Read Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) for Free Online

patch. He watched
especially for birds. Quail gobbled in the safety of sparse bushes,
but he never saw them rise. Sweat ran down his forehead and into the collar of
his shirt; his body was wet with it, then a moment later as dry as
a bone as the sun leeched the moisture from his skin. He moved
relentlessly on into the wilderness.
    The sun moved over in its
zenith, sliding slowly down towards its destiny in the west. ‘Come on,’ Angel
muttered once. His lips were thick and caked with alkali. The
horse’s head was hanging low. Two days without water was as much as
either of them could take, he thought. He pushed the tired animal
up a slight rise and then from the higher ground he saw the dark
line of trees about three or four miles away. The Ruidoso: that
must be it! He shook the reins. The horse pricked up its ears as
well.
    ‘ Could
be, hoss,’ Angel said. ‘Could be.’
    The animal moved more quickly, almost as if
it could scent salvation. Lurching now and then, but moving more
quickly, the man and the animal were conscious now that there might
be water ahead. Even if the river were dry, Angel knew there would
be enough water below the ground to keep him and the horse
alive.
    Almost an hour later, he headed
the horse down a shelving bank into the arroyo which in the brief
rainy season would carry the Ruidoso River. He almost fell from the
saddle, scrabbling at the sand with his bare hands, cursing the
stuff as it sifted through his fingers back into the shallow hole
he was digging. The horse snorted once as he dug, but Angel ignored
it, his whole mind focused on the task of getting down to where the
water might be. He was so involved in his task that he did not hear
them until the slight crack of a twig breaking behind him brought
him up on his knees, whirling to face their attack, but in that
moment they were on him and something slammed against his head and
he went down, face forward on the sand. He was not unconscious, and
he half rose to his knees again, his mind whirling with unformed
thoughts, reaching for the blurred figure he could see before his
face. Something smashed down on his forearm and he cried out in
anguish as the arm went completely numb. Once again, something
crashed against his head above the ear and he went hurtling down into
an endless pit, spiraling, whirling, fluttering down like a leaf
from some very tall tree, never reaching bottom where the ultimate
blackness lay, some freak stubbornness keeping his mind still
clawing for consciousness. There was no pain when he felt the boot
grind his other arm, although he knew somewhere in his mind that he
was being hurt. Although he did not know it, his body obeyed the
frantic signals of his brain and he tried to get up, although he
was out on his feet, and he heard, as from some far place, a
rasping voice he seemed to recognize say: ‘Kill the bastard.’ Death
was very near; he could feel the fluttering of huge wings around
his heart, and yet his brain refused to accept it and his hand
moved again towards the sound. ‘Kill him!’ someone shouted in the
black-red mist of pain and he heard the boom of the shot like a
faraway explosion. Something unbelievable happened in his stomach
and chest and then he saw himself in a mental mirror as clearly as
if shaving, his face a pure skull of agony. The image receded and
he went down and down to the end of the black darkness. He groaned
once and then was still.
    ‘ Tough
bastard,’ Johnny Boot said, dispassionately. ‘Shore took a lot of
killin’.’
    ‘ Hold
on, Johnny,’ Mill said. They stood looking at the prone form in the
long-shadowed after-noon. Angel’s mouth opened; he
groaned.
    Mill ’s tongue ran nervously along his
lips. He smoothed his pants legs with wet hands, then took a long
pull from a bottle he was holding. ‘I owe you somethin’, friend,’
he whispered.
    ‘ Let
it be, Willy,’ Boot said. ‘Come on, he’s finished.’
    ‘ No,’
Mill said. ‘Not quite.’ And with savage and