Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

Very quietly, the doctor told them of encountering Reese Randabaugh at the Brentwood Junction relay station, where the outlaw had lied to him about a cowboy with a busted leg.

“As soon as I realized we were heading into Hell Junction,” Miller said, “I knew I’d been played a fool.”

Willa asked, “You knew of Hell Junction?”

“Heard tell of it. My first visit, however. And I hope my last.”

Parker said, “You may get that wish in a way you wouldn’t relish.”

“I may indeed.” He was speaking so softly that Willa could barely hear him now. But she did hear him.

Every word.

Concisely, Miller told them that he’d been picking up the dead body of one Ned Clutter, the ransom messenger who, as it happened, Caleb York had killed this afternoon. That Clutter’s corpse was in fact snugged in a wicker coffin right outside the hotel in Miller’s buckboard, under a tarp.

Willa said, “Well, surely they don’t know—”

“They don’t ,” the doctor said. “And if they ever do, I would likely be in even worse trouble than I am right now. So, I fear, would we all.”

Parker, just as softly, said, “That means the ransom is not on its way.”

“That’s right,” Miller said. “And our sheriff is beside himself for putting you... now, us... in that untenable position.” He shrugged. “But apparently this Clutter drew down on him and our sheriff’s well-honed instincts kicked in.”

Rita said, “I don’t mean to throw a damper on this lovely reunion, but as soon as Hamlet and the rest of his troupe realize no money’s on the way... and that Caleb York knows about them... they are likely to drop the curtain and steal away.”

Willa said, “Well, wouldn’t you like to see these creatures disappear on us?”

Parker said, “Miss Cullen, without ransom money, we are no longer hostages.”

“Exactly.”

“But we are witnesses.”

“And dead men, as they say,” Rita said, “tell no tales. Women, too.”

Willa felt as though she’d been struck a blow in the pit of her stomach.

“ Hey! ” Randy called, frowning over his cards. “You people over there — stop your talkin’! You’re gonna get yourselves in trouble!”

Rita said, “I would hate for that to happen,” loud enough for even Randy to hear.

The four guests of the Hargrave Gang followed the young lout’s directive. They did not speak. They all sat with their eyes and their thoughts moving.

The colored girl came in and offered them wine from an unlabeled bottle on a tarnished silver tray with crystal glasses, two of which were chipped.

“It’s a port,” Mahalia said, with an accent that had some Texas in it. “Very sweet. Nice. You should like it.”

They all accepted healthy glasses, thanked the girl, who nodded, smiled, left the bottle on a nearby table, and departed. She seemed sweet and nice, too. Certainly the wine was.

Hargrave’s woman, Juanita, in her peasant dress, came down the stairs in no hurry, flashed them a dirty look, then entered the Wileys’ quarters. A few minutes later she and Hargrave exited, and started back up the stairs, with her leading the way, tugging on his hand.

“Second dessert helping, maybe,” Rita said softly with a smirk.

But when the front lobby doors opened, and a tall, trimly bearded figure stepped inside, shutting himself in, Hargrave and his woman froze on the stairs. Both were frowning.

Neither Willa nor Rita reacted in any noticeable way, although Willa’s right hand and Rita’s left found each other, tucked between them where they sat, and squeezed. Both the doctor and the businessman barely glanced at the new arrival.

All four hostages had done very well, as the man who approached the check-in desk and slammed his palm onto the reception bell, three times — ding ding ding — was Caleb York.

Though she recognized him at once, Willa was struck by how different he looked. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket that looked dusty and well-worn, dark green santeen shirt, brown canvas trousers, red bandanna tied around his neck, and scuffed-up work boots. In fact, the only item of apparel she recognized was the .44 Colt in its low-slung, tied-down holster.

Wilmer Wiley came rushing out from somewhere and got behind the check-in counter.

“Yes, sir,” rasped the pudgy little man in wire-framed glasses, tugging his vest on, smiling obsequiously. “May I help you? Might I assume you know the nature of this establishment? And its rates?”

“I do,” Caleb said.

From the stairs, a scowling Hargrave said, “Now wait one damn minute!” He came quickly down, like a swashbuckler who forgot his sword; of course, he hadn’t forgotten his holstered revolver.

Meanwhile, the woman, dark hair brushing her shoulders, was leaning over the rail, smiling at the handsome stranger, some of her charms threatening to spill out.

Hargrave stood before Caleb — they were about the same height — and said, “My apologies for interrupting, my good man. But I’m afraid I have bought out the hotel for my party. I’m sure you’ll find suitable lodging elsewhere.”

“I’ve ridden some while... my good man,” Caleb said, looking at Hargrave through dangerous slits. “I’m tired and I know who this shebang caters to. And I’m it.”

Hearing this fuss, Reese Randabaugh emerged from the Wileys’ quarters with a frowning Vera Wiley right behind. Randy heard the hullabaloo, too, in the dining room, and rushed out past Willa and the others to get in on it.

Hargrave’s hand was hovering over his holstered weapon. But so was Caleb’s. They were staring at each other.

Reese yelled, “We got this whole place sewed up, mister!”

And Randy, moving around the edges like he was trying to hem everybody else in, said, “He’s right , bud! Right now, we own this here place!”

“ Wrong! ” Vera Wiley screeched.

All the men winced, but Willa and Rita only smiled.

Pushing past the older Randabaugh, Mrs. Wiley got back behind the check-in counter and stood next to her husband, putting a hand on his shoulder, the first sign of affection between them.

Firmly, not at all screechily, the hatchet-faced woman said, “The Hale Junction Inn is a haven for poor outcast souls... them what can pay the freight, that is. Do you have one hundred dollars for a night’s stay, wayfarer? Meals is included.”

Caleb, still facing Hargrave, nodded. He dug in his left pocket and came back with a handful of coins, dropping them one at a time on the counter, five clinks. Even from where she sat, Willa could see the gold of them.

So could the Wileys.

“Double eagles,” Rita whispered.

Twenty dollars each.

An eyebrow raised, Hargrave said, “I apologize for asking, but it’s a necessary intrusion. Where did you get that kind of money, sir?”

“I made a withdrawal from the bank in Roswell,” Caleb said, his smile a sideways thing that showed only a knife’s edge of teeth.

“Posse on your trail?”

“No. I shook them. Led them on a merry chase, as Shakespeare said.”

Hargrave frowned. “But he didn’t say that.”

“Somebody must have. Anyway, I heard it before... Landlord, I could stand to eat. You did say meals came with my hundred dollars.”

When he walked by Willa, Rita, and Parker in the parlor of the lobby, Caleb York gave them a glance, but nothing more. And to his pleasure and relief, none of them reacted to that glance or his presence in any way at all.

Sitting just inside the open doors of the dining room, the two Randabaugh brothers — that’s who York assumed they were, at least, based on prisoner Crawley’s descriptions — were playing two-handed poker for kitchen matches that appeared to represent actual money they expected to be receiving for their kidnapping efforts.