Read Trap Angel (Frank Angel Western #3) for Free Online Page A

he was
being watched all the same. He shrugged. What else? He pushed into
the saloon.
    It was just a big room.
Tables and chairs at one side. The usual gaming setups: faro,
chuckaluck, monte. A long bar running the length of the place on
the left hand side, ornate mirrors reflecting a display of bottles
that would have done credit to a New York hotel. The place was
clean by the usual standards appertaining in this part of the
world, and it wasn’t hard to figure the reason for that. There were
about twenty people in the place, and here and there between the
tables women in short spangled dresses moved, laughing with the men
playing cards or drinking.
    Nobody took an awful lot of
notice of Angel as he found himself a place at the bar, but he knew
his arrival had been noted. He ordered a beer and sipped it slowly,
watching the faces behind him in the mirror. Once in a while he
caught a covert glance. Nothing more.
    He signaled the bartender
for a refill.
    ‘Have one yourself,’ he
invited.
    ‘Thanks,’ said the man, a
florid-faced individual with strands of hair pasted on to his
balding skull and a heavy walrus moustache which concealed his
mouth. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
    He scooped the foam off the
beer with a wooden spatula and lifted the tankard in
salute.
    ‘Salud ,’ he said.
    Angel raised his glass to
return the salute.
    ‘Passin’ through? the
bartender asked.
    ‘Sort of,’ was the
non-committed reply. ‘Any work in these parts?’
    The bartender looked
uncomfortable. ‘We don’t get that many people up here askin’,’ he
said.
    Angel shrugged. ‘If I was
asking,’ he said. ‘who would I see?’
    ‘Only one spread in these
parts,’ the bartender said. ‘I ain’t heard they’re hiring.’ Angel
raised his eyebrows and the bartender went on, ‘Colonel Denniston’s
place up on the Blanco.’
    ‘What’s he run?’ Angel asked
mildly. ‘Cattle, horses — what?’
    ‘You better ask his ramrod,’
the bartender said, retreating down the bar to serve another
customer.
    Angel smiled to himself. In
the mirror he could see several of the men at the tables listening
with unconcealed interest to his conversation. He turned to face
them and their eyes were hastily averted.
    ‘Any of you gents care to
tell me where this Denniston place is?’
    His words produced a
strained silence, and for a moment he thought he’d pushed it too
far and fast. Then a man got up from a table at the back of the
room and pushed his way through to stand in front of Angel. He was
a giant. He had been sitting at a table with two of the women,
hard-faced harpies whose sagging breasts all but hung out of their
skinny dresses. He was dressed in heavy cord pants, a checked wool
shirt, good leather boots that bore the evidence of recent
polishing. His stance was erect. He was so obviously ex-Army that
it was almost painful. Angel grinned to himself: they never forget
how to play soldiers.
    ‘Who the hell are you?’ the
man said hoarsely.
    ‘Name’s Angel, Frank Angel.
And you?’
    ‘I’m Johnnie Atterbow.
Angel, you say? That’s a hell of a name for a man.’
    ‘Before you start straining
yourself thinking of a joke, I’ve heard them all,’ Angel cut in
roughly.
    ‘All I want to know is how
to get to this Denniston ranch.’
    ‘What do you want to get
there for?’
    Angel sighed noisily. ‘Well,
you see, it’s like this, Johnnie. A long time ago, when I was a
bitty kid, my old lady introduced me to eating regularly. I kind of
got into the habit. But to keep on doing it, I got to work now and
then.’ He spread his hands in an exaggerated gesture. ‘You see my
problem.’ There was a snigger from someone behind Atterbow, who
whirled around, his eyes glaring. Whoever was responsible for the
sound ducked his head fast enough to fool Atterbow.
    He snorted and turned back
to face Angel.
    ‘Witty, too,’ he snapped.
‘Denniston ain’t hirin’. We got a full crew. So you can just climb
back on your pony an’ head