Read Online Stop Angel! (A Frank Angel Western Book 8) by Frederick H. Christian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frederick H. Christian
Tags: wild west, western pulp fiction, piccadilly publishing, frederick h christian, sudden, frank angel, old west fiction, lawmen, frederick h nolan, us west
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You
knew he was dead, though.’
‘ Of
course. There is little that happens hereabouts I don’t know of.
But I could scarcely be held responsible for what Comanches do to a
white man they find skulking about on their land.’
‘ Land
you provide for them.’
‘ I believe in coexistence, Angel. It suits my convenience, and
it is infinitely less wearying than constant war, as well as
infinitely less dangerous. I observe their rules; they leave me
alone. It is not the best of worlds, but it’s better than living in
constant fear.’
‘ But you
do. You’re guarded twenty-four hours a day.’
‘ I said
I believe in coexistence. I didn’t say I was a simpleton. These
savages respect only one thing: strength. I show them that I have
it.’
Angel ’s route led him across flat
scrubland, its grass burned brittle by the sun’s relentless
assault. He made a mental note of its expanse. He had another five
miles to go, he reckoned. It was already appreciably warmer, the
bright copper disc of the sun beginning its long trajectory from
east to west across the burning sky. His exposed skin tingled.
Later, if he remained in the sun naked, it would start to glow, and
by nightfall he would have a bad sunburn. On the second day, it
would turn to molten agony.
Away off to his left he could see the
low line of trees behind which lay the Comanche village. Beyond it
to the northeast he could just see the faint yellow-white line that
indicated the edge of the desert. The whole valley was a jumble of
contradictions, trees growing at the edge of desert, swamp at the
feet of lava beds. He had asked his captor about that.
‘ It is
simple,’ Nix explained. ‘The basic necessity is, of course, water.
Give the land enough water, and things will grow. Starve it, and it
turns rapidly to desert. Everything else is merely a matter of
degree, is it not? I have provided water in certain areas,
controlled in certain ways. I control the environment. I designed
it myself. Basically it is a circulating system: the well would not
provide enough water for it to do as I wish otherwise. Thus the
trees which shade the Comanche camp, the pool which supplies their
water, are part of this expensive system. They know it. It is a
useful reminder of my power, for I have the ultimate deterrent in
my hands. One turn of a tap, and their life-support systems will
begin to wither.’
‘ You
enjoy playing God?’ Angel asked bitingly.
‘ I am not playing, Angel,’ Nix said. ‘As you will discover
tomorrow.’
‘ They
ought to put you away,’ Angel said. ‘They ought to lock you up for
good in a room with rubber-lined walls. You’re sick, Hecatt. Sick
in the head!’
‘ Ah,’
Nix smiled. ‘You are trying to provoke me again. I’ve told you, it
won’t work, Angel. I can wait until morning. Then I will begin to
enjoy my revenge. You will be an adversary worthy of the trouble I
have taken to prepare this valley. Hunting you down will be a
pleasure.’
‘ Watch
out you don’t choke on it.’
Nix had looked at Angel
reflectively for a moment, the way a parent will look at a child to
remind it that it may be going too far with a tantrum. Then he
smiled a broad smile. ‘Do you know the works of Bacon?’ he
asked.
‘ What?’
‘ Francis
Bacon, 1561 to 1626. A contemporary of Shakespeare.’
‘ I know that. What about him?’
‘ It was
he who said “Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper”,’
Nix quoted, and Satan himself could not have had a more malicious
gleam in his eyes.
Angel reached his marker.
He had come into the valley knowing
rather more about it than he had told Nix, and prepared for several
eventualities, one of which was capture. He made a cache for the
weapons he had in his rucksack very early on, burying his weapons
in a tarp wrapper lightly wiped with gun oil. He lined up a peak on
the eastern horizon with a low-lying butte that projected into the
valley from the south, and along that line laid two sets of
knew he was dead, though.’
‘ Of
course. There is little that happens hereabouts I don’t know of.
But I could scarcely be held responsible for what Comanches do to a
white man they find skulking about on their land.’
‘ Land
you provide for them.’
‘ I believe in coexistence, Angel. It suits my convenience, and
it is infinitely less wearying than constant war, as well as
infinitely less dangerous. I observe their rules; they leave me
alone. It is not the best of worlds, but it’s better than living in
constant fear.’
‘ But you
do. You’re guarded twenty-four hours a day.’
‘ I said
I believe in coexistence. I didn’t say I was a simpleton. These
savages respect only one thing: strength. I show them that I have
it.’
Angel ’s route led him across flat
scrubland, its grass burned brittle by the sun’s relentless
assault. He made a mental note of its expanse. He had another five
miles to go, he reckoned. It was already appreciably warmer, the
bright copper disc of the sun beginning its long trajectory from
east to west across the burning sky. His exposed skin tingled.
Later, if he remained in the sun naked, it would start to glow, and
by nightfall he would have a bad sunburn. On the second day, it
would turn to molten agony.
Away off to his left he could see the
low line of trees behind which lay the Comanche village. Beyond it
to the northeast he could just see the faint yellow-white line that
indicated the edge of the desert. The whole valley was a jumble of
contradictions, trees growing at the edge of desert, swamp at the
feet of lava beds. He had asked his captor about that.
‘ It is
simple,’ Nix explained. ‘The basic necessity is, of course, water.
Give the land enough water, and things will grow. Starve it, and it
turns rapidly to desert. Everything else is merely a matter of
degree, is it not? I have provided water in certain areas,
controlled in certain ways. I control the environment. I designed
it myself. Basically it is a circulating system: the well would not
provide enough water for it to do as I wish otherwise. Thus the
trees which shade the Comanche camp, the pool which supplies their
water, are part of this expensive system. They know it. It is a
useful reminder of my power, for I have the ultimate deterrent in
my hands. One turn of a tap, and their life-support systems will
begin to wither.’
‘ You
enjoy playing God?’ Angel asked bitingly.
‘ I am not playing, Angel,’ Nix said. ‘As you will discover
tomorrow.’
‘ They
ought to put you away,’ Angel said. ‘They ought to lock you up for
good in a room with rubber-lined walls. You’re sick, Hecatt. Sick
in the head!’
‘ Ah,’
Nix smiled. ‘You are trying to provoke me again. I’ve told you, it
won’t work, Angel. I can wait until morning. Then I will begin to
enjoy my revenge. You will be an adversary worthy of the trouble I
have taken to prepare this valley. Hunting you down will be a
pleasure.’
‘ Watch
out you don’t choke on it.’
Nix had looked at Angel
reflectively for a moment, the way a parent will look at a child to
remind it that it may be going too far with a tantrum. Then he
smiled a broad smile. ‘Do you know the works of Bacon?’ he
asked.
‘ What?’
‘ Francis
Bacon, 1561 to 1626. A contemporary of Shakespeare.’
‘ I know that. What about him?’
‘ It was
he who said “Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper”,’
Nix quoted, and Satan himself could not have had a more malicious
gleam in his eyes.
Angel reached his marker.
He had come into the valley knowing
rather more about it than he had told Nix, and prepared for several
eventualities, one of which was capture. He made a cache for the
weapons he had in his rucksack very early on, burying his weapons
in a tarp wrapper lightly wiped with gun oil. He lined up a peak on
the eastern horizon with a low-lying butte that projected into the
valley from the south, and along that line laid two sets of
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