Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

“You hold up trains. That takes men.”

“It does.”

“So do banks.”

Hargrave’s eyebrows flicked up and down. “Larger ones than Roswell, with a sizable retinue of guards, yes. No reflection on your accomplishment, sir.”

“You also take down stagecoaches, I believe. And that takes more than a man or two.”

“It does.” Hargrave frowned to himself, drew a breath; he was thinking. Then he leaned slowly forward and said, in a stage whisper, “You may have noticed several guests in the parlor who do not appear typical of the lodgers regularly housed herein.”

York threw a glance in that direction. “I saw’em. They don’t seem like fugitives of anything except maybe a Sunday service.”

The half smile returned. “They did not check in at this hotel of their own volition. They are my guests — if unwilling ones.”

York frowned in thought. “Hostages, you mean?”

“I do.”

Wiggling a finger toward the parlor, York said, “That old boy in the fancy duds looks like money at that. What those women are wearing don’t come cheap, either. Those are big city bought. Can’t get them kinda goods from a catalogue.”

“I would agree.”

York pretended to think about it, then said, “Ransom, then.”

Head back, eyes hooded, the handsome outlaw said, “Yes. Have you any ethical objection to abduction for profit?”

“I have no ethical objections to profit at all that spring to mind.”

His smile broadened. “I can tell you, frankly, that there is potentially a great deal of profit to be made in this enterprise.”

York squinted at him. “You’ve delivered the ransom demand to the old boy’s people?”

Hargrave nodded. “I already dispatched one of my men.”

I’ve already “dispatched” one of your men, too , York thought.

Then York said, quietly, “What about the women?”

Hargrave opened a hand and gave a little wave to the new comer. “There is a role you might play, if you are willing to join with me and my merry brood in the last act of our modest melodrama.”

“I’m listening. Make your talk less fancy.”

“Are you well known in Trinidad?”

“Never set foot.”

“Do you realize you’re within easy riding distance?”

“That so? And why the hell would I want to ride there?”

Hargrave leaned in. “To deliver a ransom demand for the two women. The fair one owns the biggest ranch in this part of the world. The dark-eyed wench runs the Victory Saloon, the largest drinking and gambling emporium around, I am told.”

York frowned thoughtfully. “Who would I take the demands to?”

The actor sat back, made a throwaway gesture. “I haven’t the slightest notion. Finding that out would be part of your job. Go over and make the acquaintance of those ladies and pretend to befriend them. Find out who in Trinidad cares about them — enough so to pay handsomely to see them remain among the living.”

Now York leaned forward. “If somebody does pay, will these folks ‘remain’ that way?”

“What do you think?”

York made a clicking sound in his cheek. “I think butchering them two females would be a downright shame. A waste by men of what God so carefully crafted.” He grunted. “It better pay damn good.”

“I assure you it will. Go in there and befriend the unfortunates. As the Bard says, ‘Friendship is a constant in all things.’ ”

York finished his wine in several gulps, lifted the empty glass, and said, “ ‘Wine is constant proof that God loves us and loves to see us happy’... Benjamin Franklin.”

He set down the glass, got up, and ignored the frowns of Reese and Randy Randabaugh, as he drifted past the brothers into the parlor.

Again, the captives betrayed no expression of either concern or recognition as York approached and took the chair facing them, unaware he was filling a seat earlier taken by Randy Randabaugh.

Speaking very softly, York said, “The name you will hear me being called is Bret McCory. You probably already realize I am using an outlaw’s identity to infiltrate this nest of thieves.”

Parker, answering equally softly (as would the women in the conversation to come), said, “Can you be sure none of them know this McCory by sight? That none of them ever worked with him?”

“No.”

All three hostages pulled air in. All three let it out, as coordinated as if planned.

“But,” York said, “Hargrave knows of , but doesn’t know personally , this fellow outlaw... unless he’s a much better actor than I take him for.”

Briefly York explained he’d been asked by Hargrave to “befriend” them. To pretend to sympathize with their plight and worm out of them the names of anyone in Trinidad who might pay a ransom for one or both of them.

Rita said, “So he knows who we are now.”

“Not a bad thing,” York said. “If you’re worth money, it will help keep you alive.”

Willa said, “Yes, but for how long?”

“Long enough for me to derail this runaway train. Anyway, we have a moment now where we can talk out in the open like this... softly, softly.”

Parker asked, “Are there others with you?”

“Only my deputy, who is installed in a second-floor window across this ghost-town street. For when I... we ... need him.”

Willa asked, “No posse?”

“No posse. My judgment was, working this from the inside was a better strategy than bringing in harmed men on horseback and turning this into a siege. My goal is to get you people out of here, alive and undamaged.”

“That will take killing,” Parker said.

“It will. But we four should survive.”

Willa made a face. “With the help of that old desert rat of yours?”

York’s voice was firm: “Don’t be unkind, Miss Cullen.”

That lifted Willa’s chin and widened her eyes — not at the term “unkind,” but on hearing York call her “Miss Cullen.”

Her expression told him that his remark had offended her, so he said, “You are ‘Miss Cullen’ to me here, and Raymond is ‘Mr. Parker,’ and Rita is ‘Miss Filley.’ ”

She nodded, jerked back to reality.

York went on, addressing them all but looking at Willa. “Think back. You’ve seen Deputy Tulley reform into a man who can handle himself. You’ve seen him and his scattergun in action. In the streets of Trinidad.”

“And,” Rita put in, “at the Victory. Anyway, I agree, a general melee-style shoot-out could find the wrong people getting killed.”

“Now,” York said, “I’m still getting the lay of the land, here... and I have the aforementioned Mr. Tulley checking around the otherwise not bustling Hell Junction to make sure there are no lookouts positioned we don’t know about.”

“There’s an Indian on the porch,” Parker said. “His name is Broken Knife, if it matters.”

“That he’s on the porch matters,” York said, “and I made notice of him coming in. He wears the jacket of a cavalry scout and the red turban of an Apache. Not a healthy combination for us.”

Willa asked, “If there’s no one stationed out back, however...”

Again York nodded. “It’s my intention to liberate you good people tonight, with minimal fuss...”

“Gunplay,” Rita said, redefining that.

“... and threat to you. But first I have to know the geography of this building and of the outside surroundings before putting any kind of plan together.”

“Cay...” Willa began.

“No,” York said, stopping her.

She flushed.

Firmly he said, barely audible, “Unless we’re behind closed doors, never call me by name. And probably better not even then. A slip could mean the death of us all.”