Last Stage to Hell Junction

by Mickey Spillane

  The women remained on the stairs, each with a step of her own, the Mexican girl included, like audience members hugging the rail in a theater balcony, transfixed by the scene. Gun in the air, Randy slipped down the stairs behind them, clearly desperate to know what was going on, while Parker was already at the foot.

  “What in God’s name,” the businessman demanded, “is going on here?”

  Hargrave—in his red long underwear and with that demonic expression lacking only horns and pitchfork—glared over at Parker.

  The actor asked, “How well do you know this man? This . . . physician?”

  Staying calm, Parker said, “I know him well enough. He’s Trinidad’s town doctor. He also serves as its coroner.”

  Randy said, “Corner what?”

  Apparently noticing the boy’s presence for the first time, Hargrave released the doctor with a shove, sending him stumbling. Then Satan in long-johns went over to where Randy stood near the door to the Wileys’ living quarters, though neither the innkeeper nor his wife had responded to the brouhaha, staying out of their guests’ business.

  As Hargrave took in the presence not only of Parker but of the women along the banister, he said gently, “How is it, my boy, that our guests are not ensconced in their rooms? Were you not entrusted with locking them in?”

  Randy thought about that. “I, uh, thought I done so, Mr. Hargrave.”

  Hargrave slapped him, and the sound of it, in the high-ceilinged room with its open stairwell, rang out like a second gunshot.

  The boy, his cheek instantly blazing red, lowered his chin and appeared to be trying not to cry.

  Hargrave moved in a slow circle, addressing everyone in his audience. “There’s a man I know, just outside there. One Ned Clutter. A friend of ours.” Then directly to Parker he said, “The very friend, in fact, who we dispatched to Denver to acquire your ransom. Only he never got there, it seems. You see, he’s quite dead.”

  The women on the stairs exchanged glances. So did the men below, with the exception of Caleb York, who moved quickly to Dr. Miller and grabbed the man by one arm and raised a fist as if to strike him a terrible blow.

  “What happened, you damn quack?” York demanded. “Who killed that man?”

  York’s eyes were on Miller and Miller’s eyes were on York. Parker knew that in the shared silence they had spoken to each other.

  The doctor said, “Sheriff York shot him.”

  Hargrave closed in. “You witnessed this?”

  “No! I am, as Mr. Parker said, the informal coroner of Trinidad County. The sheriff came to me and reported the incident, sent me out to pick up the body at the relay station. I told this man as much!”

  The doctor pointed accusingly at the older Randabaugh.

  Reese, somewhat changing the subject, said, “York made a name as a Wells Fargo detective. They say he brought wanted men back dead more often than living.”

  “Well,” the doctor said, flustered but with his chin up, “he’s sheriff of Trinidad now. And you best hope he doesn’t track you down. Nobody’s faster or deadlier with a handgun.”

  Only Parker and the two female hostages knew that the man of whom Dr. Miller spoke was standing right next to him.

  “For what it’s worth,” the doctor added, “Sheriff York told me it was a fair fight. Your man made the mistake of pulling on him, it would seem.”

  Reese approached the outlaw actor. “Blaine, maybe we oughter light out, right now. I don’t cotton to Caleb York and a bunch of deputies findin’ us this close to home. And, like you said, our ransom demand never got where it was goin’.”

  Broken Knife, who thus far had added as much to the conversation as a cactus, spoke up. “If York come, we kill. Men come with him, we kill too. We have gun. We have hostage. Hotel . . . fort.”

  The younger Randabaugh, one cheek blushed bright pink from Hargrave’s slap, said, “I’m with my brother. Iffen Ned Clutter is out there dead and drawin’ flies, we ought put some distance ’tween us and that sheriff. Right damn quick.”

  “I second what Randy says,” Reese said, then gestured to the hostages. “We just take Parker here and the women with us. We can use that buckboard, or the stage. Put some dust between us and York. Once we cross out of the territory over into Colorado, this York bastard can’t even chase us no more.”

  From the stairs, Juanita said to Hargrave, “He speaks true, querida. It would not be this York’s . . . what is the word?”

  “Jurisdiction,” Hargrave said softly, mulling it.

  York stepped up and said, “Why are we afraid of one man, anyway? I’m new to this outfit, I know, but I got a right to speak my piece.”

  Reese scowled at York, pointed a finger at him. “You don’t git a vote.” Then to Hargrave: “I say we pack up and head outa here. Toss in our cards and take the game elsewheres.”

  Hargrave threw his red arms in the air, as if he were the one being robbed. This silenced the room. The arms came down. He wheeled slowly as he spoke, making sure his entire audience took it in.

  “Is there any reason,” he said in that resonant, trained voice, “to think this Caleb York would come looking for the doctor—or indeed any of us—here at Hell Junction?”

  Looks were exchanged among the outlaws, “Bret McCory” included. Slowly, one by one, they shook their heads.

  “That,” Hargrave said, “is an opinion I share. We will stay. We will take what comes.”

  That was met with silence, not applause. But no further argument ensued.

  The outlaw actor turned his gaze on York. “I’m afraid our young fool Randabaugh cannot be trusted with a simple task. The master key is behind the check-in desk.” He indicated the wall of keys. “Get it.”

  York went back there and did so.

  “Make sure,” Hargrave said, “our honored guests are tucked in and locked away for the remainder of the night. Then come back down, Bret my good man, and we’ll talk. I have something in mind for you.”

  “All right,” York said with a shrug.

  Hargrave spoke to the assembly. “In a few hours it will be dawn. Now back to bed, all of you!” He turned to Randy, who looked more hurt by the slight than the slap. “ ‘Asses are made to bear, and so are you.’ Resume your post.”

  Addressing Parker and the women, Randy yelled, “All right, you people! Git back upstairs!” This he delivered with an authority that he didn’t seem to buy himself.

  York followed them up, a shaky Randy getting back into his corner but staying on his feet, holding his gun on everybody.

  “Bret McCory” locked the women in their rooms first and then bid Parker enter his, whispering, “I am locking this, but I’ll hold onto the key.”

  As reassuring as that was, the lock clicking, as the businessman faced that closed door, had an ominous sound.

  * * *

  Blaine Hargrave—born Benjamin Harper in Paterson, New Jersey, son of a gambler and a seamstress—created for himself a British background, after deserting from the 28th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry Regiment during the War Between the States. The Hargrave name came from a Boston boy who had died at Fredericksburg of a bullet in the head, right beside Harper at the time, prompting his decision to flee.

  Hargrave’s trace of an English accent, and likely his rogue ways, he’d picked up from his papa, who had been run out of London long before Blaine’s birth. His mother, born in New Jersey, was as literate as the family was intermittently poor, and had steeped in her son a love of Shakespeare, while making him feel special and gifted.

  Which, of course, he was.

  For a dozen years Hargrave was among New York theater’s most successful, celebrated actors. His roles included Hamlet, King Lear, Macbeth, Shylock, and Richard III, and his conquests included numerous actresses, but more significantly the wives of several theatrical producers, which had led to his banishment from the Broadway boards, followed by the life of a traveling player, largely in the American West.

  That life, as it happen
ed, had appealed to him. He had picked up the tricks of a card sharp from his late father—shot to death at a poker table when Blaine was sixteen—and, often in the same saloons where he performed in various Shakespearean productions, Hargrave would add to his thespian earnings with poker winnings.

  The man, who had interrupted a performance with admittedly true accusations about Hargrave cheating at cards, had peppered his heckling with aspersions cast upon Blaine’s dusky female companion and, worse, his acting abilities.

  The Hargrave flair for the dramatic had led to killing the man with his own gun, right there toward the front of the audience. The actor had known almost at once that this performance would be his most memorable, and it heralded a new chapter in a tempestuous life. He had been born to the stage. Now he was robbing them.

  He felt the role of road agent was a temporary detour on his path, if an exciting, often exhilarating one. Kidnapping the Denver businessman would bring considerable booty, which—added to what he’d already accumulated—put his ultimate goal in sight.

  His intention was to establish a theater of his own, somewhere in Canada, where he could once again pursue his art. Extradition between the United States and its northern neighbor was rare, covering only murder and forgery. And the latter was not one of his skills, while he had never been formally charged with the former.

  As he sat, deep in the night, in the Hale Junction Inn’s parlor, on the two-seater sofa where earlier his two female hostages had perched, Hargrave pondered the problem that had unexpectedly arisen. Ned Clutter’s death, while no terrible loss to Western civilization (in any sense), meant that no progress toward delivering a ransom demand had been made.

  But he considered this setback to be a minor one, particularly since he’d had the good fortune of adding a new and most worthy cast member. This Bret McCory was obviously made of sterner stuff than the scruffy spear carriers Hargrave had accumulated in his latest company of traveling players.

  But could Hargrave trust him? He must get a feel for the man.

  Out in the lobby, Bret McCory was coming down, flicking a smile the actor’s way.

  Hargrave called out to him: “Join me! We have much to discuss.”

  McCory, moving with grace and ease, came across to the parlor. He looked around for a chair to pull over, but Hargrave patted the cushion next to him.

  “Sit, please.”

  McCory did, leaning an elbow against the armrest, keeping some distance as he half-turned to look at Hargrave.

  “Discuss away,” he said.

  “You have arrived,” Hargrave said, launching right into his soliloquy, “at a most opportune moment. Not only have I lost a good man . . . fairly good man . . . another of my bunch is wounded and momentarily of limited use. This leaves me sitting here in this shabby castle with hostages taken half a day ago or more, but with no method or means at hand to seek the desired ransom.”

  “A right mess,” McCory said.

  “Additionally, I’m told this Caleb York—a gunfighter who calls himself a detective, and is now a lawman—was responsible for the loss of that good man—”

  “Fairly good,” McCory put in.

  Hargrave twitched a smile. “Fairly good man . . . which means he may well be on our trail, although why this York creature would think to look for us here escapes me.”

  “Some in Trinidad may know of this Inn. Though I doubt they’d tell a sheriff they were doing business with such an establishment.”

  “Yes, I doubt they would at that. What about this York?”

  “Never met the man.”

  “No?”

  McCory shifted on the sofa. “I hear he’s a killer, though. This Reese of yours is right. When a poster says ‘dead or alive,’ York only sees that first word. So it’s said.”

  “Sounds more bounty hunter than sheriff.”

  McCory shrugged a shoulder. “That’s part of how these sheriffs make a living, collectin’ rewards. Their actual pay is small potatoes.”

  “You think he’s a threat, then?”

  “Do I look like I’m trembling?” His head bobbed toward the porch. “Still . . . that Apache makes sense. We can defend this position, if need be. But you better fish or cut bait, where this ransom goes.”

  Hargrave sighed, nodded.

  McCory said nothing for a while, then: “I have a suggestion.”

  “By all means, let’s hear it.”

  And what this new man had to say had the actor smiling from the start. Blaine Hargrave finally had someone to ride with who had a brain to go along with a gun.

  “Fetch him,” Hargrave said.

  McCory got up and crossed the front lobby and went back up the stairs. Not a minute had passed when he returned with Parker in the lead, a gun in his back. The newcomer nudged the businessman with the barrel of his. 44 until the man was deposited before Hargrave. McCory holstered his weapon and stood alongside Parker.

  His eyes on the prisoner, McCory said, “The ransom being asked for you is fifty thousand dollars. Will your associates pay up?”

  The businessman drew in a breath and then let it out. “I believe they will. I am willing to give you a note, authorizing them to use my money.”

  Hargrave beamed. “Very good, sir. Your cooperation is to be commended. You can recommend who among your people should be approached?”

  Glumly, Parker nodded.

  “And in the note you write, you will instruct that no measures be taken against the messenger?”

  Another nod. Firm.

  Giving the businessman a narrow-eyed look, McCory said, “These two women you’re traveling with—aren’t they wealthy in their own right?”

  Parker hesitated and McCory grabbed him by the arm, hard, and asked, “Well, aren’t they?”

  The businessman swallowed and nodded.

  “Are they likely,” McCory said, “to repay you, should you stand for their ransom? When this is over and they are home, safe and sound?”

  Parker hesitated again, but McCory—still holding onto the man’s arm—squeezed. Now the businessman, his face tight with pain, said, “They would! I’m sure they would.”

  McCory spoke through his teeth. “To the tune of another fifty?”

  “Sir . . . that is a lot of money.”

  “Do I need a banker to tell me that? Would they . . . would you . . . stand for another fifty?”

  Parker again took air in, let it out, but said, “Yes. I believe they would.”

  “And this Trinidad doctor? Miller, is it? He’s probably worth something. Doctors make good money. Would he have, maybe, five thousand he could pay you back for?”

  Hargrave was very pleased with this McCory. He had smarts and he was tough. And nicely nasty.

  The businessman was nodding. “If Miller doesn’t . . . if he can’t, or if he refuses . . . I’d back him anyway. The little town needs him.”

  McCory released the businessman’s arm, flinging it. Parker smoothed his sleeve, trying to reassemble his dignity.

  “Okay,” McCory said. “Now, we’ll get you some writing materials and you’ll fashion a letter to your most trusted business partner, authorizing a ransom of one-hundred-and-five thousand dollars. In cash, small bills.”

  Parker nodded, properly cowed.

  “We’ll work out the details of the exchange,” McCory said, “with your associates.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just make it clear—no law, no double-cross. Or they’ll get you back in pieces. Understood?”

  “Un-understood.”

  Smiling big, as if in response to a standing ovation, Hargrave said, “Thank you for your cooperation, sir. . . . Take him back upstairs, Mr. McCory.”

  The bank robber grabbed the businessman by the arm once more and hauled him away, crossing the front lobby and going up the stairs. Again the outlaw pressed the nose of a revolver in Parker’s back.

  McCory returned in perhaps two minutes and sat back down next to Hargrave.

  “Well, Mr. Hargrave
. . .”

  “Blaine. Please.”

  “Blaine. And make it Bret. So we have four hostages and one ransom payment. I call that slick.”

  “I call it efficient,” Hargrave said, still smiling. “I’ll have you take pen and paper up to our friend in a bit.”

  Reese Randabaugh, wearing an almost comical scowl, was coming down the front lobby stairs. He strode over and he gazed with slitted eyes at McCory, seated next to Hargrave.

  “What’s the fuss, Blaine?” Reese asked, standing before Hargrave and his new friend. “People trompin’ up and down the stairs like the place is on fire. What gives?”

  Hargrave flipped a hand. “Not your concern, Reese. Merely making some arrangements involving the ransom payment.”

  The slitted eyes opened wide. Reese pointed at McCory. “What does he have to do with it?”

  “Mr. McCory is with us now. He’s going to deliver the ransom demand. He’ll ride out in the morning, head to Las Vegas and catch a train to Denver. Does that answer all of your questions?”

  “No! Why trust him?”

  McCory sprang to his feet and moved in on Reese, going almost nose to nose with him. “Why not trust me?”

  Reese reddened. “You back the hell off, mister! Right damn now!”

  “Maybe we do need a little room at that.”

  McCory’s hand was drifting over his holstered .44. And Reese was armed too, a .45 on his hip.

  Hargrave rose and gently pushed the two men apart, saying, “Now, we’re all friends here. We’re all on the same side. Strange bedfellows, as it were.”

  Possibly very strange. Hargrave had long felt that under a veneer of toughness, Reese was suffering from unrequited love for the actor. Perhaps Reese didn’t realize who and what exactly he was himself. But after many years among theatrical folk, Hargrave could tell.

  “Reese,” the actor said, turning the man by the shoulders till they were facing. “Now that you’ve slept some, I want you to stay down here in the lobby and keep an eye on things. I need to catch a few winks myself. Would you do that for me?”