Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

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 appear 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.”