Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

Willa swallowed, said quietly, “I guess he’s skipping dessert.”

Rita said, “Is he?”

By late afternoon, Caleb York had already had a hell of a day — starting with an ambushed stagecoach bearing the two women in the sheriff’s life and a key figure in the future of Trinidad, who was also a good friend, which gave the foul deed a personal slant.

Going from there, York had shot one of the outlaws dead at the relay station, tricked another of the gang into giving up key information, and learned that the very city fathers who paid his monthly wages were aware of the sanctuary for badmen known as the Hale Junction Inn.

Make that Hell Junction Inn.

As he sat behind his heavy wood desk in his office in the adobe jailhouse — the miscreant in his custody having nothing else worthwhile to share, it seemed — York pondered what to do next. He knew where the ghost town was — the directions were simple enough, thanks to those city fathers complying, and the ride was one he could make in under an hour.

“But what the hell do I do now?” he muttered aloud.

In anticipation of his nightly rounds, Deputy Jonathan Tulley was at the wood-burning stove, brewing up a fresh batch of what he claimed was coffee. He assumed the sheriff’s question was meant for him.

“You could round up a posse,” Tulley offered, leaving the coffeepot bubbling and taking a seat at his scarred-up table. He began to gesture wildly. “Rush the damn place! Surround that hotel and—”

“Get the hostages killed,” York finished flatly. “But I have to do something , because some damn fool killed the messenger, which means the ransom won’t get paid.”

Tulley frowned and blinked at him. “Well, you killed the messenger, Caleb.”

“I knew what damn fool I meant, Tulley.”

With a sound that was part grunt and part sigh, York got to his feet and walked back to the four-cell block. Burrell Crawley was sitting on his cot with his head in his hands, whimpering, the latest dose of laudanum fading some, apparently. York shook the bars, like he was the angry prisoner, and Crawley looked up from his cot, startled, black eyebrows climbing the forehead of the narrow, pockmarked face.

Louder than need be, York said, “How much did Hargrave plan to ask for Parker’s return?”

Crawley’s expression was that of a kid about to bust out crying. “He never said , Sheriff! Swear on my mama’s grave. Didn’t you go lookin’ for Ned Clutter? He’s the one could tell you!”

“Not now he can’t.”

“Why, Sheriff?”

“I killed him.”

The prisoner’s eyes widened; he didn’t seem to know whether to be confused or scared out of his mind. Some of both seemed the end result.

“K-killed him... why would you do that? Thought you wanted to talk to him...”

York flipped a hand. “He drew down on me and I shot him. Out at the relay station, where I caught up with him. That leaves you.”

“Leaves me to what?”

“Tell me what ransom Hargrave seeks.”

“I swear , I don’t know!”

York frowned at the prisoner. “You were in on a kidnapping , and you don’t know what the ransom demand was?”

The prisoner got off the cot and came over, shaking his head, keeping some space between himself, the bars, and York on the other side.

Crawley said, “I know what Hargrave promised me — two thousand dollars. That’s enough for me to go straight! Buy a little ranch or somethin’.”

The only place Crawley was likely to go straight to was Hell.

York asked, “What were the other men promised?”

“We never talked about that. Weren’t nobody’s business but our own.”

York summoned a smile. “No reason to hold back now, Burrell. The more you cooperate, the easier it’ll go on you when this is over.” The smile turned nasty. “If any of those hostages is killed, you’ll swing for it as sure as if you squeezed the trigger yourself.”

Crawley was gripping the bars now, his light blue eyes welling up. “I swear to God, I’d tell you more if I knew more! I wish I’d never met that dadblamed Blaine Hargrave!”

The prisoner returned to his cot and resumed sitting with his head in his hands. York left him there blubbering.

Settling himself on the edge of his desk, the sheriff was so desperate he started talking over the situation with Tulley.

“Suppose,” he said to his deputy, “I ride out there myself and offer to broker the ransom with Parker’s business associates.”

“ What would you break?”

“No, I mean I’d be the intermediary. The middleman. Take the ransom messenger’s place.”

Tulley’s eyes disappeared into slits, and he pointed a stubby finger at York’s chest. “Wearin’ that badge ?”

“Yes. Representing Trinidad. I mean, they likely know I’m sheriff here. Why not wear the badge?”

Tulley shrugged elaborately. “Well... mebbe ’cause it’d get a bullet in it afore you stepped offen your horse.”

His deputy had a point.

York said, “I could ride out there and sneak into that hotel and do my best to get the women and Parker to safety through the back or out a window...”

Tulley held up a hand with its fingers splayed. “Our guest in cell number two says they is five of ’em in that hotel hideaway. Also a female, half-breed Mex, who is meaner than the menfolk, accordin’ to Crawley.”

York nodded. Shook his head. “And that doesn’t count the couple running the place. No, if I sneaked in there, I might be more harm than help. If the shooting starts, who can say who’d be killed?”

“Might even be Caleb York.”

“Might.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to see a way. “Still, after dark... most everybody sleeping... I might be dealing with one or two of the bastards at a time. Pick ’em off. Better than a posse, anyway. Better than walking right in and trying to parlay.”

Tulley was shaking his head. “They is all bad ideas, Sheriff.”

He scratched his bearded cheek. “Sometimes you have to go with the least-worst bet. Throwing in my cards is not an option.”

Tulley was studying him. Really looking at him funny.

“What?” York asked.

Nodding to himself, the deputy got quickly to his feet and raised a finger like a buyer at a horse auction. “Might have me an i-dee.”

An idea from Jonathan Tulley? Stranger things had happened.

The former desert rat scurried over and plucked a wanted poster off the wall behind his table, one of many such circulars, only a few of which bore the faces of the outlaws sought. Many had mostly writing. One of the illustrated posters was Tulley’s selection.

He came over eagerly, like a child with a good report card. “Take a look at this, Sheriff.”

The face on the wanted poster was a drawing, not a photograph, and might have been anybody with a well-trimmed beard and a lean hard look.

Seemed the man was Bret McCory, who was wanted for a train robbery in Oklahoma and a stagecoach holdup in Arizona. Colorado wanted him for the back-shooting murder of a marshal. No one wanted him in New Mexico. The poster had been sent to county sheriffs like York as a courtesy and warning.

Despite the murder, McCory didn’t bring a “Wanted Dead or Alive” reward, but a reward “on arrest and conviction.” The prize — $500 — was on the modest side, and it said, “Immediately Contact Nearest U.S. Marshal’s Office.”

Tulley’s grin shone through his white beard like a picket fence in a snowbank. “Why don’t Bret McCory check into that there Hell Junction hotel? He’s a bandit, ain’t he? That’s who they caters to, don’t they?”