Last Stage to Hell Junction

by Mickey Spillane

  Willa asked her host, “Why do you keep such low company now?”

  His shrug was an elaborate thing. “I’m afraid that where I was once sought by the finest theaters in the United States and their territories, I am now wanted only by the representatives of so-called law and order.”

  “Does that have anything to do,” Willa asked with quiet condescension, “with going around holding up stagecoaches?”

  He grinned wickedly. “It does, and trains and banks. But it began with an impulse I could not control. Someone insulted me and I took his life. Then, in one fell swoop, as the Bard says, ‘My life was forever changed.’ ”

  “Why not demonstrate that some good still lives within you?” Willa said quietly; then she touched his hand, which rested near his lap as he sat on the sofa’s arm. “Let my friend and me go. What use would two women be to desperate men like yourselves, anyway?”

  Rita thought, If she doesn’t know . . .

  “Your gentleness beggars description,” Hargrave said, and there was something tender in his expression. Perhaps Willa Cullen knew what she was doing after all!

  “Eres un cerdo asqueroso!” a female voice called from across the lobby, where it echoed in the high ceiling.

  Rita was Mexican enough to know what that meant—Hargrave was being called a swine. She smiled to herself.

  The voluptuous dark-haired, dark-hued woman in the overflowing peasant dress was storming toward them, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

  She was waving, in her right hand, a revolver. A .38, if Rita wasn’t mistaken.

  Hargrave slipped off the sofa arm and Juanita was right there on him, shoving him to one side with her free hand; she leaned in and grabbed Willa by an arm, still waving that revolver (a Lightning Colt with a pearl handle, Rita further noted), and shook her like she would a disobedient child. Then the woman’s left hand shoved Willa against the sofa’s cushioned back, and leaned way in, the attacker’s face almost nose to nose with the captive’s, the snout of the .38 revolver against Willa’s right breast. Rita was impressed with Willa’s stony-faced reaction.

  White teeth flashed. “Maldita pícara! Aléjate de mi hombre!”

  Then Hargrave grabbed the small, volatile woman by the arm and dragged her back kicking and screaming to the doorway near the stairs; she was still waving the revolver, like a payday cowboy in town looking for a window to shoot out. They stood there shouting at each other, the woman using Spanish, the man using profane English that had nothing to do with William Shakespeare.

  Willa, breathing hard, turned to Rita, who was smiling, arms folded.

  “Do you see now?” Rita said, sotto voce. “Make friends and sew discontent. And perhaps reap the rewards.”

  Parker said, quietly, “Good job, ladies.”

  * * *

  They sat quietly for several hours, with no guard at all for a while, though Rita and her two companions in captivity knew there was nowhere for them to go.

  They had discussed it briefly.

  “No one’s watching us,” Willa said.

  Rita said, “That Indian is—out on the porch, standing guard?”

  Frowning in thought, Willa said, “Maybe we could get out the back way.”

  “Through the kitchen? Overtake Mrs. Wiley? Who we haven’t even seen yet, so can hardly judge her mettle. Still—perhaps that’s possible. And then what?”

  Willa shrugged. “Just run into the hills and take cover until they give up and get out.”

  “Or until they find us.”

  Parker, who hadn’t spoken a word in some time, said, “We don’t know our way around this place. Once we’re shown to our rooms, we can start taking stock. Keep track of the layout of this structure. If we make an escape, it will almost certainly have to be after dark.”

  “Agreed,” Rita said.

  The businessman sighed. “We must stay alert and keep an eye out for escape possibilities. But nothing hasty—these are desperate, violent men.”

  Willa was just starting to say something when Randy reappeared. He came slump-shouldered out of the door near the stairway, crossed the check-in area, and returned to his chair, which he positioned several additional feet away from his charges.

  “You ain’t to talk,” he said sullenly, “not to one or t’other, nor to me. And I ain’t to talk to you, neither. Mr. Hargrave ain’t happy with me and I aim to get back in his good graces.”

  Then the boy sat in the chair with the pistol in his dangling right hand aimed at the floor, as were his eyes.

  Rita felt she could overpower the lout, and get that gun . . . but then what? Shoot it out with Hargrave and the boy’s brother, Reese? And that crazy half-Mexican woman with her Lightning Colt .38? Who was to say the Wileys weren’t armed, as well?

  And then there was Broken Knife out front....

  She kept playing it out in her mind, different ways; but she ran the Victory, after all, and knew damn well the house always won. Parker was right—after dark was best. Maybe they could even get to the stagecoach horses for a getaway. If the Indian maintained his position on the porch, the horses hitched out front were out of the running.

  Facing the three seated hostages, beyond Randy and across the lobby’s lounge, were the windowed doors onto the dining room, where a light-skinned black girl in her early twenties was efficiently setting tables with plates and silverware. The girl, whose mixed heritage was evident, was a slender lovely thing in a black dress and white apron and turban, her hair cropped short; she wore simple hoop earrings.

  An evening meal was served early, around four p.m., as the outlaw gang apparently had not eaten since breakfast. Innkeeper Wiley came to collect them, his black vest and white shirt splotched here and there with still-damp blood from helping tend to the gunshot patient.

  Then Randy led the hostages into the dining room and allowed the three “guests” to sit at a table for four by themselves. Several tables away, Hargrave and Juanita sat, young Randabaugh soon joining them.

  At another table, separated by vacant ones, were innkeeper Wiley and a woman Rita took to be Wilmer’s wife, Vera, a sour, skinny, gray-haired woman in a brown calico housedress. The apparent Mrs. Wiley may have been the one who “ran a tight ship,” but not its galley, as she was not in an apron or doing the serving, which was left to the colored girl.

  The scattering of remaining tables, covered with linen now, had also been set with plates and silverware, as if other guests might yet arrive. Perhaps some would, but Rita had a strong hunch the hotel had been bought out by the Hargrave gang. The odd, faint formality of those place settings made the dining room and its empty, set-for-dinner tables perfect for a ghost town, the chamber itself on the dingy side.

  That the hotel was a going concern did not preclude it from suffering the ignominy of dominating a dead town and serving an outlaw clientele. The tablecloths, the drapes too, were frayed, the carpet worn, the chairs creaky, and when serving bowls were delivered by Mahalia (as the housekeeper/assistant cook’s name proved to be), they were chipped, as were the plates.

  This truly was dinner in a haunted house, in the company of ghosts and ghouls, the latter unfortunately still among the living.

  On the other hand, the food itself was edible, if no rival of the Trinidad House Hotel’s fare. Apparently the Inn meant to treat its guests right, however shabby their pedigree. The serving bowls delivered by the handsome serving girl brimmed with pork and beans, beef stew, and biscuits with butter.

  Everyone was about to start passing those bowls around when Reese Randabaugh came charging in, his blue army shirt damp in front from having blood spatter cleaned off. He threaded through the tables till he hovered at the side of Hargrave, who was helping himself to stew from a serving dish.

  “Blaine,” the older Randabaugh said, “Ben’s took a awful bad turn for the worse.”

  Reese certainly resembled his brother, but his eyes were blue, not brown, if just as close-set; a natural family handsomeness had been roughened by more years th
an Randy’s, apparently fairly hard ones.

  “We stopped the bleeding,” Hargrave said, spooning stew. “He’s conscious. Seems far from breathing his last.”

  Reese was shaking his head. “Well, he’s gone right loco, now—outa his damn skull. Ramblin’, talkin’ crazy-like. Called me his mama. Feller’s got the fever bad, Blaine. We can’t just stand around and let him expire.”

  “ ‘Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,’ ” Hargrave said, citing Shakespeare while ladling out pork and beans.

  Rita, hearing this, figured Hargrave was fine having one less accomplice with whom to share the ransom loot.

  Reese was saying, “Ben’s been with us from the start, Blaine. With us all the way. He’s a good man. We should do somethin’.”

  Buttering a biscuit, Hargrave said, “And so we shall. Go forth. Seek a ministering angel.”

  “You want a preacher?”

  “No. I want a doctor. Ride to Las Vegas and bring one back.”

  “Trinidad’s closer.”

  “Yes, but we don’t want to attract further attention there. And it’s a small town, with a storied sheriff. Let us seek a physician in a larger locale. Less notice will be taken.”

  “Ben might die ’fore I get back.”

  Hargrave dragged half a biscuit through the stew. “If friend Bemis cannot survive till your return, I doubt he would see the morning, in any case.”

  Reese sighed. “You’re probably right, Blaine.”

  Then the elder Randabaugh plopped down in the empty chair by his boss and grinned as he reached for the serving bowl of stew.

  A frowning Hargrave caught him by the wrist. “What are you doing, Mr. Randabaugh?”

  “Well . . . shouldn’t I fill my stomach, ’fore I start a long trip by horseback?”

  “Avail yourself of some jerky and make haste. You indicate time is of the essence. I take you at your word. Leave now!”

  Reese stared at the bowl of stew in his hand as if it were a heaping helping of injustice. Randy, at the same table, looked like he wanted to stick up for his brother, but didn’t. As for the older Randabaugh, he only nodded, put down the bowl, and hustled dutifully out.

  Conversation at Hargrave’s table accompanied the meal, but Rita and her companions were far enough away not to be privy to the hushed exchanges. She couldn’t help but wonder if their own fate was being determined over stew, beans, and biscuits.

  When the meal was over, the serving girl returned with a pie in a pan and a spatula, and offered everyone a slice (it was apple), starting with Hargrave, who said yes and gave the young woman his practiced dazzling smile. Randy was looking on with admiring eyes, as well, and Rita didn’t think that was about the pie.

  Juanita reared like a horse spotting a rattler. “Must we be served by this puta negra? Do we not pay precios altos para este terrible lugar?”

  Rita heard that, all right. The half-Mexican woman was complaining about being served by a black harlot in this high-priced hotel. Whether Juanita was wanting to feel superior to someone, or was merely jealous of the look Hargrave had granted the girl, Rita couldn’t tell.

  But she didn’t mind. Discontent was discontent, whether Rita and Willa were spreading it or not.

  Hargrave and Juanita were on their feet now, the actor cursing at his querida and she cursing back. Finally she slapped him, and it rang in the room, which went dead silent.

  “Perhaps I deserved that,” Hargrave said, and made a bowing gesture.

  Juanita’s chin came up and her upper lip curled into a contemptuous smile for her lover. “You deserved that and more.”

  The outlaw actor grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her from the room. Their footsteps going up the stairs to the second floor rang out almost as loud as that slap.

  Willa swallowed, said quietly, “I guess he’s skipping dessert.”

  Rita said, “Is he?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By late afternoon, Caleb York had already had a hell of a day—starting with an ambushed stagecoach bearing the two women in the sheriff’s life and a key figure in the future of Trinidad, who was also a good friend, which gave the foul deed a personal slant.

  Going from there, York had shot one of the outlaws dead at the relay station, tricked another of the gang into giving up key information, and learned that the very city fathers who paid his monthly wages were aware of the sanctuary for badmen known as the Hale Junction Inn.

  Make that Hell Junction Inn.

  As he sat behind his heavy wood desk in his office in the adobe jailhouse—the miscreant in his custody having nothing else worthwhile to share, it seemed—York pondered what to do next. He knew where the ghost town was—the directions were simple enough, thanks to those city fathers complying, and the ride was one he could make in under an hour.

  “But what the hell do I do now?” he muttered aloud.

  In anticipation of his nightly rounds, Deputy Jonathan Tulley was at the wood-burning stove, brewing up a fresh batch of what he claimed was coffee. He assumed the sheriff’s question was meant for him.

  “You could round up a posse,” Tulley offered, leaving the coffeepot bubbling and taking a seat at his scarred-up table. He began to gesture wildly. “Rush the damn place! Surround that hotel and—”

  “Get the hostages killed,” York finished flatly. “But I have to do something, because some damn fool killed the messenger, which means the ransom won’t get paid.”

  Tulley frowned and blinked at him. “Well, you killed the messenger, Caleb.”

  “I knew what damn fool I meant, Tulley.”

  With a sound that was part grunt and part sigh, York got to his feet and walked back to the four-cell block. Burrell Crawley was sitting on his cot with his head in his hands, whimpering, the latest dose of laudanum fading some, apparently. York shook the bars, like he was the angry prisoner, and Crawley looked up from his cot, startled, black eyebrows climbing the forehead of the narrow, pockmarked face.

  Louder than need be, York said, “How much did Hargrave plan to ask for Parker’s return?”

  Crawley’s expression was that of a kid about to bust out crying. “He never said, Sheriff! Swear on my mama’s grave. Didn’t you go lookin’ for Ned Clutter? He’s the one could tell you!”

  “Not now he can’t.”

  “Why, Sheriff?”

  “I killed him.”

  The prisoner’s eyes widened; he didn’t seem to know whether to be confused or scared out of his mind. Some of both seemed the end result.

  “K-killed him . . . why would you do that? Thought you wanted to talk to him . . .”

  York flipped a hand. “He drew down on me and I shot him. Out at the relay station, where I caught up with him. That leaves you.”

  “Leaves me to what?”

  “Tell me what ransom Hargrave seeks.”

  “I swear, I don’t know!”

  York frowned at the prisoner. “You were in on a kidnapping, and you don’t know what the ransom demand was?”

  The prisoner got off the cot and came over, shaking his head, keeping some space between himself, the bars, and York on the other side.

  Crawley said, “I know what Hargrave promised me—two thousand dollars. That’s enough for me to go straight! Buy a little ranch or somethin’.”

  The only place Crawley was likely to go straight to was Hell.

  York asked, “What were the other men promised?”

  “We never talked about that. Weren’t nobody’s business but our own.”

  York summoned a smile. “No reason to hold back now, Burrell. The more you cooperate, the easier it’ll go on you when this is over.” The smile turned nasty. “If any of those hostages is killed, you’ll swing for it as sure as if you squeezed the trigger yourself.”

  Crawley was gripping the bars now, his light blue eyes welling up. “I swear to God, I’d tell you more if I knew more! I wish I’d never met that dadblamed Blaine Hargrave!”

  The prisoner returned to his cot and resum
ed sitting with his head in his hands. York left him there blubbering.

  Settling himself on the edge of his desk, the sheriff was so desperate he started talking over the situation with Tulley.

  “Suppose,” he said to his deputy, “I ride out there myself and offer to broker the ransom with Parker’s business associates.”

  “What would you break?”

  “No, I mean I’d be the intermediary. The middleman. Take the ransom messenger’s place.”

  Tulley’s eyes disappeared into slits, and he pointed a stubby finger at York’s chest. “Wearin’ that badge?”

  “Yes. Representing Trinidad. I mean, they likely know I’m sheriff here. Why not wear the badge?”

  Tulley shrugged elaborately. “Well . . . mebbe ’cause it’d get a bullet in it afore you stepped offen your horse.”

  His deputy had a point.

  York said, “I could ride out there and sneak into that hotel and do my best to get the women and Parker to safety through the back or out a window . . .”

  Tulley held up a hand with its fingers splayed. “Our guest in cell number two says they is five of ’em in that hotel hideaway. Also a female, half-breed Mex, who is meaner than the menfolk, accordin’ to Crawley.”

  York nodded. Shook his head. “And that doesn’t count the couple running the place. No, if I sneaked in there, I might be more harm than help. If the shooting starts, who can say who’d be killed?”

  “Might even be Caleb York.”

  “Might.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to see a way. “Still, after dark . . . most everybody sleeping.... I might be dealing with one or two of the bastards at a time. Pick ’em off. Better than a posse, anyway. Better than walking right in and trying to parlay.”

  Tulley was shaking his head. “They is all bad ideas, Sheriff.”

  He scratched his bearded cheek. “Sometimes you have to go with the least-worst bet. Throwing in my cards is not an option.”

  Tulley was studying him. Really looking at him funny.

  “What?” York asked.

  Nodding to himself, the deputy got quickly to his feet and raised a finger like a buyer at a horse auction. “Might have me an i-dee.”