Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

“You think he’s a threat, then?”

“Do I look like I’m trembling?” His head bobbed toward the porch. “Still... that Apache makes sense. We can defend this position, if need be. But you better fish or cut bait, where this ransom goes.”

Hargrave sighed, nodded.

McCory said nothing for a while, then: “I have a suggestion.”

“By all means, let’s hear it.”

And what this new man had to say had the actor smiling from the start. Blaine Hargrave finally had someone to ride with who had a brain to go along with a gun.

“Fetch him,” Hargrave said.

McCory got up and crossed the front lobby and went back up the stairs. Not a minute had passed when he returned with Parker in the lead, a gun in his back. The newcomer nudged the businessman with the barrel of his .44 until the man was deposited before Hargrave. McCory holstered his weapon and stood alongside Parker.

His eyes on the prisoner, McCory said, “The ransom being asked for you is fifty thousand dollars. Will your associates pay up?”

The businessman drew in a breath and then let it out. “I believe they will. I am willing to give you a note, authorizing them to use my money.”

Hargrave beamed. “Very good, sir. Your cooperation is to be commended. You can recommend who among your people should be approached?”

Glumly, Parker nodded.

“And in the note you write, you will instruct that no measures be taken against the messenger?”

Another nod. Firm.

Giving the businessman a narrow-eyed look, McCory said, “These two women you’re traveling with — aren’t they wealthy in their own right?”

Parker hesitated and McCory grabbed him by the arm, hard, and asked, “Well, aren’t they?”

The businessman swallowed and nodded.

“Are they likely,” McCory said, “to repay you, should you stand for their ransom? When this is over and they are home, safe and sound?”

Parker hesitated again, but McCory — still holding onto the man’s arm — squeezed. Now the businessman, his face tight with pain, said, “They would! I’m sure they would.”

McCory spoke through his teeth. “To the tune of another fifty?”

“Sir... that is a lot of money.”

“Do I need a banker to tell me that? Would they... would you ... stand for another fifty?”

Parker again took air in, let it out, but said, “Yes. I believe they would.”

“And this Trinidad doctor? Miller, is it? He’s probably worth something. Doctors make good money. Would he have, maybe, five thousand he could pay you back for?”

Hargrave was very pleased with this McCory. He had smarts and he was tough. And nicely nasty.

The businessman was nodding. “If Miller doesn’t... if he can’t, or if he refuses... I’d back him anyway. The little town needs him.”

McCory released the businessman’s arm, flinging it. Parker smoothed his sleeve, trying to reassemble his dignity.

“Okay,” McCory said. “Now, we’ll get you some writing materials and you’ll fashion a letter to your most trusted business partner, authorizing a ransom of one-hundred-and-five thousand dollars. In cash, small bills.”

Parker nodded, properly cowed.

“We’ll work out the details of the exchange,” McCory said, “with your associates.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just make it clear — no law, no double-cross. Or they’ll get you back in pieces. Understood?”

“Un-understood.”

Smiling big, as if in response to a standing ovation, Hargrave said, “Thank you for your cooperation, sir... Take him back upstairs, Mr. McCory.”

The bank robber grabbed the businessman by the arm once more and hauled him away, crossing the front lobby and going up the stairs. Again the outlaw pressed the nose of a revolver in Parker’s back.

McCory returned in perhaps two minutes and sat back down next to Hargrave.

“Well, Mr. Hargrave...”

“Blaine. Please.”

“Blaine. And make it Bret. So we have four hostages and one ransom payment. I call that slick.”

“I call it efficient,” Hargrave said, still smiling. “I’ll have you take pen and paper up to our friend in a bit.”

Reese Randabaugh, wearing an almost comical scowl, was coming down the front lobby stairs. He strode over and he gazed with slitted eyes at McCory, seated next to Hargrave.

“What’s the fuss, Blaine?” Reese asked, standing before Hargrave and his new friend. “People trompin’ up and down the stairs like the place is on fire. What gives?”

Hargrave flipped a hand. “Not your concern, Reese. Merely making some arrangements involving the ransom payment.”

The slitted eyes opened wide. Reese pointed at McCory. “What does he have to do with it?”

“Mr. McCory is with us now. He’s going to deliver the ransom demand. He’ll ride out in the morning, head to Las Vegas and catch a train to Denver. Does that answer all of your questions?”

“ No! Why trust him ?”

McCory sprang to his feet and moved in on Reese, going almost nose to nose with him. “Why not trust me?”

Reese reddened. “You back the hell off, mister! Right damn now!”

“Maybe we do need a little room at that.”

McCory’s hand was drifting over his holstered .44. And Reese was armed too, a .45 on his hip.

Hargrave rose and gently pushed the two men apart, saying, “Now, we’re all friends here. We’re all on the same side. Strange bedfellows, as it were.”

Possibly very strange. Hargrave had long felt that under a veneer of toughness, Reese was suffering from unrequited love for the actor. Perhaps Reese didn’t realize who and what exactly he was himself. But after many years among theatrical folk, Hargrave could tell.

“Reese,” the actor said, turning the man by the shoulders till they were facing. “Now that you’ve slept some, I want you to stay down here in the lobby and keep an eye on things. I need to catch a few winks myself. Would you do that for me?”

“Well, of course, Blaine...”

He raised a forefinger. “We need to increase our watchfulness. I am going to take your brother off his second-floor post and move him to the kitchen, where we can keep an eye on our flank. Mr. McCory will in turn take Randy’s place upstairs. Is that agreeable to you, Bret?”

McCory nodded. Reese frowned, looking a little hurt by the familiarity between his boss and the newcomer.

“Bret here will fetch your brother,” Hargrave told the older Randabaugh, with a dismissive wave. “You take that parlor in the Wileys’ rooms, with its view on the side street. Pull up a chair and keep an eye out. Visitors may come calling in the dead of night.”

With a deep pathetic sigh, Reese nodded, and walked across the lobby, slump-shouldered, then disappeared within the innkeeper’s living quarters.

Hargrave and McCory faced each other now. The former asked, “You’ve slept enough? Don’t mind sitting watch?”

“Got a share of shut-eye. Don’t mind at all. But one thing.”

“Yes?”

An eyebrow went up. “Once I’m back, and we have that ransom in hand, we won’t need these hostages.”

Hargrave’s mouth smiled but his forehead frowned. “Surely you can’t mean we should kill the lot of them?”

McCory gave up only half a smile. “Why, Blaine? You got a likin’ for live witnesses?”

And the new man ambled across the lobby and up the stairs, while Hargrave — somewhat stunned — tried to think of anything that was wrong about that suggestion.

When York reached the top of the stairs, the younger Randabaugh was already asleep in his chair in the corner, to the left of the indoor privies. The boy’s head was lolled to one side, his arms hanging loose, but the .45 revolver dangling on his hip — its holster tie undone — would be deadly even in the hands of a dunce like this.