Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

She nodded, the flush fading.

York continued: “I’ll tell Hargrave I introduced myself — that you have my name: Bret. If you must call me something, make it that. We are behind enemy lines — and have always to keep that in mind.”

“Hard to forget,” Willa breathed.

“Might I say,” Parker said, “that I believe time is of the essence.”

“It is indeed that. The longer we’re here, the more likely it is some or all of us will be killed.”

The female hostages exchanged grave looks. Parker was simply staring at York, but the businessman had a nice firmness about him, a tangible resolve.

“My hope,” York said, “is to sneak the three of you out of here sometime this very night.”

“Actually,” Parker said, “it’s four of us. Dr. Miller was brought here to attend an outlaw wounded in the hijacking.”

“I misspoke,” York said. “I’m aware the doctor is in, as they say.”

Willa frowned. “How did you know that?”

York allowed himself a smile. “No great example of my deductive skills, Miss Cullen. The doc’s buckboard and trotter are tied up out front.”

The two women nodded at that.

“We overheard,” Parker said, sitting forward, “that you had a run-in with the ransom messenger at the relay station.”

“I did. A fatal one, where he was concerned. But he may yet deliver a message.”

Rita’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you killed him?”

“Certainly did. But as I approached the Inn, I spied a wicker casket partly covered by a tarp. And I believe I know who the passenger is, in back of that buckboard.”

Judging by the lack of blood in the faces of the hostages, they all did.

“If he’s discovered,” Parker said, “our circumstances will change far for the worse.”

York gestured with two open hands. “All the more reason to get you folks out of here sometime in the dead of night. If you’ll forgive the expression.”

The door to the Wileys’ living quarters opened with wood slapping wood, and an individual stepped out — just the man the little group had been discussing, Dr. Albert Miller. The doc looked bedraggled and his clothing had patches of blood, both fresh and dried. He came quickly over, if stumbling a bit, into the parlor.

His eyes met with those of the seated York.

York saw confusion in those eyes, knowing the doc was trying to calculate exactly the meaning of the sheriff’s presence. Simultaneously — also having heard that door open noisily, most likely — Blaine Hargrave came striding out through the dining room and met Miller almost directly in front of where York sat in the parlor.

Doing the best he could, what the doctor managed was a gesture toward York as he said, “And who is this then?”

York sprang to his feet and slapped Miller, hard.

The doc stood there, stunned, mouth open, eyes wide, some blood trickling from a corner of his lips.

Teeth bared, York grabbed the doc by the coat, shaking him like he would a disobedient child.

“You don’t need to know,” York said.

Then he tossed the doc to one side, with just a brief exchange of the eyes in which the two men understood each other and their respective positions.

Hargrave put a hand on Miller’s shoulder and looked at York. “This is a doctor who’s making a house call. We’re grateful to him, but he is not one of ours.” Then with a nod toward the three seated hostages, he asked, “Have you introduced yourself to our guests?”

“I said my name is Bret. And let’s leave it at that.”

“And Bret you shall be. But please do not damage the doctor — we have further need for him. Have you properly welcomed Mr. Parker and the lovely ladies?”

York nodded, then headed into the outer lobby, gesturing for Hargrave to follow. The outlaw leader frowned at being so summoned, but obeyed.

Whispering, York said, “They think I’m their bosom buddy. That just because I’m a desperate outlaw, it doesn’t mean I want to see respectable people... lovely females in particular... abused and misused.”

“Good. Very good.”

York scratched his bearded chin. “They gave me several names to try. I believe it likely that these same city fathers will want their doctor back, so we may well have a fourth ransom to add to the kitty.”

Liking the sound of that, nodding, Hargrave said, “Excellent. Might you ride now?”

York thought that over. “I suppose. But it’d be well into night by the time I got to Trinidad. Raising people out of bed could stir a general commotion, I reckon. And nobody could get to the bank, should they need to withdraw money.”

“What do you suggest? Wait until morning — ‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow’?”

“I do. On top of everything, there’s all this hard riding I had today — even a notorious bank robber needs his rest, y’know.”

Hargrave smiled and nodded, seeing the sense of all that. “You’ll head out first thing, then.”

York nodded back. “Is there hay in that stable across the way? A stall maybe, for my gelding?”

“There is. We have the stagecoach and its horses stowed there. No one’s guarding them, though, but my Indian, Broken Knife, has a view.”

Conversationally, York asked, “What plans have you for that stagecoach?”

“None. Just getting it out of the way. The horses we can use to spell our own steeds when we hie to a safer clime.”

“Good. I’ll walk the gelding over and collect my saddlebags. With your blessin’, I’ll come back and head upstairs and see if my room has a comfortable bed.”

Hargrave beamed. “You have my blessing indeed. Your sheets will be fresh and clean. This Mahalia is a wonder. And I might say I already find you a suitable, even commendable addition to our cast of players.”

“Thanks. How’s your man doin’, the doc was tending?”

“I believe he’s doing well. I’ll discuss that with the doctor, when he himself is feeling better.”

Miller had pulled over the chair that York had been using, where the plump little man now sat slump-shouldered, droopy-faced, thin white hair a wispy tangle, exhausted. He was trying to look dejected and fearful, too, but York knew the doc was relieved to find his lawman friend there, properly insinuated into the Hargrave gang... even though the doc’s welcome had been a rough one.

Hargrave offered his hand.

Caleb York shook it.

Then the man calling himself McCory stepped out into a cool night onto the squeaky porch, wondering what the hell was next.

On the porch, down to the left a ways as York exited through the hotel’s double doors, the compact Indian known as Broken Knife was sitting cross-legged, arms folded, chin on his chest. Apparently asleep... although York wouldn’t bet on it. Next to the quiet but deeply breathing figure, a rifle across his lap, were an empty plate and cup — seemed the Indian had taken supper out here.

The figure didn’t stir as York stepped across the creaky plank porch and down the equally noisy steps. But, again, the sheriff of Trinidad County would not have been surprised to turn and see eyes glittering at him in the dark, like a cougar studying its prey from the brush.

As York walked the crushed-rock, tumbleweed-touched Main Street of Hale Junction, moonlight washed the deserted mining town in blue-tinged ivory, giving everything an otherworldly glow. Wind gave a gentle ghostly howl, as if the dead were bored.

Out in front of the inn, to one side of the porch steps, some horses were tied up for easy access in case of an unwanted variety of visitors — a posse, perhaps, or a sheriff wearing a badge and not a false name. The doctor’s buckboard with his trotter, still hitched up, was out front as well, parallel to the building on the other side of those steps. York was all too aware that the wicker coffin in back, draped with a tarp, held its own kind of hostage.