Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

After Caleb York’s instructions to stay alert and wait for their escape, Parker intended to be ready to check out of this establishment in short order. Elbows winged, propped up on two pillows, he was very much awake and even revitalized, despite this long and eventful day.

A man such as Parker, who wielded considerable power and controlled a good deal more of his destiny than the average man, was not suited to the helplessness of this situation. On the other hand, knowing Caleb York was here, worming his way into the good graces of these badmen, was one hell of a relief.

Parker did wish York had left him that spare weapon, but he knew the gunfighter-turned-lawman well enough to realize York too was an individual who liked to control his situation, particularly when it included the possible violent ramifications of this one.

As if putting a startling period at the end of that thought, a gunshot rang out, loud as a clap of thunder, but coming from below, not above.

Much like waking from a nightmare, Parker jerked upright. Then he bolted from his bed and rushed into the hallway. Down to his left, the two women in their dressing gowns were emerging from their rooms, clearly shaken.

And over in his corner, Randy Randabaugh — rudely awakened by the gunshot — had sprung to his feet, his revolver aimed at the hostages, moving back and forth as if trying to pick out a target in a shooting gallery.

From a room across the way, the Mexican girl — a black silk robe hugging her voluptuous figure, her dark eyes wide and wild — burst from the room she shared with Hargrave. But there was no sign of the actor.

The woman bared her teeth and pointed across the stairwell at the prisoners. “What are they doing out of their rooms? Qué tonta eres! ”

“I dunno, Miss Juanita,” Randy said, lowering his eyes. “They musta heard that shot. Didn’t you hear it?”

“Of course I heard it, you imbecile.”

Hargrave’s loud voice came up the stairwell, angry, shouting what must have been yet another Shakespearean quote: “Of all the infections that the sun sucks up!”

Juanita gestured impatiently over at the hostages. “March them downstairs! Apúrate! We need to see what the hell is going on.”

Taking the woman’s orders, the boy frowned at his charges and said, “Git downstairs! Right now!” The frown made his close-set eyes seem even more so.

Parker led the women down — this was one instance where “ladies first” seemed not to apply — and the young lout with the gun followed them, the gypsy-looking girl trailing after, muttering, “Qué demonios...”

What the businessman and the others saw, as they descended into the front lobby, was a dramatic tableau worthy of any stage production Blaine Hargrave might once have mounted.

The actor outlaw, in bright red long-johns and bare feet, was shaking Dr. Miller by his coat front, grasping the cloth in one fist, while in his other was a smoking revolver, pointed at the floor where a scorched hole in the carpet had been ripped by a bullet fired in anger. The plump little physician’s glasses were askew, his wispy hair a fright wig.

Looking on with his back to the front doors, the Indian called Broken Knife stood, arms folded and expression stony. Leaning back against the check-in desk, Caleb York watched as if almost bored, hands on hips, casual but with his right hand near his holstered weapon. Between the Indian and the sheriff, just this side of the parlor, paced Reese Randabaugh, in his trousers and a white long-johns top, also taking in the scene, but seeming anything but bored.

The women remained on the stairs, each with a step of her own, the Mexican girl included, like audience members hugging the rail in a theater balcony, transfixed by the scene. Gun in the air, Randy slipped down the stairs behind them, clearly desperate to know what was going on, while Parker was already at the foot.

“What in God’s name,” the businessman demanded, “is going on here?”

Hargrave — in his red long underwear and with that demonic expression lacking only horns and pitchfork — glared over at Parker.

The actor asked, “How well do you know this man? This... physician?”

Staying calm, Parker said, “I know him well enough. He’s Trinidad’s town doctor. He also serves as its coroner.”

Randy said, “Corner what ?”

Apparently noticing the boy’s presence for the first time, Hargrave released the doctor with a shove, sending him stumbling. Then Satan in long-johns went over to where Randy stood near the door to the Wileys’ living quarters, though neither the innkeeper nor his wife had responded to the brouhaha, staying out of their guests’ business.

As Hargrave took in the presence not only of Parker but of the women along the banister, he said gently, “How is it, my boy, that our guests are not ensconced in their rooms? Were you not entrusted with locking them in?”

Randy thought about that. “I, uh, thought I done so, Mr. Hargrave.”

Hargrave slapped him, and the sound of it, in the high-ceilinged room with its open stairwell, rang out like a second gunshot.

The boy, his cheek instantly blazing red, lowered his chin and appeared to be trying not to cry.

Hargrave moved in a slow circle, addressing everyone in his audience. “There’s a man I know, just outside there. One Ned Clutter. A friend of ours.” Then directly to Parker he said, “The very friend, in fact, who we dispatched to Denver to acquire your ransom. Only he never got there, it seems. You see, he’s quite dead.”

The women on the stairs exchanged glances. So did the men below, with the exception of Caleb York, who moved quickly to Dr. Miller and grabbed the man by one arm and raised a fist as if to strike him a terrible blow.

“What happened , you damn quack?” York demanded. “Who killed that man?”

York’s eyes were on Miller and Miller’s eyes were on York. Parker knew that in the shared silence they had spoken to each other.

The doctor said, “Sheriff York shot him.”

Hargrave closed in. “You witnessed this?”

“No! I am, as Mr. Parker said, the informal coroner of Trinidad County. The sheriff came to me and reported the incident, sent me out to pick up the body at the relay station. I told this man as much!”

The doctor pointed accusingly at the older Randabaugh.

Reese, somewhat changing the subject, said, “York made a name as a Wells Fargo detective. They say he brought wanted men back dead more often than living.”

“Well,” the doctor said, flustered but with his chin up, “he’s sheriff of Trinidad now. And you best hope he doesn’t track you down. Nobody’s faster or deadlier with a handgun.”

Only Parker and the two female hostages knew that the man of whom Dr. Miller spoke was standing right next to him.

“For what it’s worth,” the doctor added, “Sheriff York told me it was a fair fight. Your man made the mistake of pulling on him, it would seem.”

Reese approached the outlaw actor. “Blaine, maybe we oughter light out, right now. I don’t cotton to Caleb York and a bunch of deputies findin’ us this close to home. And, like you said, our ransom demand never got where it was goin’.”

Broken Knife, who thus far had added as much to the conversation as a cactus, spoke up. “If York come, we kill. Men come with him, we kill too. We have gun. We have hostage. Hotel... fort.”

The younger Randabaugh, one cheek blushed bright pink from Hargrave’s slap, said, “I’m with my brother. Iffen Ned Clutter is out there dead and drawin’ flies, we ought put some distance ’tween us and that sheriff. Right damn quick.”

“I second what Randy says,” Reese said, then gestured to the hostages. “We just take Parker here and the women with us. We can use that buckboard, or the stage. Put some dust between us and York. Once we cross out of the territory over into Colorado, this York bastard can’t even chase us no more.”