Shoot Angel! by Frederick H. Christian

the compound. The breakfast period was over. The prisoners
were herded into wagons, each with two armed guards and a driver.
The gates were opened and the wagons rolled out of the camp.
    The dusty trail, grinding its way up the
mountain slopes, was a crude, dangerous track. On one side the
rocky slopes rose above the wagons, on the other lay a long, almost
sheer drop to the jagged mass of tumbled stone below.
    Frank Angel shut himself off
from the physical discomforts of the ride. His mind was concerned
with only one line of thought. How to get himself free. Until he
did get away from this place there was little he could do to
conclude the business of Cranford and Sherman. Like it or not he
had stumbled on a nasty little racket being operated by the
so-called law of Liberty. It needed stamping out before anyone else
finished up like Harry Culp. It was typical of life’s complexities
to bring a man to a place on one pretext and then go and drop into
his lap a whole mess of other problems. As far as Angel could see
his whole life had been one continuous round of swapping one set of
problems for another. Not that he had ever worried over it. At
least it kept life from becoming dull.
    He heard a sudden shout. The wagon lurched,
slipping sideways. Angel glanced over the side and saw that the
front wheel had gone clear off the edge of the trail. The driver
was fighting the jittery horses and not doing too well. The wagon
jerked forward a little, then slid back again. Loosened rocks and
dirt cascaded over the edge of the trail, rattling down the long,
shale slope. Glancing at the slope Angel realized that they had
left the earlier sheer drop far behind. Now this steep, but
comparatively easier slope lay below.
    Angel took one look at the
slope and saw instantly a chance for escape. A slim chance, with
the odds stacked against its being successful, but nonetheless a
chance. Angel had learned through bitter experience that in his
line of business opportunities were there to be grabbed with both
hands.
    The guard, perched on the seat beside the
driver of the wagon, hunched himself round, eyes wide with fright
as he anticipated being hurled over the edge of the trail.
    ‘ Get
out!’ he yelled. ‘Move, you bastards! Jump!’
    The prisoners surged towards
the far side of the wagon. Angel moved too —but he crossed to the opposite side.
He didn’t hesitate. In the scant seconds before he went over the
side of the wagon he heard a familiar voice somewhere
close.
    ‘ I’m
with you, Angel!’
    Out of the corner of his eye Angel caught
sight of Birdy. The skinny little man, moving with surprising
agility, was sticking to Angel like a second shadow.
    Angel hurled himself over the
side of the wagon, dropping towards the near-vertical slope. He
struck the loose sale on his feet, falling forwards. He
didn ’t try
to hold himself back because there was no way he was going to be
able to control his descent. Angel allowed his body to go slack.
The downward fall seemed endless. The world spun about Angel as he
was catapulted clown the slope. Dust billowed up around him, acrid,
blinding dust. It stung his eyes, clogged his nostrils, filled his
lungs. A roaring noise blotted out every other sound.
    And then with startling
abruptness it all stopped. Movement and sound ceased. Angel lay,
stunned, almost paralyzed. He couldn’t have lain there for more than
seconds but it had the feel of eternity. Dimly, sound and feeling
returned. Far off Angel heard angry voices. He lifted his head,
pawing gritty dust from his eyes. A single rifle shot sounded. The
bullet whacked into the earth yards to one side of where Angel lay.
He jerked to his feet hurriedly while the echo of the shot faded
among the rocks. Throwing a swift glance up to where the abandoned
wagon now hung halfway over the edge of the trail, Angel made out
the tiny figures of the armed guards, some of them pushing curious
prisoners back from the rim of the trail. Other guards began to