Микки Спиллейн - Last Stage to Hell Junction

Reese sucked in air, glared at York, nodded to Hargrave, then collected the clothes his brother had dropped to the floor, gun belt included. He glanced one last time at Randy, and went out.

Hargrave and York were alone now in the servant girl’s cubbyhole.

“Well,” the actor said, “wasn’t that unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate that he was raping the girl, or that I stopped him?”

“You did the right thing. Your chivalry is to be commended, just as that lad’s stupidity is to be abhorred. But I need my little crew, friend Bret. Now is not the time for the winter of our discontent. We need to band together.”

“Yeah. I know. I just don’t cotton to women being taken that way.”

Hargrave put a hand on York’s shoulder, squeezed in a gentle, friendly manner. With his other hand, the actor gestured vaguely to the world beyond the ghost-town hotel.

“Somewhere out there,” Hargrave said, “this Caleb York is gathering the dogs of war against us. We must be ready. United.” He shrugged, glanced at Randy, who was still unconscious, then whispered in York’s ear: “But when all is said and done, only you and I need still be standing.”

The doctor’s voice came in before he did, as the plump little man made his way across the kitchen. “What’s happened here?”

Doc Miller, in trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, Gladstone bag in hand, lumbered in, frowning as he paused to take in the pile of bones and flesh in long-johns slumped against the wall. He knelt and began his examination.

“I kicked him in the ribs, doctor,” York said, helpfully. “On his left. Broke a couple, pretty sure.”

“We can tape him up,” Miller muttered. He glanced back with a scowl. “Are you people battering each other now?”

“The youth,” Hargrave said, “was peckish but not for pie. He approached the cook, tried to serve himself a piece of a different sort, and Mr. McCory here took issue.”

“ You did this?” the doctor asked, as York knelt next to him.

“I did. In my defense, they stopped me. I was going to kill him. Rapists get on my bad side. Should’ve kicked him where he deserved it.”

“Ah. A gentleman at heart.”

Another voice came from the doorway: Broken Knife’s.

“What?” the Indian asked, frowning at the crumpled, still unconscious Randy.

Hargrave walked him into the kitchen and explained what had gone on.

Meanwhile, York whispered to the doctor, filling him in on what was now his plan. A new plan, and perhaps not much of one at that. But the best he could come up with at short notice.

Hargrave was shooing Broken Knife back to his post on the porch when York came out of the little room and joined the outlaw leader in the kitchen.

“I should get back upstairs,” York said. “Our guests seem to have slept through the merriment. But for all we know they could have taken advantage of the commotion to sneak out.”

Hargrave only smiled. “I hardly think so. Still, go up and check, then stay on watch. With young Randabaugh out of action at present, I will assume the kitchen post myself.”

“Seems prudent. All right with you if I stretch out on my bed, with the door open, should there be any mischief worth hearing?”

The actor shrugged. “Why not? Nap a little if you like. You asleep is worth ten wide-awake Randabaughs.”

Soon York was upstairs, meeting first with Parker and then with the women. In both cases he explained that the inhabitants of the hotel were too awake, their hosts too alert, for York and the hostages to stage the escape as planned. Hargrave himself was on guard in the kitchen, a more formidable barrier than the boy would have been; and dawn was creeping up on them.

York used the same words with the women that he had with Parker.

“I have a plan,” he said. “It’s not without hazard, I admit. And I’m open to suggestion. It will be dangerous, but I will put myself in a position to protect you. All of you.”

Then he told them what he wanted them to do.

York slept on top of the bed covers for almost two hours, in the Bret McCory wardrobe he’d arrived in, except for the fringed buckskin jacket, which he slung over a chair. Otherwise, even his boots stayed on, his .44 on the pillow next to his, the cold steel asleep on the softness of feathers — but ready to be woken, if need be.

But nothing disturbed his light slumber, and when York rose at 6:30 a.m., he used the nearby room marked GENTLEMEN, which had a sink with running water. Imagine — a ghost town hotel with such amenities. He splashed his face, dried it off with a towel, stuck his mouth under the spigot to wash the sleep from his mouth, and then looked at his bearded self in the mirror. Snugged on his battered gray Stetson. Nodded at his reflection.

He was ready.

A knock at 2B roused Parker quickly — perhaps the man hadn’t slept at all, and though his face in the crack of the door seemed alert, the eyes were bloodshot. He too wore the same clothes as the day before.

“Got that ransom message ready?” York asked him.

“I do.” Parker fetched it and handed it to the lawman, who looked it over.

York nodded at the page, then grinned as he folded it in thirds. “I like that extra five thousand for Doc Miller’s end. Something about the hundred-and-five-thousand-dollar figure that makes it feel real.”

“It does at that. Don’t go running off with all that money now, Caleb.”

“The name is Bret. Ready for what’s ahead?”

“I will be.”

“The women are your responsibility, here on out.”

“We will be ready.”

York’s eyebrows went up. “Can’t give you exactly when. But there’ll be no mistaking when it’s time for action.”

Parker’s expression grew grave. “Let’s try to live through this... Bret.”

“That’s my intent.” He tipped his hat to the businessman, who shut the door as York headed around and down the stairs.

Going directly to the kitchen, York found Hargrave seated at its small wooden table, where he was finishing off a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. The cook this morning was not Mahalia, but Juanita, in another low-necked peasant dress, the black curls brushing mostly bare shoulders. She was at the stove cooking right now, the smell of bacon grease hanging heavy.

Hargrave said, “Good morning, Bret. We’re allowing that poor child to sleep in — the girl the Randabaugh boy sought to ravage, I mean.”

“White of you,” York said with a nod.

Hargrave seemed spirited enough, but York figured the actor hadn’t slept any more than he had — if that. The black clothes — vest, jacket, trousers, so similar to what York usually wore himself — looked rumpled, the ruffled white shirt ( not York’s style) limp and wilted.

“Sit! Eat!” Hargrave demanded good-naturedly. “You have a long ride ahead, before you get to Las Vegas and a train with a dining car.”

York sat and Juanita flounced over, ready with a plate of eggs and bacon for him, providing a nice view as she leaned in serving. Silverware was already waiting. So was a pitcher of hot coffee with metal cups. York poured himself some.

Hargrave was addressing his face with a napkin. York passed him the folded ransom message Parker had written. The actor read it, smiling wide. Somehow the mustache made that smile seem bigger and even more roguish.

“It would appear that the last act of our modest production,” Hargrave said, “will end happily. And with the proceeds, I will no longer have to play the role of brigand.”

“Why, what lies ahead for you?” York asked, keeping to himself his own ideas on that subject.

Hargrave wadded the napkin and dropped it on the table. Leaned back in his chair. “ ‘All the world’s a stage,’ the Bard says, but I intend to build a little world of my own, and become master of my own fate. A place where the dramatics in which I indulge will bring fame and fortune, not infamy and pursuit.”