Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

“What’s wrong, Tulley?” York asked, his eyes still on the three aces.

The disappointment in the deputy’s voice was obvious. “Why, not a dang thing! I jest been lookin’ for you to report in, after my mid-evenin’ patrol.”

“Report then.”

“Uh... what I said before.”

“Remind me what you said before.”

“Not a dang thing is goin’ on. It’s quiet as Boot Hill out there. Quieter!”

“Good. You say you’ve been looking for me?”

“I have!”

“And where am I always on Friday night?”

“... Playin’ poker with your friends, like.”

“Yes. Now go have a sarsaparilla. Tell Hub to put it on my bill.”

York didn’t have to turn to see his deputy smile — it was in the man’s voice. “Thank ye, Sheriff!”

This same scene had been enacted, more or less in the same fashion, the last five or six Fridays.

The difference was the sound of Tulley clomping over to the bar did not follow the exchange.

Now York did glance from the aces to his ace deputy. “Something else?”

“Mind if I go with coffee, Sheriff? Mite nippy out there.”

York interrupted his concentration to grin. “Sure. Have cream and sugar, too, if you like.”

“Thank ye, Sheriff!”

Now the deputy clomped.

“Sorry, gents,” York said to his fellow cardplayers.

But the mayor, sitting across from him, was looking past York. Hardy, a slight fellow, had slicked-back, pomaded black hair and a matching handlebar mustache that overpowered his narrow face. He pointed past York, who turned to look.

Rita Filley, the proprietress, was seated at a table halfway between here and the bar. She was motioning for York’s attention.

His sigh started at the toes of his well-tooled boots.

“Play without me, boys,” he said, and tossed in his three aces with a growl.

Raven-haired Rita gestured for him to sit; she looked typically lovely in a dark blue satin gown, her full breasts spilling some, the rest of her almost too slender for them. Almost. She had a beer waiting for him — she was having coffee. The resemblance between her and Tulley ended there.

The heart-shaped face with the big brown eyes, gently upturned nose, and lush, red-rouged lips wore a pleasant, lightly smiling expression. But he could see through it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting.

“You really don’t know?”

“Rita, I’m in the middle of a game. I just walked away from three aces.”

“I would think the sheriff would be more attuned to trouble.”

“I’m not sheriff at the moment. What trouble?”

She nodded toward the dance floor at the end of the big room. A sort of aisle between the chuck-a-luck and roulette stations gave them a look directly that way. The honky-tonk piano was barely audible over the sound of well-oiled cowhands and the bark of the dealers and croupiers. But York could make it out: a lively version of “Clementine.”

He could also see what the trouble was. Molly, a pretty little blonde in green-and-white satin, was being pawed and generally manhandled by a tall character who was weaving in a way that had nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with John Barleycorn.

“She’s one of the newer ones,” Rita said.

“I know. She was never a part of the upstairs festivities.”

“Never. She’s a nice girl. Good girl, considering.”

“Considering?”

“Considering she works here. I think you can see why this isn’t a job for Hub.”

Hub Wainwright was a bartender but also Rita’s chief bouncer — a very tough man.

But the too-friendly dance partner was a breed apart, a breed York recognized all too well. The man wore a tan silk shirt and darker brown trousers tucked in his boots — they looked new. His hair was black and curly and better-barbered than either the sheriff or his deputy. This was not somebody who did ranch work. The low-slung, tied-down Colt Single Action Army .45 in a hand-tooled, silver-buckled holster was almost certainly how he made his living.

“Signal her,” York said. “At the end of the song, she sits down. If he gets rough, let me know — I’ll step in.”

York rose, ready to get back to his cards.

Rita touched his hand as it was pushing the chair back in place. There had been something between them once. Or twice.

Her eyes begged him. “Look at Ben Lucas — young hand from the Bar-O?”

That was Willa Cullen’s spread.

“I don’t see him,” York said.

Her head bobbed toward the right. “He’s against the wall.”

York casually moved out to where he could see that Lucas was halfway out of his chair, his expression tortured, his hand already closer to his holstered weapon than might be deemed wise.

Rita was at York’s side suddenly, holding onto his arm. “Ben is sweet on that child. Something might happen. Something terrible might happen.”

“Ben is no gunfighter.”

“But we both know that man in brown silk is.”

York drew in a deep breath, let it out, nodded.

He reached in his breast pocket and got out the badge. Pinned it on the pocket. “See what I can do.”

She gave him a smile that said she could just kiss him for this. Not that he’d have minded.

But he — hell, even Rita — had taken too much time talking it over. Because Ben was clambering out of his chair, just as the man in the brown silk shirt was grabbing the girl’s behind in two hands.

“You mangy son of a bitch!”

Ben was almost on top of them when the man in brown shoved Molly aside, pulled his gun, and fired. The thunder of it was soon eclipsed by the girl’s scream and then a rumble of voices around the room seemed like the threat of the storm the thunder had promised.

“Doc!” York called, but the heavy-set, white-haired little physician was already on his way.

Then York was standing four feet or so away from the shooter, whose gun was still in hand, smoke curling lazily from the barrel, the smell of it scorching the air.

“You just hold it right there, Sheriff,” the gunny said, that .45 steady and trained right on York’s chest — he’d had way too much to drink, yes, but killing a kid over a dance-hall girl can sober a man up fast.

His face was narrow and pockmarked, the eyebrows heavy and black, the eyes a light blue and his features otherwise regular, near handsome. He may have been used to having his way with girls like Molly. Not that it cut any slack with York, whose hand rested on the butt of his .44 in his own low-riding holster, though unlike the gunman’s, it wasn’t tied down.

Doc was crouched over Ben Lucas, a red splotch soaking a red-and-black plaid shirtfront, head hanging loose. He was a tow-headed boy who would never be a man. Or so Doc indicated, with a shake of the head.

York’s nod told Doc to move away, which he did.

A queasy smile and obsequious manner came over the shooter, though he kept that gun aimed right at York. “Now this was self-defense, Sheriff. Surely that’s plain. You need to know I’m a respectable businessman.”

“What business would that be?”

“Why, I’m a wholesale drummer — take my catalogues store to store. Name’s Burrell Crawley. This is just an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

The only item this character sold was a .45 caliber.

York said, “Damn unfortunate for this youngster.”

The respectable façade dropped and a snarling desperation came out. “He rushed me and went for his gun! Everybody here saw it! Just ask that little girl I was dancin’ with.”

“Molly?” York asked, not looking away from Crawley, whose gun was still trained on him. “Is that right? Speak up, girl.”

“I... I... guess so...”