake. Gates and Yancey Blantine sat up simultaneously
and they all looked at each other in the grey light.
‘
Apaches?’ Gates said.
‘
Got to
be,’ Angel told him.
‘
Apaches?’ Blantine repeated dully. He got to his feet,
madness in his eyes, an agonized shout escaping his lips. ‘They’re
killing my boys?’
‘
They
sure as hell aren’t servin’ ’em tea,’ Angel told him. ‘Get on your
horse!’
‘
No!’
screamed Yancey Blantine. ‘No!’
Gates hit him with the barrel of
his
six-gun
and the older man folded at the knees and slumped to the ground.
Gates picked up the fallen renegade as if he had been a child and
manhandled him into the saddle.
‘
We
better burn shucks,’ he said.
Angel nodded. It was not a matter of
cowardice or bravery now but of pure survival. They had been given
breathing space by the attack on their pursuers and they had to use
it.
‘
Move!’
he shouted to Gates. ‘Kill the horses if you have to!’
Gates nodded to show he had heard. Their
horses were in poor shape anyway, but now they would have to ride
them until the animals dropped from exhaustion. When the Apaches
were done, they would come after them. Both men knew that as surely
as they knew their only hope lay in headlong flight. Neither spoke
of the possibility that the Apaches attacking their pursuers might
only be part of a larger band who might even now be waiting for
them somewhere out in the wilderness ahead. Across the long miles
to the border it was all Apache land. They kicked the horses into a
flat gallop and moved off, heading north.
Through the morning they rode,
across mighty stretches of the empty desert, toiling up wide
sweeping stretches of broken scrubland, threading their way north,
the land beginning to change as they came towards the edge of the
desert, the blue-grey peaks of the Huachucas shimmering ahead of
them on the horizon. Now they were in a country of little hills and
rocky gullies, torn by torrents in the rainy season, scarred by
washes and sand-filled riverbeds. Above them the relentless sun
shone mercilessly and the featureless land bounced its rays back
upwards so that at times they felt as if they were riding through a
haze of shimmering heat. They rode with eyes ever alert for
movement, the sudden surge of an Apache ambush, pushing hard
through the desolate and sterile land, moving upwards now towards
the eastern edge of the Huachuca foothills. Angel glanced at his
companions as he rode. Gates leaned forward in the saddle, urging
the flagging horse to greater effort. The ponies were
flecked
now
with soapy foam, the punishing pace starting to slow them, their
rhythm ragged. Yancey Blantine sat upright in the saddle, his eyes
unseeing. The change in the man was enormous. The huge old frame
seemed thinner, more brittle, the burning power damped down to a
tiny flicker, no more than would sustain life. Only the eyes burned
with a never-ending hatred, a consuming need for vengeance. Angel
knew that he had been right to give Yancey Blantine no opportunity
at any time to free his hands or reach a weapon. If he did, Yancey
would go killing-mad and nothing would stop him but death. He
pursed his lips and concentrated upon keeping the horse running. It
was still a hell of a long way to Tucson.
Fred Little died in the first
moments of the charge, a bullet smashing into his forehead and
splattering his companions with blood and an oozing grey
stuff that slid
slimily down the rocks around them. Ronnie Busch took one of the
Indians out with a bullet, then another was on him and Busch
smashed the Apache down with the butt of his rifle, breaking the
wolf like jaw. From a range of two feet he fired his carbine at the
Indian, setting the cheap cotton shirt alight. The smell of powder
smoke and burning flesh filled the air and Jerry Kershoe got up to
his feet with a very surprised look on his face, two arrows
protruding from the nape of his neck. He walked out into the open,
his gun dangling in his hand, and one of the Indians ran up and
gutted him like a trout, the long knife ending Kershoe’s faltering
life in an instant. Gregg Blantine shot the Apache in the face as
he picked up Kershoe’s gun and he heard Busch yell in pain.
Wheeling he saw Busch clamping a hand to his thick thigh, which was
pumping blood like a tap. Busch sank to the ground in a welter of
blood, firing his six-gun as he fell. The Apache
who had shot him
went over backwards off the top of the rock where he was standing
as if he had been snatched off by some invisible hand. Another one
jumped up in his place and Gregg shot him in the belly. The Indian
grunted and folded forward, falling into the circle of rocks. Busch
fell on the kicking body and his arm rose and fell and rose and
fell, the Bowie knife thick with blood to its hilt.. Then he fell
back, gasping, his whole leg drowning in the pulsing blood from his
wound. He tried to lift the six-gun but his hand fell lifeless at
his side as the last two Apaches jumped Gregg Blantine, one from
the front and the other, Saguarito himself, from the rear. Gregg
Blantine roared with sheer anger, glorying at the strength in
himself and smashed the Apache in front of him to the ground with a
fist like a piece of rock. Saguarito clamped his wiry legs about
the huge torso of his enemy, and with a deft and wicked movement
planted his long knife into Gregg Blantine’s body just
below the ribs on
the left hand side. Blantine felt the hard, sliding iciness of the
blade entering his body and he gave a shriek that froze the Apache
clinging to him in horror, for it was not the cry of pain he had
expected, it was an exulting, glorying, totally wild cry of
madness. He drew back his arm to slide the knife into the huge body
again and then Gregg Blantine shook Saguarito off his back as if
the Apache had been a small child. The Indian hit the ground and
rolled like a cat, coming up crouched with the knife nicely
balanced in the palm of his hand and made his move. Saguarito was
an Apache, born of this hard land. He had learned how to use a
knife from Naiche, whom the Apaches acknowledged their champion
knife fighter, and he did everything right, with the killing
confidence that came from complete disregard for his own life. His
men were all dead and his failure would be a disgrace when he came
back to the camp in the Huachucas. All this went through the
mind of the Apache
as he came at Gregg Blantine, and Gregg Blantine laughed into his
black-painted face. His huge hand clamped down on the Apache’s
forearm and then the free right hand came down in a terrible
smashing arc, the clenched fist striking the clamped arm like a
hammer. Saguarito’s arm broke like a stick and he sagged to his
knees with a sick scream. Gregg Blantine let go of the greasy arm
and then kicked the Apache with all the strength he had. The stiff,
scuffed point of his boot smashed the twisted face into a bloody
mask and the Apache went backwards, scrabbling away, the eyes
clouded with terror for nothing he had ever seen had been like this
insane giant who could not be killed, who felt no pain, whose eyes
were like those of the strange ones the Apache found sometimes
wandering in the desert. Gregg Blantine stalked after the squirming
Apache and then he was upon Saguarito. He caught one of the kicking
feet in his right hand, and he
twisted it around and over and Saguarito, strong
still even in the agony from his broken face and shattered arm,
fought helplessly against the inexorable pressure. Gregg Blantine’s
side was matted with blood but he did not appear to notice it. He
twisted and the Apache’s body flopped over and then Gregg Blantine
had the other foot. He leaned back and swung.
Saguarito screamed once as he
came off the ground, full length and held in Gregg
Blantine
’s
iron grip. Blantine turned in a short, sharp arc, and smashed the
turning body head first against a jagged rock. The Apache’s head
burst with a sound like a melon hitting a stone floor. Gregg
Blantine tossed him aside, and stood there, his huge chest heaving,
aware for the first time of the pain in his side. He touched the
wound with his left hand and looked in astonishment at the blood on
it.
A movement caught his eye. The
other Apache who had attacked him
was on his feet, and as Gregg watched, he
started a headlong run towards the arroyo about thirty feet away.
Without haste Gregg Blantine picked up one of the fallen
Winchesters and shot the running Apache at the base of the spine.
The Indian gave an unearthly shout of agony and fell in a curious
broken way, his arms and head thrashing around, eyes clenched tight
in a total hell of blinding pain. Gregg Blantine walked across the
open sandy space and stood towering above the dying man. He levered
the Winchester and fired it straight into the swarthy face, and
then he levered the action and fired again and he kept on doing
that until the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. Then Gregg
Blantine fell, like an old, tall tree coming down in a silent
forest, measuring his length upon the boiling sand.
The
empty eye of the sun moved
dispassionately on.
Twenty
It was Gates
’ horse that foundered
first.
They were
laboring up now to the crest of
the low foothills of the Huachucas, aiming for a hogback ridge,
when the faltering horse went to its knees. Gates, who had been
half-expecting it, came off the horse and landed on his feet. The
animal lay on its side whickering softly. It would not get up
again.
‘
Kill
it,’ Angel said.
Gates pulled out his knife and
slit the animal
’s throat in one smooth sweep. The horse’s eyes bulged and
it started to get up and then it lay down again and it was
dead.
‘
Get up
behind Blantine,’ Angel said. ‘But watch him.’
Blantine said nothing. He did
not move as Gates swung up on to the cantle of the saddle behind
him and
took
the reins. Only the hooded eyes moved. If there was anything to see
in them, neither of the two men watching Blantine noticed
it.
They moved on up to the ridge of
the hogback and Angel twisted in the saddle, keen eyes sweeping
across the land behind him. The ground fell away from here to the
south in smooth-looking gradients, dotted with sagebrush and
prickly pear, the tall stalks of
ocotillo standing clear against the ochre
land, the shimmering malpais below and behind them looking
deceptively smooth and featureless from this distance. Ahead of
them, the prospect was much the same.
The land sloped steadily down to the north,
and they could see the thin white vein of the road to Nogales off
on the eastern edge of their sight.
‘
How
far you reckon it is t’Nogales?’ Gates asked.
‘
Not
far,’ Angel replied. He squinted up at the sun. ‘We could be in
town by late afternoon. Across the border before
nightfall.
He let his eyes scour the land
to the south, behind them, again. In the unseen washes and gullies
and riverbeds and arroyos that scarred and crisscrossed the broken
malpais, an army of Apaches could be hiding and he would not see
them. But there had been no dust behind at any time. It
didn
’t
figure. If the Apaches had taken all of the pursuers then they
would have come after the remaining quarry. If they had been stood
off, they would have tried for easier prey. If they had all been
killed ... but that was impossible. For then the pursuers would
have taken up the chase again and he would have seen dust. He shook
his head. No point in worrying about it. The biggest worry was
whether the horses would last until they could get to Nogales and
buy fresh ones.
They rode down out of the low
hills around Nogales at four in the afternoon. The horses walked
with their muzzles down almost touching the ground, the riders
slack shouldered in
the saddles. As they came nearer the town, Angel’s horse
blew through its muzzle and its ears came up. It began to pick up
its feet. The doubly-laden animal carrying Blantine and Gates also
managed to lengthen its gait. They came into the street from the
western edge of town, all of them gaunt and coated with the layers
of dust that days in the desert had ground into their clothes.
Their eyes were deep and burning holes in the chalky faces, and all
three had coarse and stubbly chins. Nogales was a border town, and
the three excited little attention. Men came in and men went out of
Nogales every hour of the day. Some were honest men, some were
thieves, some were lawmen and some were outlaws. Men on the run
from the law of the Norteamericanos came to Nogales and received
the same shelter and whiskey and women — if they had the price — as
Tejanos or Californios cooling their heels while the heat died down
in San Antonio or El Paso.
They asked no questions in Nogales. Visitors
tended to be wary-eyed and touchy about questions. Visitors always
carried guns which they looked ready to use. Nogales fed them, sold
them women or whiskey or a bed for the night, then forgot their
names and their faces and the direction in which they were
travelling.
There were plenty of people in
the street, with its adobe houses, its wide shaded ramadas, the
larger bulk of a
cantina
here, a store there. On the crowded sidewalks Mexicans in
silver-trimmed trousers that flared at the ankle jostled with
hard-looking Anglos with six-guns at their waists. Here the mixture
of the races met: the swarthy skin of the
mestizo,
the liquid chocolate of the Indians,
the handsome bronze of the true Mexican blood, the paler bronze of
the Anglos, the Norteamericanos, all came together in a melting pot
of colors and sizes and tongues, American and Spanish and Yaqui and
more. Inside one of the
cantinas
they heard a guitar strumming as they rode by, the
languid melody of
La Golond
rina.
