Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) by Frederick H. Christian Page A

earth. Men like George Perry had tamed as much of this land as
was tamable, scraping a living from the hostile earth, defending
themselves against the ever recurring Apache outbreaks. They would
have been embarrassed if he had called them pioneers to their
faces; but that was what they were. When the history of this
country was written, their names and the names of thousands like
them would never appear. Yet they were making this history - they
and people with the same firm belief that one day this would be a
fine country for people to live in. But it was the wild bunch, men
like Boot and Mill and the men who supported their killing ways,
who would be remembered. History had a funny way of enshrining the
badmen. Go to Missouri and they’d tell you what a fine man Charley
Quantrill had really been. The ordinary men and women he had
slaughtered at Lawrence would not get into the history books, but
Quantrill was sure of his place.
    He dozed lightly, his mind
still working on the factional problems he had already
enc ountered
in the Rio Blanco country.
    When Walt Clare came into the
ranch-house, it was as if someone had let in a big friendly bear.
He gave Kate Perry a hug, whirling her off her feet as if she
weighed no more than a child. He pumped George
Perry ’s
hand, slapped the old man on the back, told them he’d left half of
a deer he’d killed and skinned out on the porch. He weighed Angel
up carefully when Perry introduced them; wary of strangers, Angel
thought, and probably rightly so. He made no attempt to ingratiate
himself, concluding correctly as it turned out later that any such
attempt would have deepened Clare’s suspicions.
    They sat down to a fine meal cooked by Kate,
and afterwards, while she hummed gaily to herself over the dishes,
the three men lit cigars and sat on the porch. Angel knew Clare had
been waiting for this moment, and grinned to himself in the
darkness when the question came.
    ‘ Where
you hail from, Frank?’ Clare asked.
    ‘ I was
born in Savannah, Georgia,’ Angel told him. ‘Been kicking around
most of my life. Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas. Looking for
that greener grass. Never have found it, but I keep on
hunting.’
    ‘ You
know cows?’
    ‘ Some,’ Angel said. ‘But I’m not looking for a job, if
that’s what you mean.’
    ‘You don’t talk much like a cowman,’ Clare
persisted.
    ‘ I’m
not, though I’ve worked some spreads,’ Angel said. ‘I work for the
Government.’
    ‘ Territorial?’ Perry asked.
    Angel nodded. It
wasn ’t
strictly true, but it would do. He wasn’t ready to reveal his real
purpose here yet.
    ‘ Mebbe
you can tell me what the hell they’re up to back there in Tucson,
then,’ Perry growled, ejecting a finely aimed wad of chewed tobacco
in the general direction of town. ‘They shore as hell got me
beat.’
    ‘ How
do you mean?’
    ‘ Lookit, son,’ Perry said, leaning forward. ‘We been losin’
cattle on and off this past three or four years. Nothin’ much -just
ten head here, twenty there. Same for Walt, right?’
    Clare nodded. ‘They pick ’em off
neat as flies,’ he said. ‘We let ’em. Take an army to chase a
couple of men didn’t want to get caught in this
country.’
    ‘ Easier to let ‘em steal, yeah,’ Perry added bitterly.
‘Exceptin’ that them steers is financin’ Al Birch an’ Jacey
Reynolds and that miracle herd o’ theirs over t’other side o’ the
mountains.’
    ‘ Savin’ it’s one thing, George,’ Clare said. ‘Provin’ it is
some-thin’ else.’
    ‘ Exactly what I’m sayin’ to Frank here,’ Perry burst out ‘We
complained to the law in Tucson - tried to get the US marshal to
send a man out here. N’ary a sign did we see he even got our
letter.’
    ‘ We
sent a petition to the State senator, askin’ him to look into
things up here. Same result,’ Clare added.
    ‘ Damn,
we even wrote to Washin’ton,’ Perry said angrily.
    ‘ Not
as you’d expect them fat-assed clerks to