Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

“You knew what the post entailed when you signed on, Mr. Tulley. I had to do some fancy talking even to get the Citizens Committee to authorize your pay.”

“Well, talk to ’em again ! You’re the great Caleb York, ain’t ye? Threaten to quit iffen they don’t give your loyal right-hand man his fit due and proper!”

The sound of a fist slamming down on wood — the sheriff’s desk out there, no doubt — made Crawley jump.

“You listen to me, Deputy Tulley. I have more on my mind than sorting through your sorry list of complaints. I’m dealing with a missing stagecoach and its passengers.”

Tulley’s voice turned hopeful. “Ye need me at yore side, Sheriff? I can back you up and show them city fathers what Jonathan Tulley is made of.”

“No, Deputy. You need to hold down the fort. I’ll be gone a good long while, trying to track that stage. Somebody has to be in charge, and I guess you’re it. If you don’t make a mockery out of this office while I’m gone, maybe... maybe I’ll put in a good word for you.”

The hope in Tulley’s voice grew shrill. “And git me that raise , Sheriff?”

“Hell no! Recommend that they keep you on. Half of them already’d like to see the back of you.”

A scrape obviously made by a chair’s feet preceded footsteps on the plank floor, followed by the slam of a door.

Silence.

Then came stomping and Tulley’s grumbling: “Dang showboat. Big man. Big gunfighter! Tellin’ me what to do and what not to. Sweep out this, sleep in this here cell, stay offen that bottle! Hell with him. Hell with him, anyways!”

Crawley got to his feet, wincing at pressure on his left one, but hobbling over to the bars and hanging on, leaning half his face out as much as possible.

He watched as Tulley stumbled from the office into that first cell — with a bottle in hand.

“Consarned son of a bitch,” the deputy muttered.

Crawley could see Tulley next door through the connecting bars, as the skinny, bandy-legged old boy sat down hard on the cot, making its chains creak. The bottle was raised and gulps followed. Then Tulley, who was in a long-john top and suspendered trousers, wiped his white-bearded face with a BVD sleeve.

“Big man,” the deputy muttered, making a face. “Big man! Someday I’ll show that full-of-hisself blowhard. Someday Jonathan Tulley’ll make him pay for such ill treatment.”

“Hey,” Crawley said.

Tulley didn’t react.

“ Hey! ” No reason to whisper: York had gone out.

Tulley looked up and blinked. “You talkin’ to me, saddle tramp?”

“No need for that kind of talk. I’m a bigger victim of that puffed-up sheriff than you are, Deputy.”

“I doubt that. I sincere doubt that.”

“Bastard shot off two of my toes, didn’t he?”

Tulley pawed the air. “You’ll learn to walk with the loss, ’fore you know it. Me, I got to put up with dressin’ downs and shamin’ and lack of respec’ every damn day of my miserable life.”

“Maybe you need a new start.”

Tulley snorted. “Now how’s that gonna happen, you toe-shy fool? This town don’t see a deputy when they see Jonathan Tulley comin’. They see the town drunk . They see a old desert rat who just follers that damn Caleb York around like a dog lookin’ fer scraps, sayin’ yessir, nossir. Damnit all, nohow.”

Crawley widened his eyes. “Then go to some other town, where they don’t know you. Jonathan... all right I call you by your Christian name?”

“Shore.” Tulley frowned. “Maybe next time it’ll be me catchin’ the nex’ stage out, leavin’ this ungrateful populace in the dust.”

“That’s exactly how you can make a new start, Jonathan. You go find some new town to be a new man in. That’s one of the best things about the West. You just move on and start in fresh, somewheres.”

The old boy’s brow wrinkled. “How can I do that on forty a month?”

That seemed like pretty good money for this old reprobate to be making, but Crawley said, “Is that all? I had no idea you was bein’ so taken advantage of.” Crawley pretended to think up an idea. “Listen. I know somethin’ that would benefit us both.”

“You do?”

“Come over here. Let’s chin a bit.”

Tulley seemed to think about it some, then left his cell and came around to face Crawley through the bars.

“Speak your piece,” Tulley said.

“Think maybe you could make a start with a two-hundred-dollar stake?”

Tulley’s eyes widened. “Who couldn’t?”

“That character Wiggins at the livery said he’d give me two hundred for my horse. You let me go and that money is yorn.”

Tulley’s brow tensed in thought, making his eyes pop some. “But what’ll you ride, iffen you sell yore horse? How can you get away from Caleb York on foot missin’ toes?”

“You let me out of this cell and I’ll steal some other horse.”

Really what Crawley intended was to hightail it to the livery and take his own damn two-hundred-dollar horse for a nice long ride, making an even bigger fool out of Jonathan Tulley.

“I want it writ down,” Tulley said. “I ain’t no idjit. Ye can writ some, can’t ye?”

“I can read and write. Bring me something to scribble on.”

Tulley scurried out and came back with a pencil and a piece of paper torn off an old wanted poster. Quickly Crawley wrote out a bill of sale and handed it to Tulley.

“That’s a fine animal, Jonathan,” Crawley said. “You might think of keeping it and just head out for parts unknown. Smart feller like you could whip up a grubstake soon enough.”

Tulley blinked at him stupidly. “Do I have to choose which, right this here second?”

“No! Think it over. By all means. But let me out of here! If York is off trying to track some missing stage, that’ll give me a chance to slip away and for you to get that horse. Time’s a wastin’, Deputy Tully. Former Deputy Tulley.”

Tulley grinned, said, “Be back in two shakes,” and soon returned with a ring of keys. He selected one and used it, opening the cell door for the prisoner, who was seated on the edge of the cot putting on his boots. The right boot went on fine, but putting on the left one, with a foot all swelled up and missing toes, was damned painful.

Still, he hobbled out, following Tulley, who was curling a finger and leading him to the side door at the end of the small cell block. That door did not require a key, and Tulley opened it and gestured graciously for the prisoner to exit.

The door closed behind him as Crawley stepped into an afternoon that had lost its coolness and gone humid. Even so, a breath of fresh air felt good after that stuffy cell, and he was just about to hustle as best he could over to the livery when a voice called to him.

Well, not exactly “called” — more casual than that was how Caleb York, leaning against the jailhouse adobe wall, said, “You wouldn’t be escaping now, would you, Burrell?”

Crawley froze.

“Hate to have to shoot you down,” the sheriff said. “Unless, of course, instead of escaping, you were looking to find me.”

Wincing, Crawley raised his hands and slowly turned, saying, “And why would I do that, Sheriff?”

“Well, maybe you want to tell me what the hell the gang you run with wants with a stagecoach?”

Caleb York holstered his .44 and took the prisoner by the arm and hauled him back through the side door, which a grinning Tulley held open for him. Crawley, being moved along brisk by the sheriff, was yelping now and then because of his sore foot, but that stopped when York slammed the man’s behind down on the cot. Tulley was watching this with a giggling grin.