Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

Slowing the gelding to a trot, York neared the humble array of gray, weathered buildings — barn, corral, main station — and paused at the wooden-fenced enclosure where a dozen of the compact stallions called Morgan horses were milling, mostly black, a few bay or chestnut.

At the relay station building, an unpainted shabby structure with a sagging plank porch, York dismounted and hitched his gelding at the leather-glazed post next to a saddled horse tied there. His slitted eyes regarded the animal’s roan coat with suspicion.

At the jail, when York questioned Crawley, the prisoner had given him a description of Ned Clutter that had been on the vague side — small, not fat, not thin, with a thick black mustache, claiming no recollection of what the man had been wearing. But Crawley did say Clutter rode a roan.

Could this steed be the gang’s ransom messenger’s?

It was mid-afternoon now. If Clutter had stopped to eat and have a few beers, he might still be here. Short of knocking on a ranch house door, Brentwood Junction was one of the few opportunities for sustenance on the way to Las Vegas.

York nodded to himself, then took off his badge and tucked it away in the breast pocket of his black shirt.

When he went through the saloon-style batwing doors into the low-ceilinged space — modest bar at the left, scattering of dining tables at the right, the sort of unpainted, unprepossessing premises typical of a relay station — York tossed a polite smile at the little man seated at the counter, hovering over a plate of mostly eaten beans and stew.

This man who might have been Clutter frowned a tad, then gave a noncommittal nod to York and went back to wiping a torn tortilla through the remains of a serving of the spicy beef stew on offer here.

In back of the counter was short, lean, bandito-mustached Fosler — an Irishman with a Mexican missus — clad as usual in a bartender’s black bow tie and a white shirt with apron. His smile, upon seeing York enter the shabby establishment, was a nervous one, perhaps because once upon a time the sheriff (before he wore a badge) had shot some people dead in here. Including the former sheriff, as it happened, a corrupt bastard who called for killing.

York gave Fosler a tiny, squinty head shake and quickly touched where his badge usually lived. The man who was possibly Clutter had his back to York now, and the relay station man got the message.

York ambled to the counter and sat, putting a stool between himself and the other patron, who had half of a big mug of beer left. There were only four stools.

With an easy smile, taking off his hat and putting it on the counter to his left, York said to the relay station man, “Got a ration of that tasty stew of Maria’s left, Irwin? Or did my friend here get the last of it?”

Fosler’s smile was pitiful. “There’s always some for you ... good sir.”

That awkward substitute for “sheriff” didn’t seem to register on the small mustached man who was reaching for his beer. His hat was off, too, a derby resting on the stool at the right; his pale yellow hair was curly. The potential ransom deliverer wore a gray shirt with black sleeve garters and light brown duck trousers. He had a Colt Single Action Army .45 holstered on his right hip, not tied down, but always a formidable weapon.

“Fix me up a plate,” York said to Fosler, “and a beer.”

The relay station man got busy getting that together.

York turned to his fellow customer: “That your roan out there?”

The curly-haired little man with the big gun wiped foam from his mustache and frowned. “Yeah. What is it to you?”

The man’s voice was reedy, kind of high-pitched, not suited for threats.

York held up his hands, palms out, grinned. “Nothin’ at all to me, friend. Just a handsome animal is all. Where you headed?”

“Is that your business... ‘friend’?”

York shrugged. “Not unless you’re headed to Las Vegas, too.”

The little man swung around on the stool and frowned at the questioner. “What if I am?”

York offered another shrug. “Long ride like that, thought you might like some company. Headed that way myself.”

“Not agin it,” the little man admitted with his own shrug, talking as he chewed the last of his tortilla. “But you’ll have to catch up with me. I already et and I ain’t waitin’ around for some stranger to do the same.”

“Fair enough.”

The little man pushed his empty plate forward, only a few gulps of beer remaining to maybe keep him here a while, and said, “What’s your business in Las Vegas?”

“Well, we got that in common.”

“How’s that?”

York gave him just half a smile this time. “It’s my business.”

Fosler, not any more skittish than a virgin at her first dance, spilled some stew as he put down the plate of it and beans and tortillas in front of York, who began to eat the stew, using his left hand. Keeping his right hand free in certain situations was a practice a gunfighter like York had long since taken up.

“Irwin,” York said, calling the proprietor over with a curled finger. “I’d be obliged if I could leave my gelding here and borrow one of your Morgans. I been riding a while and could use a fresh mount. By this time tomorrow, I can swap you back. Be an eagle in it for you.”

“Sure, be glad to...” The “sheriff” seemed to catch right behind the bartender’s teeth. “... sir.”

York dug out the gold coin, which was worth ten dollars, and — again, using his left hand — tossed it on the counter, where it rang and settled.

Fosler grabbed up the coin in a greedy fist, then backed away with a smile that was half again too big, saying, “Excuse me, gents. My cook, Maria — I think she needs some help.”

She hadn’t called out for any, but neither customer questioned their skinny host. Maria was Fosler’s wife or anyway his woman, and was anything but skinny.

The little man sent his eyebrows up and down, saying, “He’s a jumpy one.”

“Ain’t he though? If you want another beer, I’ll call him back out here. I could eat fast and you could drink it slow, and maybe we could ride out together. Name’s Cal Wilson.”

York did not offer a hand to shake.

Nor did the little man, who said, “John Smith.”

York grinned. “No kiddin’. I bet they give you a hell of a time when you check in to a hotel. Of course, it would depend on the hotel.”

The little man said nothing, shrugged. “I’ll take that beer.”

“My treat.”

York called out for Fosler, who emerged from the back with narrowed eyes; he was polishing a glass that was not likely to have been washed.

“Yes, sir?”

“Give my fellow traveler here,” York said, “another beer.”

Fosler said, “Yes, sir.”

The bartender produced another warm mug and set it on the counter, then gestured toward the rear, making a plaintive face.

“You go help Maria,” York said, waving him back. “I’ll holler if we need anything.”

York got back to eating, using his left hand as before, and worked at putting the food and the accompanying beer away quickly. But John Smith was impatient nonetheless, and dug out a watch to check the time.

The watch was a gold one, and York recognized it — a timepiece engraved to Raymond L. Parker by the late George Cullen. He couldn’t see that inscription from where he sat; just that frilly writing rode the lid, but the fancy timepiece was unmistakable.

And it was clearly the kind of proof that Ned Clutter might provide Raymond Parker’s associates of their friend and partner indeed being in outlaw hands.

When John Smith tucked the watch away in a pocket, York drew his .44 in an eye blink and said, “You’re under arrest, Mr. Smith. But my name isn’t Wilson and yours isn’t Smith.”