Free Trap Angel (Frank Angel Western #3) by Frederick H. Christian

beady-eyed little man who had a
singsong accent which Angel finally identified as Welsh. The man
looked completely out of place until Angel remembered Denniston’s
earlier question about explosives. He’d be a miner. And know about
things like that.
    ‘Before we discuss business,
gentlemen,’ Denniston was saying, ‘there is the matter of our — ah,
guest. And the replacement of John Atterbow. It is my intention to
appoint Mr. Angel as a Number Three, replacing John with you, Mr.
Adam. With the approval of all you gentlemen, of
course.’
    He looked at them all for a
moment, then spoke again.
    ‘Mr. Whiting? That was the
miner, who said, ‘Agreed sir.’
    ‘Mr. Adam?’
    ‘Honored at my promotion,
sir,’ drawled the Texan. ‘And no objection.’
    Denniston nodded. ‘Mr.
Briggs?’
    The pockmarked one shook his
head. ‘Fine with me, sir.’
    ‘And you, Mr.
Jackson?’
    ‘A question,
sir?’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘Is Mr. Angel any good with
that gun?’ asked the kid.
    Denniston swiveled in his
chair and looked at Angel with eyebrow raised.’ Well, Mr.
Angel?’
    ‘I can use it,’ Angel said
without emphasis. He let his gaze hold that of the younger man
until the kid’s eyes flickered and evaded it.
    Denniston smiled. ‘That
seems to be that, then. Please join us, Mr. Angel. Take Mr. Adam’s
chair. Ray, you move up here beside me.’
    Angel sat down in the
vacated chair and Denniston looked at the piece of paper in front
of him.
    ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘The
first item, Mr. Froon: what is the situation?’
    ‘I sent two men down to
Vegas,’ Froon replied. ‘They followed the man and dealt with him.
They’re waiting to report.’
    ‘Good,’ said Denniston,
leaning back and steepling his fingers. ‘Have they come
in.’
    Froon got up and went to the
door. A thicker man came into the room, his clothes dust-covered,
eyes respectful as he came to attention in front of the
table.
    ‘Your report, mister!’
snapped Froon.
    ‘Me and Rafferty did like
you told us, sir. Martinez in the Marshal’s office told us that the
snooper — beg your pardon, sir, the Government man — was on his way
to Fort Union. We trailed him and laid for him about ten miles from
Vegas.’
    ‘You killed him?’
    ‘That we did, sir. Deader
than a mackerel.’
    ‘Very good, Reed,’ Denniston
said. ‘Was he carrying any papers?’
    ‘Nothing we could find,
sir,’ Reed said.
    ‘Rafferty was slightly
wounded, sir,’ Froon put in. ‘Nothing serious. Reed brought him
back. He’s in the sick bay.’
    ‘Good, good,’ Denniston
said. ‘What else did Martinez tell you, Reed?’
    ‘Nothing much else, sir,’
Reed said, still standing stiffly to attention and gazing at a
point somewhere above Denniston’s head. ‘Just that this Wells was
from the Department of Justice and that he’d sent word back to
Washington for another man to come out here.’
    Denniston put his hands Hat
on the table. ‘Another Government investigator?’
    ‘That’s right, sir,’ Reed
said. ‘Someone called Angel. Frank Angel.’

Chapter Ten
    Andy Ayres was ten years
old.
    It wasn’t really good
fishing weather: too hot. But he called his old dog, Shep, to heel
and went off down the creek in the afternoon sunshine, hoping to
find a pool somewhere that might have a catfish wallowing in the
pool shadows. His fishing rod was a supple willow pole, his bait
some chicken bits his mother had given him, and his faith
boundless. Shep bounded ahead, happy to be out and free on the open
grassland, sniffing away under bushes at the faint remaining scent
of prairie chicken or gopher, quartering back across the boy’s
path, occasionally looking back over his shoulder to make sure his
master was still coming.
    There was a good pool by the
shoulder of the creek bed not far from the road to town that Andy
hadn’t tried yet, and he headed for this now. He scrambled down the
steep shelving bank of the creek and meandered along, picking up
pebbles for Shep to