Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

“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 than 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.