Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

Reese, in a blue army shirt, and his brother Randy, in a homemade gray shirt with sleeve garters, were separated by perhaps eight years, though they shared the same straw-colored hair and close-set eyes that made them look dumb as a post. The major difference was the younger one looked even dumber, and the older one had blue eyes, the other brown.

York drifted by, not acknowledging them, taking a table at the far end of the dining room near a serving board. He set his hat and his .44 on the table, to the left and right of him respectively. He’d barely settled when an attractive colored girl of twenty or so, wearing servant’s black, her hoop earrings swinging, came through the kitchen’s push-style door with a plate of food.

She was the kind of mulatto gal some called high yellow, and gave Willa and Rita a run for the money as to who was the most beautiful female under this roof. Of course he had also noticed the pretty Mexican-looking girl leaning over the banister with her bosom on display and black gypsy hair brushing her shoulders. This Hell Junction Inn had no shortage of beautiful women.

Or of dangerous outlaws.

The plate of chow the colored girl bore looked good to York — stew and pork ’n’ beans and buttered biscuits. She avoided his eyes as she put down the food before him.

York said, “Thank you, miss.”

She looked up at him, surprised to be spoken to in such a manner. Her eyes were big and a bottomless brown. Very softly, in a musical way, she said, “You’re most welcome, sir.”

He held her eyes with his. “And what’s your name?”

“Mahalia,” she said, softly respectful, but risking a tiny, barely readable smile.

“Mahalia,” he said, as if it were the first bite he was tasting, and it was delicious. “Lovely name.”

She liked that. “We have wine and beer. Also coffee.”

“Just a glass of water will do me for now. Maybe something stronger after. Thank you, Mahalia.”

She nodded and went off, no more graceful than a fawn gliding through a forest.

From the table where the brothers were playing cards, Reese called out, “You like talkin’ to niggers, mister?”

York turned and looked at the older Randabaugh. “Only people I dislike talking to are fools.” Then he turned back to his plate, leaving the son of a bitch to think about whether or not he’d been insulted.

After that, York ate in relative silence, with no conversation coming from the parlor or from the two louts playing poker, but for the occasional, “Deal!” or “Damnit!” Yes, those matches were money.

The stew, beans, and biscuits were fine, and when York was done, the high-yellow gal brought him a plate with a piece of apple pie on it. She smiled less shyly now.

“You bake this, Mahalia?”

“Had a hand in it.”

He took a bite. “Maybe that’s why it’s so sweet.”

She smiled openly at that and damn near flounced off.

Caleb York , he said to himself, you are still a devil with the ladies.

He was amused knowing Rita and Willa would have witnessed this, even at a distance, and been given something else to think about for a minute or so besides their captivity.

He pushed his now empty pie plate aside, wondering what his next move should be, when the outlaw leader himself saved York the trouble, the actor’s ambling stride announcing him with a flourish as he came across the room to York’s table.

Hargrave was a handsome devil himself, a mustached rogue all in black, and was sending York a smile that spoke confidence while his tense eyes conveyed suspicion. He was carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and two glass goblets by their stems in the other.

The outlaw actor stood by the empty chair to York’s left; he raised the wine bottle to shoulder level. “As the Bard says, ‘Good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people.’ ”

Good people. Right.

“ ‘The wine was red wine.’ That’s Dickens.” York gestured for him to sit. “Join me. Pour us a glass.”

Hargrave nodded in a half bow, a typically theatrical gesture. He was wearing his sidearm, its holster tie loose. The man sat, poured generously.

The two raised their glasses in a silent toast, then sipped and set the goblets sloshing down.

“You may have noticed,” Hargrave said, “that the innkeeper did not ask you to sign the guest register.”

York shrugged. “From what I hear about this establishment, that’s no surprise. If there were names in that register, they’d likely be Smith or Jones.”

Hargrave sipped wine. “Well-reasoned. And yet every alias has, lurking behind it, a real name.”

“Real names don’t matter much in the West. How many ‘real’ names did Billy the Kid go by?” York gulped some wine. “I hear Wild Bill’s real Christian name was James. But nobody ever called him Wild Jim that I recall.”

The actor’s gaze was unblinking. “My name is Hargrave. Does that mean anything to you, sir?”

York nodded and nodded some more. “Certainly does. Famously trod the boards, did you not?”

Hargrave lowered his head and gestured with a little wave, in yet another near bow. “I did indeed. ‘A poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more...’”

“ ‘It is a tale told by an idiot,” York said, finishing the quotation, “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’ ”

Hargrave’s smile turned contemplative as he studied this dusty stranger. “So... you have in your lifetime read more than just the sentimental twaddle of Boz, hmmm?”

York grinned at him. “I also like Jules Verne, but not enough to quote him. Wild yarns, though. You ever consider a journey to the center of the earth?”

Hargrave shook his head.

“We’re all due such a journey,” York noted, and had a sip of wine, “only not that far down.”

The actor studied the newcomer as if York’s face were covered in lines that needed memorizing. “You know my name, sir, but you haven’t shared yours.”

York served up another grin. “Didn’t your ‘Bard’ say ‘What’s in a name?’ Though as long and hard as I’ve been ridin’, I doubt I smell as sweet as a rose.”

The actor wasn’t smiling now. “You have hidden depths, sir.”

“Everyone in this place is hidin’ something ... sir. Including themselves.”

Hargrave filled his chest with air, then let it out as he spoke: “I take it you’ve heard of my subsequent post-thespian endeavors? And of my associates?”

York flipped a hand. “You started out on one kind of poster, now you’re on another.” He raised a forefinger. “Me, I could only claim one variety.”

Hargrave’s eyes narrowed. “You make noises like a bounty hunter. Are you a bounty hunter, sir?”

York’s eyes narrowed back at him. “Did you sit with me to hurl insults? Sir?”

The actor raised a palm. Shook his head, once. “No,” he said. “But as I am not a stranger to you, it seems only equitable that you not be a stranger to me.”

York pretended to think about that.

Then: “Name’s McCory.”

“... Bret McCory, isn’t it?”

York nodded.

Hargrave gave up half a smile. “You don’t ride with a cast of characters, I understand.”

“That’s correct. I general do jobs solo... but if I need some backup, there’s always one saddle tramp or another, in need of a dollar.”

The actor’s expression was languid, but his eyes were hard. “You hit that Roswell bank alone?”

“No. I had a friend.” York patted the .44 on the table.

Hargrave’s smile grew. “Such a friend one can depend on. Other friends less so, but I’m afraid I have rather... grandiose notions that make a touring company desirable. For the kind of productions I mount.”