Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

The narrow-eyed fool told Blaine about running into the doctor from Trinidad at the Brentwood Junction relay station, and how he got the doc to come along by telling him a cowboy with a broken leg needed attending.

Blaine listened to all that, then went over and started getting the rest of his clothes on, saying, “I’ll be down momentarily.”

But Reese, a shapeless cowboy hat in his hands, was lingering like a bad smell. “Listen, Blaine, I don’t know what you decided about them two females, but gettin’ rid of them might be a mistake. A bad one.”

Had the dunderhead been listening at the door?

Blaine went over to him. “Is that so? And do you have a reason for forming this opinion?”

“Ain’t no ’pinion. The doc and me had supper at the relay station, jawed some. Ol’ boy tol’ me all about how there was this stagecoach waylaid just down the road a piece. How this important businessman got himself grabbed, and two women passengers, as well.”

“Is that so.”

Reese leaned close to Blaine. “Do you know who those two women is?”

Blaine gestured dismissively. “No. They were simply along for the ride. They still are.”

“That blonde woman is a big rancher,” Reese said, eyes narrowing.

“That woman is?”

Reese nodded. “Her name is Cullen and her pappy died not long ago and left the damn whole spread to her. Biggest in the county. One of the biggest anywheres around here.”

“Interesting.”

“The other one, the dark-eyed lady? She runs the Victory Saloon. Hell, she owns the place! That’s the only saloon in Trinidad, and one of the biggest, fanciest around. Gamblin’ and girls and everything.”

Blaine was nodding slowly.

“Seems to me,” Reese said, smiling like a greedy child, “after we get Parker’s ransom? We can collect on the womenfolk, too. They is surely worth more alive than dead, Blaine.”

She hated the way Reese called his better “Blaine.” There was something unsettling about it. Like the way he’d watched Blaine walk over in his drawers. Was the older Randabaugh some kind of Nancy boy?

As if catering to that, Blaine put a hand on Reese’s shoulder. “You did well.”

Reese grinned, then his expression turned serious again. He gestured toward the hall. “Best come down and talk to the doc. Ol’ feller’s pretty upset.”

“Oh, is he now?”

“He seen the banker and the two women sittin’ in the parlor and he figured out right away there weren’t no cowboy with a busted leg waitin’. He’s in lookin’ at Ben right now.”

“Go back down,” Blaine said, with a flip of a wave. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Reese went out, closing the door behind him.

Blaine finished getting dressed, including strapping on (and tying down) his sidearm, then went to the door, paused to blow her a kiss, and strode out.

She washed up some, using the basin and pitcher and towels on the beat-up dresser, and then sat on the bed, brooding.

Juanita didn’t give a damn how much the women were worth. But if that flaxen-haired hussy went after her man, there would be hell to pay.

After supper, Willa and Rita returned to the lobby and their two-seater sofa; Raymond Parker resumed his place in the big leather chair, as well. The trio had more privacy now, Randy Randabaugh a good distance away in the dining room, seated at a cleared table, playing solitaire. The windowed double doors were standing open so he could keep an eye on the captives. They could see him, too, cheating at the game.

Not long ago, Randy’s older brother had burst in through the front, accompanying Doc Miller, of all people. The doctor was hauled in bodily, his Gladstone bag in hand, and he looked worried and confused, like someone rudely woken from a deep sleep.

But when he’d seen Willa and Rita installed in the parlor area, his expression became blank, a blankness that paradoxically said he knew at once where he was and what was going on. Reese hustled the portly little physician into the private quarters of the Wileys, where the wounded Hargrave gang member was being seen to.

Shortly thereafter Reese had rushed up the stairs, was gone for just a few minutes, then returned and disappeared back into the Wiley living quarters. The two women exchanged glances, then turned to Parker, their eyes asking him a thousand questions.

“I hope,” Parker said, calm and steady now, keeping his voice low, “that the good doctor will be able to save his patient. I would not like to contemplate what might happen to him otherwise.”

Rita said softly, “I’m not sure you’re right, Mr. Parker. I’m inclined to think the great Blaine Hargrave would just as soon have one less reason to slice up the pie.”

Parker’s eyebrows flicked up and down. “A valid point.”

Speak of the devil, Hargrave came quickly down those stairs and ducked inside the Wiley quarters. The quick movement seemed something from a French farce.

Glances between the hostages were again exchanged, but this time no words were spoken.

In a half an hour or so — though it felt much longer to Willa — Hargrave returned, dragging a frazzled-looking, askew-haired Miller along like an oversize child. The doctor’s jacket was off, and his white shirt was splotched red; his string tie hung loose, like a dead snake, and he’d left his Gladstone bag behind, presumably near the wounded outlaw’s bedside in the sickroom.

“All right, physician,” Hargrave said, standing facing Miller, hovering over him in the middle of the outer lobby. “I heard what you told your patient. But what is your real prognosis?”

“I told him no lies,” Doc Miller said, raising a palm as if taking the stand in court. “As you saw, I dug the bullet out successfully, with little fuss or excess damage to your... associate. He lost some blood, and he’s weak, and I would not advise moving him tonight. Tomorrow, some time, or the day after, he may again be mobile. Certainly in a few days he’ll still have some discomfort, but otherwise be right as rain.”

“He passed out on you,” Hargrave reminded the doctor.

Miller raised his other palm. “Yes, but that was the laudanum taking effect. I gave him a good dosage. He should sleep soundly and for a good long while.”

“Do you feel he needs further doctoring?”

Willa could well imagine what was going through Doc Miller’s mind. Hargrave was not about to release his latest guest, much less have him escorted back to Trinidad.

Rita whispered, “Doc’s best bet is to stick around and stay needed. Otherwise the healer will most likely catch something incurable.”

Miller, as if he’d overheard that, said, “If there’s an available bed here for me, I perhaps should stay the night. If I am wrong about the patient’s expected quick recovery... should he take a turn for the worse during the night, say... it might be prudent for me to be on hand to give aid.”

Hargrave thought about that. Then, vaguely irritated, he said, “We’ll find a bed for you.”

The actor gestured toward the lobby’s adjacent area. “Make yourself comfortable, Doctor. You almost certainly know my other guests, who are from your environs. You’ve eaten?”

“I have. At the relay station.” He breathed deep, exhaled the same way. “But I am rather thirsty, sir.”

“Coffee? Or something stronger?”

“Something stronger.”

“They have whiskey and wine on offer.”

“Wine would be soothing.”

Hargrave’s smile was perhaps not his most convincing performance. “Well, we must have you soothed, Doctor. I’ll see to it.”

Miller came in, exchanged wide-eyed looks with his friends, plucked a chair from along a wall, and sat himself near Parker, but angled so that the two women were also well in view.