Last Stage to Hell Junction

by Mickey Spillane

  But as he approached the saloon, he thought of that other strong woman. Laughter and bustle floated from around the batwing doors of the Victory, whose lights were not so much yellow eyes in the twilight, as more a flickering fireplace a man could warm himself to.

  For a weekend night, payday weekend, the festive nature of the Victory was almost subdued. Only a few satin-clad lasses trolled the cowboys and clerks for drinks, no piano going, no dancing. Maybe word had gotten around about their owner’s peril. Certainly the staff knew, head bartender Hub Wainwright and the rest.

  Yes, Rita was a strong woman, too.

  She was also a good businesswoman. That’s why she provided that special table for the city fathers to play poker without dealer Yancy Cole sitting in. Rita knew how important it was to stay on the right side of the Citizens Committee.

  This was a game where York was always welcome. Tonight’s players included well-groomed, diminutive Mayor Jasper Hardy, town barber; muttonchopped hardware-store man Clarence Mathers; skinny, bug-eyed apothecary Clem Davis; and heavy-set, blond, mustached mercantile-store owner Newt Harris.

  A chair was waiting for the sheriff. He was welcomed with smiles, then words of support and sympathy for the terrible doings earlier. They were between hands. They passed him the deck and York began to shuffle the cards distractedly.

  The mayor said, “Have you considered raising a posse, Sheriff?”

  “No.”

  Harris sat forward. “But the word around town is that this is the Hargrave gang. Surely you don’t intend to go after such villains by yourself.”

  York had kept under wraps that he’d killed the ransom messenger. These people didn’t need to know that. He wished he didn’t have to know that himself.

  “I might gather men with guns,” he allowed, “if I had a plan of assault. But that downpour today made further tracking impossible. I lost them in the foothills. At the base of the foothills, truth be told.”

  With sympathy in his voice, Mathers asked, “Nothing to go on?”

  “Oh, I have something to go on, all right. Hard to follow up on, though.”

  The mayor asked, “What do you have, Caleb?”

  York scratched his bearded chin. “Well, my prisoner says the gang is hidden out in a ghost town around here somewheres. In the hills, the mountains. But that’s all he claims to know.”

  The mercantile man and the hardware-store owner exchanged glances. What was that about?

  York said, “My deputy says there are half a dozen ghost towns that are possibilities. But checking each one out would be a prolonged affair. Are you gents familiar with the ghost towns hereabouts?”

  Nods came from around the table, Mathers saying, “Some, perhaps.”

  “Which one would be closest to where that stagecoach was taken?”

  The hardware seller frowned in thought. He glanced at Harris, who frowned back at him.

  Mathers ignored his fellow merchant’s frown and said, “Hell Junction might make a starting point.”

  “Hell Junction?” York said, frowning. “There was a town around here that called itself Hell Junction?”

  Shifting in his chair, his smile oddly sour, Mathers said, “Well, the actual name is ‘Hale Junction.’ But everybody started calling it ‘Hell Junction,’ when things starting going, well, to hell. Silver mine went bust. What separates it from the other ghost towns in the hills is that there’s still a functioning hotel there.”

  York’s frown deepened. “For what reason?”

  Mathers lifted a shoulder. “I couldn’t say. But I can tell you the way to get there. Give you good directions. You see, uh . . . I make a run, now and then, delivering various supplies. So do several other businesses here in Trinidad. And, now and then, Mr. Wiley, the owner of the Hale Junction Inn, brings in a buckboard for a load himself. Newt here has done business with him, as well. Haven’t you, Newt?”

  The smile Harris gave his fellow merchant could not have been more forced. “I have, time to time. Never been to Hell Junction, personally,” Harris said.

  “Why in hell,” York said, shuffling no longer, leaning in as if he were preparing to pull in a big pot, “would a hotel stay open in a damn ghost town?”

  Harris and Mathers again exchanged looks—guilty looks, and the mayor and the druggist also gave the appearance of naughty children who’d been caught at the molasses.

  Mathers, keeping his voice down, barely audible above the barroom noise, said, “I can’t really say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” York’s upper teeth were showing. “Mr. Mathers, the lives of Raymond Parker, Willa Cullen, and Rita Filley hang in the balance. You do not want to know the lengths to which I would go to get this information out of you. So you damn well will give it to me. Now.”

  The city fathers made one collective gulp, an almost comical sight, though it did not make York smile, much less laugh. But finally it was Mathers who made the admission.

  “The hotel at Hell Junction,” he said, “is a place in this part of the world where folks can stay a while . . . no questions asked. If they pay the going rate. Or such is the rumor, at least.”

  York, seething, got to his feet, his chair legs scraping, screeching.

  “You mean to say, gentlemen, that there’s a place in this part of the world—in my county—where an outlaw can get away from it all? Where a killer can go to hell and like it? And no one thought to tell me about it?”

  Sighs were followed by chagrined nods.

  “I appreciate the information, gents,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse me. Not in the mood for a game this evening.”

  Or their company.

  And he went out into the night before he did something he’d regret. He had to cool down and he had to think.

  But one thought he’d already had: the good folks of Trinidad liked doing business with Hell Junction. And as far as he was concerned, that made them accomplices in this damn thing.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Finding herself sharing a red-and-black brocade two-seater sofa with Willa Cullen was nothing Rita Filley could ever have contemplated.

  That the sofa was well-worn and that the big windows to their backs onto the street were boarded over, the glass long since broken out and swept away, did not lessen the improbability of sitting with the Cullen girl in a hotel lobby. Granted, the Hale Junction Inn was in a ghost town whose silver strike had struck out; but the hotel itself was undeniably a going concern.

  Rita had heard rumors of the hotel, and the words “Hell Junction” were known to her, also. But she was relatively new to the territory, having inherited the Victory Saloon from her late sister Lola, and—with the exception of Trinidad and its thriving neighbor, Las Vegas—she remained unfamiliar with much of New Mexico.

  So where exactly Hell Junction might be was unknown to her.

  On the other hand, that a hideout for men on the run existed somewhere in the hills and mountains, hugging the horizon north of Trinidad, was information she’d gathered without trying. A beautiful saloon owner in satin, wending her way through her establishment spreading smiles and encouraging spending, tended to pick such things up. She had not inquired as to details, as not all information was good to have. Her business depended on friendly relations with Caleb York, who would not look kindly on an outlaw resort.

  Some things were better not to know.

  But she knew enough now to understand the predicament she and her new friend, Willa Cullen, found themselves in. Did “friend” overstate it? Probably. But they were at least allies now, the saloon proprietress and this stuck-up female ranch owner; and chief among Rita’s tasks here at the Hale Junction Inn was letting the girl know just how much trouble they both were in.

  Specifically, that even if Parker’s ransom got paid, the busisnessman might still die. And in any case, two disposable women likely would. Witnesses were unpopular with thieves turned murderers.

  Parker had finally gathered himself, Rita could tell, even if outwardly he might app
ear much the same. A new alertness in his eyes, and the way he stealthily followed the actions of his captors while pretending to stare into space, indicated the big-city tycoon was reverting to the frontiersman he’d been years before, when he was partnered with the Cullen girl’s late father, George.

  Rita figured he was, to some degree, playing possum.

  Meanwhile, Randy, the youngest of the outlaws, was looking after all three hostages. Juanita, Hargrave’s bosomy querida, was off helping with the fallen gang member—Bemis, his name was. Right now, Randy was paying much more attention to Rita and her admittedly fetching companion than to the rich man they’d grabbed. The boy was milling around the lounge area, not exactly pacing, staying close to them, but betraying a nervousness, even a shyness, that Rita could read.

  She smiled at the boy. “Why don’t you settle yourself, Randy? Or is it Randall? Do you prefer that?”

  Willa gave her a sharp glance.

  Randy lowered his head, moving it side to side, and said, “Aw . . .” It was minus only the “shucks.” The boy in the sleeve-gartered gray shirt came to a stop, his pistol in hand, hanging at his side, swinging a little, like a deadly pendulum; the thumb of his left hand was stuck in the corner of a front pocket of the buckskin-color pants. The toe of his right boot kicked at the faded carpet as if it were dirt.

  What a muttonhead, Rita thought.

  “Mr. Hargrave,” Randy said, “told me, Keep an eye on you two ladies.”

  “Why not do that sitting down?” Rita said, her smile pursed, a kiss promising perhaps to happen. “You could even keep both eyes on us.”

  He showed her those teeth that were as yellow as his hair. “My ma used to call me Randall. ’Fore she died.”

  “It’s a nice name.”

  “I druther you call me Randy. That’s what friends and such calls me.”

  “Is that right? Are we friends now?”

  The teeth disappeared but a smile remained, and his voice grew soft: “I don’t hold nothin’ against you, lady.”

  Rita arched an eyebrow, sent him half a smile. “Would you like to?”

  He blushed. Damn near tomato red.

  Willa was staring at her now, her mouth open.

  Rita got to her feet. Randy looked at her, his mouth open also, but he said nothing. Did not tell her to sit herself back down. He was like a snake hypnotized by a swami. She went over and got a straight-back chair from where it rested against the wall and she plunked the thing down in front of her and Willa. Much too close for the latter’s liking, obviously.

  Then Rita turned to her flabbergasted captor, gestured with an open hand, and said, “Take a load off, Randy, why don’t you? We’ll likely be here a while.”

  Then she returned to her seat beside Willa.

  Randy glanced around nervously. Nobody else was in view, the other outlaws all behind that closed door near the stairs, tending to their fallen cohort. He swung to Parker, who sat quietly in his overstuffed chair to one side of the couch, nearer the fireplace. The boy gave him a “Just you try it” dirty look. Parker returned the look impassively.

  Randy took breath in. Randy let breath out.

  Then he seated himself delicately in the straight-back chair, sitting close enough to her that Rita could reach out and pat him on the knee, which she did.

  “There’s a good boy,” she said, then sat back.

  “Iffen you’re bein’ nice to me, to fool me,” Randy said, forehead clenched, “you best take care. I ain’t the muttonhead what some folks think.”

  That he’d honed in on her very thought caught her off-balance momentarily, but she quickly said, “I’m sure you aren’t, Randy. Really, all I want is for you and I to be, in your words—friends.”

  He thought about that; it seemed to hurt a little.

  Then he said, “Why for?”

  She shrugged easily. “Maybe because the rest of your bunch don’t . . . appeal to me.”

  He thought some more. “Mr. Hargrave is a handsome feller.”

  Rita made a face. “But he’s old, Randy. Thirty-five if he’s a day. And he’s taken, isn’t he? By that Mexican woman?”

  “Miss Juanita is only half-Mex, though she looks full-blood, all right. Last name ain’t Mexie at all—it’s MacGregor. But she’s all mean, so I dasn’t go after him, t’were I you. Mr. Hargrave, I mean.”

  She shook her head. “Not my type.”

  “Your what?”

  “My type. Not the sort of man who appeals to me.”

  He squinted at her. “What would? ’Peal to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A yellow-haired fella, maybe, not too old. And I like brown eyes on a man.”

  “I got brown eyes and yaller hair.”

  “So you do.”

  Willa folded her arms and straightened, her chin crinkled, her eyes narrow, almost shut, as she looked past this distasteful display.

  “We’uns ain’t your friends,” the boy reminded Rita.

  “No, but you and I could be.”

  “We could?”

  “Your friends may decide to get rid of us.”

  “You mean kill you two females.”

  “Yes.”

  “They ain’t yet.”

  “That’s true. But killing women is frowned upon in this part of the world, Randy, and they might have brought us here to do that evil thing in a more out-of-the-way place.”

  He thought about it. This thinking didn’t seem to hurt so much.

  “Well,” Randy said, “I cain’t go against the others.”

  “Are you sure? I told you I was of means.”

  “I don’t know what ‘means’ means.”

  She leaned forward some. “It means I have money, Randy. Not as much as Mr. Parker here, but enough to make you happy. And I might find other ways to make you happy, too, Randy . . . if you help me.”

  He leaned forward and whispered, “Help you how?”

  “Young Randabaugh!”

  The two words could have rung through a theater all the way to the back row of the second balcony. The cry was accompanied by quick heavy footsteps coming across the check-in area of the lobby. The outlaw leader in black and ruffled white was striding toward them, handsome face set in a scowl.

  Fists on his hips in a manner again recalling a buccaneer, Hargrave looked contemptuously down at the openmouthed boy and said, “Why don’t you just sit on the woman’s lap?”

  “Uh . . . that’s a liberty she might not cotton to, sir.”

  “No, she might not at that. Nor is it one I would ‘cotton’ to.”

  Hargrave backhanded the boy, then got behind him and pulled the chair back rudely three or four feet, jostling him. Randy swallowed and blinked back tears, the corner of his mouth trickling red.

  Standing behind him, Hargrave placed a fatherly hand on the boy’s shoulder, leaned in to speak softly into an ear. “You are not to trifle with the guests.” Then he looked at Rita, realizing that she had been seated directly before the young man. “Nor are you to trifle with this innocent, ladies.”

  Willa said acidly, “I haven’t spoken to him.”

  “I believe you,” Hargrave said, then gave Rita a wicked smile that said he saw right through her. To the boy, he said, “ ‘Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.’ ”

  Randy was frowning, shaking his head, not happy with his boss. “It’s red injuns what kills with arrows.”

  Hargrave slapped him on the top of the head. “Go see if you can be helpful in the sickroom, lad. Do it now. I’ll take over here, for the nonce.”

  “Yessir,” he said, got up, and paddled off with his head down, crossing to the door to the Wiley quarters and disappearing within.

  Hargrave turned the chair around and sat backward in it, for some kind of dramatic effect apparently. Rita considered him an ass . . . if a very dangerous one. And a person kicked in the head by an ass could be just as dead as one trampled by a thoroughbred steed.

  Which wasn’t Shakespeare, but pure Rita Filley.


  “You lovely ladies,” Hargrave said, with a sweeping hand gesture that tried to be casual, though he wasn’t quite actor enough to sell it, “would be well-advised to keep to yourselves. Cause us no trouble and when Mr. Parker’s friends pay the freight, we’ll free you as well.”

  Innkeeper Wiley emerged from the door to his quarters and called over to Hargrave. “A word, sir?”

  Hargrave rose, gave the two women a cautionary raised forefinger, then went to see what Wiley wanted.

  Willa whispered harshly, “What in the world were you doing with that boy? He’s dangerous!”

  “They’re all dangerous,” Rita whispered back. “But we can use some friends among the natives. You get friendly with Hamlet.”

  Hargrave and Wiley ended their conversation, the innkeeper quickly returning to his quarters and the outlaw leader loping into the lounge area. But this time the actor did not sit in that chair, forward or backward or otherwise. Instead he perched on the arm of the two-seater sofa, next to Willa. Parker was taking this in, being careful to maintain his beaten-down manner.

  The actor’s arm slipped behind Willa, not touching her shoulders, just resting along the upper edge of the sofa’s back.

  “I must apologize for that young ruffian,” he said, his words more for Willa than Rita. Really, entirely for Willa. . . .

  “He doesn’t know better,” Willa said, “although some people should.”

  His mouth twitched with amusement. “Where were you educated, my dear?”

  Willa frowned at the familiarity. “I was taught at home by my mother. She was educated back east, very well, and she passed it on to me.”

  “I would have thought you the product of a private school for girls,” he said. “You display a cultured, even refined manner that, frankly, makes me miss the company I once kept.”

  Rita doubted that. Actors were rootless vagabonds who just knew how to be flowery and well, particularly when someone else had written the words. But they really weren’t any better than . . . well, any better than a saloon-keeper.