Last Stage to Hell Junction

Chapter Six

Finding herself sharing a red-and-black brocade two-seater sofa with Willa Cullen was nothing Rita Filley could ever have contemplated.

That the sofa was well-worn and that the big windows to their backs onto the street were boarded over, the glass long since broken out and swept away, did not lessen the improbability of sitting with the Cullen girl in a hotel lobby. Granted, the Hale Junction Inn was in a ghost town whose silver strike had struck out; but the hotel itself was undeniably a going concern.

Rita had heard rumors of the hotel, and the words “Hell Junction” were known to her, also. But she was relatively new to the territory, having inherited the Victory Saloon from her late sister Lola, and — with the exception of Trinidad and its thriving neighbor, Las Vegas — she remained unfamiliar with much of New Mexico.

So where exactly Hell Junction might be was unknown to her.

On the other hand, that a hideout for men on the run existed somewhere in the hills and mountains, hugging the horizon north of Trinidad, was information she’d gathered without trying. A beautiful saloon owner in satin, wending her way through her establishment spreading smiles and encouraging spending, tended to pick such things up. She had not inquired as to details, as not all information was good to have. Her business depended on friendly relations with Caleb York, who would not look kindly on an outlaw resort.

Some things were better not to know.

But she knew enough now to understand the predicament she and her new friend, Willa Cullen, found themselves in. Did “friend” overstate it? Probably. But they were at least allies now, the saloon proprietress and this stuck-up female ranch owner; and chief among Rita’s tasks here at the Hale Junction Inn was letting the girl know just how much trouble they both were in.

Specifically, that even if Parker’s ransom got paid, the busisnessman might still die. And in any case, two disposable women likely would. Witnesses were unpopular with thieves turned murderers.

Parker had finally gathered himself, Rita could tell, even if outwardly he might appear much the same. A new alertness in his eyes, and the way he stealthily followed the actions of his captors while pretending to stare into space, indicated the big-city tycoon was reverting to the frontiersman he’d been years before, when he was partnered with the Cullen girl’s late father, George.

Rita figured he was, to some degree, playing possum.

Meanwhile, Randy, the youngest of the outlaws, was looking after all three hostages. Juanita, Hargrave’s bosomy querida, was off helping with the fallen gang member — Bemis, his name was. Right now, Randy was paying much more attention to Rita and her admittedly fetching companion than to the rich man they’d grabbed. The boy was milling around the lounge area, not exactly pacing, staying close to them, but betraying a nervousness, even a shyness, that Rita could read.

She smiled at the boy. “Why don’t you settle yourself, Randy? Or is it Randall? Do you prefer that?”

Willa gave her a sharp glance.

Randy lowered his head, moving it side to side, and said, “Aw...” It was minus only the “shucks.” The boy in the sleeve-gartered gray shirt came to a stop, his pistol in hand, hanging at his side, swinging a little, like a deadly pendulum; the thumb of his left hand was stuck in the corner of a front pocket of the buckskin-color pants. The toe of his right boot kicked at the faded carpet as if it were dirt.

What a muttonhead, Rita thought.

“Mr. Hargrave,” Randy said, “told me, Keep an eye on you two ladies.”

“Why not do that sitting down?” Rita said, her smile pursed, a kiss promising perhaps to happen. “You could even keep both eyes on us.”

He showed her those teeth that were as yellow as his hair. “My ma used to call me Randall. ’Fore she died.”

“It’s a nice name.”

“I druther you call me Randy. That’s what friends and such calls me.”

“Is that right? Are we friends now?”

The teeth disappeared but a smile remained, and his voice grew soft: “I don’t hold nothin’ against you, lady.”

Rita arched an eyebrow, sent him half a smile. “Would you like to?”

He blushed. Damn near tomato red.

Willa was staring at her now, her mouth open.

Rita got to her feet. Randy looked at her, his mouth open also, but he said nothing. Did not tell her to sit herself back down. He was like a snake hypnotized by a swami. She went over and got a straight-back chair from where it rested against the wall and she plunked the thing down in front of her and Willa. Much too close for the latter’s liking, obviously.

Then Rita turned to her flabbergasted captor, gestured with an open hand, and said, “Take a load off, Randy, why don’t you? We’ll likely be here a while.”

Then she returned to her seat beside Willa.

Randy glanced around nervously. Nobody else was in view, the other outlaws all behind that closed door near the stairs, tending to their fallen cohort. He swung to Parker, who sat quietly in his overstuffed chair to one side of the couch, nearer the fireplace. The boy gave him a “Just you try it” dirty look. Parker returned the look impassively.

Randy took breath in. Randy let breath out.

Then he seated himself delicately in the straight-back chair, sitting close enough to her that Rita could reach out and pat him on the knee, which she did.

“There’s a good boy,” she said, then sat back.

“Iffen you’re bein’ nice to me, to fool me,” Randy said, forehead clenched, “you best take care. I ain’t the muttonhead what some folks think.”

That he’d honed in on her very thought caught her off-balance momentarily, but she quickly said, “I’m sure you aren’t, Randy. Really, all I want is for you and I to be, in your words — friends.”

He thought about that; it seemed to hurt a little.

Then he said, “Why for?”

She shrugged easily. “Maybe because the rest of your bunch don’t... appeal to me.”

He thought some more. “Mr. Hargrave is a handsome feller.”

Rita made a face. “But he’s old, Randy. Thirty-five if he’s a day. And he’s taken, isn’t he? By that Mexican woman?”

“Miss Juanita is only half-Mex, though she looks full-blood, all right. Last name ain’t Mexie at all — it’s MacGregor. But she’s all mean, so I dasn’t go after him, t’were I you. Mr. Hargrave, I mean.”

She shook her head. “Not my type.”

“Your what?”

“My type. Not the sort of man who appeals to me.”

He squinted at her. “What would? ’Peal to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A yellow-haired fella, maybe, not too old. And I like brown eyes on a man.”

“I got brown eyes and yaller hair.”

“So you do.”

Willa folded her arms and straightened, her chin crinkled, her eyes narrow, almost shut, as she looked past this distasteful display.

“We’uns ain’t your friends,” the boy reminded Rita.

“No, but you and I could be.”

“We could?”

“Your friends may decide to get rid of us.”

“You mean kill you two females.”

“Yes.”

“They ain’t yet.”

“That’s true. But killing women is frowned upon in this part of the world, Randy, and they might have brought us here to do that evil thing in a more out-of-the-way place.”

He thought about it. This thinking didn’t seem to hurt so much.

“Well,” Randy said, “I cain’t go against the others.”

“Are you sure? I told you I was of means.”

“I don’t know what ‘means’ means.”

She leaned forward some. “It means I have money, Randy. Not as much as Mr. Parker here, but enough to make you happy. And I might find other ways to make you happy, too, Randy... if you help me.”

He leaned forward and whispered, “Help you how?”

“Young Randabaugh!”

The two words could have rung through a theater all the way to the back row of the second balcony. The cry was accompanied by quick heavy footsteps coming across the check-in area of the lobby. The outlaw leader in black and ruffled white was striding toward them, handsome face set in a scowl.

Fists on his hips in a manner again recalling a buccaneer, Hargrave looked contemptuously down at the openmouthed boy and said, “Why don’t you just sit on the woman’s lap?”

“Uh... that’s a liberty she might not cotton to, sir.”

“No, she might not at that. Nor is it one I would ‘cotton’ to.”

Hargrave backhanded the boy, then got behind him and pulled the chair back rudely three or four feet, jostling him. Randy swallowed and blinked back tears, the corner of his mouth trickling red.

Standing behind him, Hargrave placed a fatherly hand on the boy’s shoulder, leaned in to speak softly into an ear. “You are not to trifle with the guests.” Then he looked at Rita, realizing that she had been seated directly before the young man. “Nor are you to trifle with this innocent, ladies.”

Willa said acidly, “I haven’t spoken to him.”

“I believe you,” Hargrave said, then gave Rita a wicked smile that said he saw right through her. To the boy, he said, “ ‘Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.’ ”

Randy was frowning, shaking his head, not happy with his boss. “It’s red injuns what kills with arrows.”

Hargrave slapped him on the top of the head. “Go see if you can be helpful in the sickroom, lad. Do it now. I’ll take over here, for the nonce.”

“Yessir,” he said, got up, and paddled off with his head down, crossing to the door to the Wiley quarters and disappearing within.

Hargrave turned the chair around and sat backward in it, for some kind of dramatic effect apparently. Rita considered him an ass... if a very dangerous one. And a person kicked in the head by an ass could be just as dead as one trampled by a thoroughbred steed.

Which wasn’t Shakespeare, but pure Rita Filley.

“You lovely ladies,” Hargrave said, with a sweeping hand gesture that tried to be casual, though he wasn’t quite actor enough to sell it, “would be well-advised to keep to yourselves. Cause us no trouble and when Mr. Parker’s friends pay the freight, we’ll free you as well.”

Innkeeper Wiley emerged from the door to his quarters and called over to Hargrave. “A word, sir?”

Hargrave rose, gave the two women a cautionary raised forefinger, then went to see what Wiley wanted.

Willa whispered harshly, “What in the world were you doing with that boy? He’s dangerous!”

“They’re all dangerous,” Rita whispered back. “But we can use some friends among the natives. You get friendly with Hamlet.”

Hargrave and Wiley ended their conversation, the innkeeper quickly returning to his quarters and the outlaw leader loping into the lounge area. But this time the actor did not sit in that chair, forward or backward or otherwise. Instead he perched on the arm of the two-seater sofa, next to Willa. Parker was taking this in, being careful to maintain his beaten-down manner.

The actor’s arm slipped behind Willa, not touching her shoulders, just resting along the upper edge of the sofa’s back.

“I must apologize for that young ruffian,” he said, his words more for Willa than Rita. Really, entirely for Willa...

“He doesn’t know better,” Willa said, “although some people should.”

His mouth twitched with amusement. “Where were you educated, my dear?”

Willa frowned at the familiarity. “I was taught at home by my mother. She was educated back east, very well, and she passed it on to me.”

“I would have thought you the product of a private school for girls,” he said. “You display a cultured, even refined manner that, frankly, makes me miss the company I once kept.”

Rita doubted that. Actors were rootless vagabonds who just knew how to be flowery and well, particularly when someone else had written the words. But they really weren’t any better than... well, any better than a saloon-keeper.

Willa asked her host, “Why do you keep such low company now?”

His shrug was an elaborate thing. “I’m afraid that where I was once sought by the finest theaters in the United States and their territories, I am now wanted only by the representatives of so-called law and order.”

“Does that have anything to do,” Willa asked with quiet condescension, “with going around holding up stagecoaches?”

He grinned wickedly. “It does, and trains and banks. But it began with an impulse I could not control. Someone insulted me and I took his life. Then, in one fell swoop, as the Bard says, ‘My life was forever changed.’ ”

“Why not demonstrate that some good still lives within you?” Willa said quietly; then she touched his hand, which rested near his lap as he sat on the sofa’s arm. “Let my friend and me go. What use would two women be to desperate men like yourselves, anyway?”

Rita thought, If she doesn’t know...

“Your gentleness beggars description,” Hargrave said, and there was something tender in his expression. Perhaps Willa Cullen knew what she was doing after all!

“Eres un cerdo asqueroso!” a female voice called from across the lobby, where it echoed in the high ceiling.

Rita was Mexican enough to know what that meant — Hargrave was being called a swine. She smiled to herself.

The voluptuous dark-haired, dark-hued woman in the overflowing peasant dress was storming toward them, fists clenched, eyes blazing.

She was waving, in her right hand, a revolver. A .38, if Rita wasn’t mistaken.

Hargrave slipped off the sofa arm and Juanita was right there on him, shoving him to one side with her free hand; she leaned in and grabbed Willa by an arm, still waving that revolver (a Lightning Colt with a pearl handle, Rita further noted), and shook her like she would a disobedient child. Then the woman’s left hand shoved Willa against the sofa’s cushioned back, and leaned way in, the attacker’s face almost nose to nose with the captive’s, the snout of the .38 revolver against Willa’s right breast. Rita was impressed with Willa’s stony-faced reaction.

White teeth flashed. “Maldita pícara! Aléjate de mi hombre!”

Then Hargrave grabbed the small, volatile woman by the arm and dragged her back kicking and screaming to the doorway near the stairs; she was still waving the revolver, like a payday cowboy in town looking for a window to shoot out. They stood there shouting at each other, the woman using Spanish, the man using profane English that had nothing to do with William Shakespeare.

Willa, breathing hard, turned to Rita, who was smiling, arms folded.

“Do you see now?” Rita said, sotto voce. “Make friends and sew discontent. And perhaps reap the rewards.”

Parker said, quietly, “Good job, ladies.”

They sat quietly for several hours, with no guard at all for a while, though Rita and her two companions in captivity knew there was nowhere for them to go.

They had discussed it briefly.

“No one’s watching us,” Willa said.

Rita said, “That Indian is — out on the porch, standing guard?”

Frowning in thought, Willa said, “Maybe we could get out the back way.”

“Through the kitchen? Overtake Mrs. Wiley? Who we haven’t even seen yet, so can hardly judge her mettle. Still — perhaps that’s possible. And then what?”

Willa shrugged. “Just run into the hills and take cover until they give up and get out.”

“Or until they find us.”

Parker, who hadn’t spoken a word in some time, said, “We don’t know our way around this place. Once we’re shown to our rooms, we can start taking stock. Keep track of the layout of this structure. If we make an escape, it will almost certainly have to be after dark.”

“Agreed,” Rita said.

The businessman sighed. “We must stay alert and keep an eye out for escape possibilities. But nothing hasty — these are desperate, violent men.”

Willa was just starting to say something when Randy reappeared. He came slump-shouldered out of the door near the stairway, crossed the check-in area, and returned to his chair, which he positioned several additional feet away from his charges.

“You ain’t to talk,” he said sullenly, “not to one or t’other, nor to me. And I ain’t to talk to you, neither. Mr. Hargrave ain’t happy with me and I aim to get back in his good graces.”

Then the boy sat in the chair with the pistol in his dangling right hand aimed at the floor, as were his eyes.

Rita felt she could overpower the lout, and get that gun... but then what? Shoot it out with Hargrave and the boy’s brother, Reese? And that crazy half-Mexican woman with her Lightning Colt .38? Who was to say the Wileys weren’t armed, as well?

And then there was Broken Knife out front....

She kept playing it out in her mind, different ways; but she ran the Victory, after all, and knew damn well the house always won. Parker was right — after dark was best. Maybe they could even get to the stagecoach horses for a getaway. If the Indian maintained his position on the porch, the horses hitched out front were out of the running.

Facing the three seated hostages, beyond Randy and across the lobby’s lounge, were the windowed doors onto the dining room, where a light-skinned black girl in her early twenties was efficiently setting tables with plates and silverware. The girl, whose mixed heritage was evident, was a slender lovely thing in a black dress and white apron and turban, her hair cropped short; she wore simple hoop earrings.

An evening meal was served early, around four p.m., as the outlaw gang apparently had not eaten since breakfast. Innkeeper Wiley came to collect them, his black vest and white shirt splotched here and there with still-damp blood from helping tend to the gunshot patient.

Then Randy led the hostages into the dining room and allowed the three “guests” to sit at a table for four by themselves. Several tables away, Hargrave and Juanita sat, young Randabaugh soon joining them.

At another table, separated by vacant ones, were innkeeper Wiley and a woman Rita took to be Wilmer’s wife, Vera, a sour, skinny, gray-haired woman in a brown calico housedress. The apparent Mrs. Wiley may have been the one who “ran a tight ship,” but not its galley, as she was not in an apron or doing the serving, which was left to the colored girl.

The scattering of remaining tables, covered with linen now, had also been set with plates and silverware, as if other guests might yet arrive. Perhaps some would, but Rita had a strong hunch the hotel had been bought out by the Hargrave gang. The odd, faint formality of those place settings made the dining room and its empty, set-for-dinner tables perfect for a ghost town, the chamber itself on the dingy side.

That the hotel was a going concern did not preclude it from suffering the ignominy of dominating a dead town and serving an outlaw clientele. The tablecloths, the drapes too, were frayed, the carpet worn, the chairs creaky, and when serving bowls were delivered by Mahalia (as the housekeeper/assistant cook’s name proved to be), they were chipped, as were the plates.

This truly was dinner in a haunted house, in the company of ghosts and ghouls, the latter unfortunately still among the living.

On the other hand, the food itself was edible, if no rival of the Trinidad House Hotel’s fare. Apparently the Inn meant to treat its guests right, however shabby their pedigree. The serving bowls delivered by the handsome serving girl brimmed with pork and beans, beef stew, and biscuits with butter.

Everyone was about to start passing those bowls around when Reese Randabaugh came charging in, his blue army shirt damp in front from having blood spatter cleaned off. He threaded through the tables till he hovered at the side of Hargrave, who was helping himself to stew from a serving dish.

“Blaine,” the older Randabaugh said, “Ben’s took a awful bad turn for the worse.”

Reese certainly resembled his brother, but his eyes were blue, not brown, if just as close-set; a natural family handsomeness had been roughened by more years than Randy’s, apparently fairly hard ones.

“We stopped the bleeding,” Hargrave said, spooning stew. “He’s conscious. Seems far from breathing his last.”

Reese was shaking his head. “Well, he’s gone right loco, now — outa his damn skull. Ramblin’, talkin’ crazy-like. Called me his mama. Feller’s got the fever bad, Blaine. We can’t just stand around and let him expire.”

“ ‘Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,’ ” Hargrave said, citing Shakespeare while ladling out pork and beans.

Rita, hearing this, figured Hargrave was fine having one less accomplice with whom to share the ransom loot.

Reese was saying, “Ben’s been with us from the start, Blaine. With us all the way. He’s a good man. We should do somethin’.”

Buttering a biscuit, Hargrave said, “And so we shall. Go forth. Seek a ministering angel.”

“You want a preacher?”

“No. I want a doctor. Ride to Las Vegas and bring one back.”

“Trinidad’s closer.”

“Yes, but we don’t want to attract further attention there. And it’s a small town, with a storied sheriff. Let us seek a physician in a larger locale. Less notice will be taken.”

“Ben might die ’fore I get back.”

Hargrave dragged half a biscuit through the stew. “If friend Bemis cannot survive till your return, I doubt he would see the morning, in any case.”

Reese sighed. “You’re probably right, Blaine.”

Then the elder Randabaugh plopped down in the empty chair by his boss and grinned as he reached for the serving bowl of stew.

A frowning Hargrave caught him by the wrist. “What are you doing, Mr. Randabaugh?”

“Well... shouldn’t I fill my stomach, ’fore I start a long trip by horseback?”

“Avail yourself of some jerky and make haste. You indicate time is of the essence. I take you at your word. Leave now!”

Reese stared at the bowl of stew in his hand as if it were a heaping helping of injustice. Randy, at the same table, looked like he wanted to stick up for his brother, but didn’t. As for the older Randabaugh, he only nodded, put down the bowl, and hustled dutifully out.

Conversation at Hargrave’s table accompanied the meal, but Rita and her companions were far enough away not to be privy to the hushed exchanges. She couldn’t help but wonder if their own fate was being determined over stew, beans, and biscuits.

When the meal was over, the serving girl returned with a pie in a pan and a spatula, and offered everyone a slice (it was apple), starting with Hargrave, who said yes and gave the young woman his practiced dazzling smile. Randy was looking on with admiring eyes, as well, and Rita didn’t think that was about the pie.

Juanita reared like a horse spotting a rattler. “Must we be served by this puta negra? Do we not pay precios altos para este terrible lugar?”

Rita heard that, all right. The half-Mexican woman was complaining about being served by a black harlot in this high-priced hotel. Whether Juanita was wanting to feel superior to someone, or was merely jealous of the look Hargrave had granted the girl, Rita couldn’t tell.

But she didn’t mind. Discontent was discontent, whether Rita and Willa were spreading it or not.

Hargrave and Juanita were on their feet now, the actor cursing at his querida and she cursing back. Finally she slapped him, and it rang in the room, which went dead silent.

“Perhaps I deserved that,” Hargrave said, and made a bowing gesture.

Juanita’s chin came up and her upper lip curled into a contemptuous smile for her lover. “You deserved that and more.”

The outlaw actor grabbed her by the wrist and hauled her from the room. Their footsteps going up the stairs to the second floor rang out almost as loud as that slap.

Willa swallowed, said quietly, “I guess he’s skipping dessert.”

Rita said, “Is he?”