Blood Duel

by Ralph Compton

  Or dead. Chester had never witnessed a saloon shoot-out, but he had heard enough about them to know that bystanders as often as not fell victim to stray lead, and in his estimation dying by accident had nothing to commend it over dying by design. Dead was dead.

  “We should get out of here,” Chester said to Win.

  Together they turned toward the batwings and together they froze.

  Filling the doorway was a bear of a man with a bristly black beard and an unkempt mane of black hair that spilled from under a floppy hat. His homespun clothes were rumpled and in need of washing, his boots badly scuffed. He shoved on through, nearly tearing the batwings from their hinges, and glared about him. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Where is that mangy son of a bitch?”

  Win and Chester glanced toward the table in the far corner and were struck speechless.

  Edison Farnsworth still sat in a chair, the saddlebags in front of him. Near him stood Lafferty. But the chair across from Farnsworth, the chair in which Jeeter Frost had been sitting not twenty seconds ago, was empty.

  “Didn’t any of you hear me?” the man demanded. “Where is the owner of that gruella at the hitch rail?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Chester said in bewilderment.

  “Me either,” Win said.

  “My name is Temple Blight,” the man said, moving warily toward the bar, one big hand on a Remington revolver tucked under his wide black leather belt. “These here are my brothers, Zebulon and Barnabas. The bastard who owns that gruella killed another brother of ours and we aim to make him pay.”

  The other two Blights were slightly shorter but equally scruffy versions of Temple. One had a Winchester, the other a shotgun.

  Temple drew the Remington and cocked it. Ever so carefully, he leaned over the bar so he could see the other side. “Damnation. He’s not here.” Wheeling around, he stalked toward the newspapermen. “Who are you two and what are you doing here?”

  Edison Farnsworth sniffed in indignation. “I don’t see where it is any of your concern, but if you must know, my assistant and I work for the Dodge City Times.”

  “Did you see a man come in here? A runt in buckskins wearing a pearl-handled Colt?”

  “You say he killed your brother?” Farnsworth asked.

  Temple Blight scowled. “The youngest of us, Simeon. Shot him for no reason. Me and my other brothers were upstairs with doves or we’d have bucked him out in gore then and there.”

  Young Lafferty indulged in his habit of clearing his throat before he spoke. “This Frost shot your brother without cause?”

  “They were arguing over cards,” Temple said. “Hardly enough cause as far as I am concerned.” He turned his back to the table and leaned against it. “Where in hell can he have gotten to?” He pointed at the sibling with the Winchester. “Zeb, you go check the outhouse. Barnabas, sit out front and keep an eye on the gruella. Sooner or later Frost is bound to show.”

  “Sooner rather than later,” came a voice from under the table.

  Startled, Temple Blight straightened and whirled. He was not quite all the way around when a pistol barrel poked from under the table, pointed at his groin. The pistol cracked, and Temple shrieked and clutched at himself, dropping his Remington. The next shot caught him smack in the center of the forehead and blew out the rear of his cranium in a spray of hair and gore.

  By then Zebulon and Barnabas Blight were rushing to their brother’s aid. Zeb jerked his Winchester to his shoulder, but he did not quite have it level when the pistol under the table boomed a third time and Zeb’s left eyeball dissolved.

  Barnabas did not bother with aiming. He simply trained his shotgun at the table. But he had to thumb back the hammers before he could fire. It only took a second and a half, which was long enough for the pistol under the table to go off twice more. Slugs smacked into Barnabas and he staggered back, swearing. He had been shot through the heart. Gamely, with his final flicker of life, he squeezed both triggers.

  The shotgun was not pointed under the table. It was pointed at the chair in which Edison Farnsworth sat. Farnsworth was starting to rise when it went off, and the full force of both barrels, loaded with buckshot, caught him in the chest. His chest exploded like so much melon and the impact lifted him off his feet and flung him onto his back on top of the table.

  In the silence that ensued, none of the living moved. Lafferty lay on the floor where he had dived when the first shot rang out. Winifred and Chester were rooted in shock.

  A foot slid out from under the table, and another foot, and then the rest of Jeeter Frost. He stepped clear of Edison Farnsworth’s dangling legs and calmly commenced reloading.

  “You shot them!” Chester Luce blurted.

  “I sure as hell did,” Jeeter Frost agreed.

  “You killed them!”

  “Generally when I shoot it is to kill,” Jeeter said. “They were close enough. It was easy.”

  Winifred found his voice. “But you shot them from under the table! They didn’t stand a prayer.”

  “And how much of a chance do you reckon they’d have given me?” Jeeter rejoined. “What did you expect? That we’d go out in the street and stand back to back and take ten steps like in a duel?” He laughed.

  “No, no,” Win said, gaping at the bodies. He had seen men shot before but never like this, never so abruptly, so methodically, so—so—coldly, as if they were targets in a shooting gallery. Most of the shootings he witnessed were drunken affrays waged in the heat of anger and under the influence of liquor.

  “Four men dead!” Chester exclaimed. “Just like that!” He snapped his pudgy fingers.

  “They were lying about me not having cause,” Jeeter said. “That brother of theirs, the young one, was cheating at cards. I caught him and he pulled his iron on me.” He leaned toward the table and examined the hideously huge cavity in Edison Farnsworth’s chest. Rib bones gleamed, framing internal organs. “Too bad about this fella. I was just getting used to his airs.” He turned. “How are you doing down there, sonny? Were you hit?”

  Frank Lafferty had sat up and was groping himself. “Apparently not,” he said in amazement. “I am unscathed.” He slowly rose, his horrified gaze glued to the remains of his associate. “I never saw anyone move so fast as when you ducked under that table.”

  “It always pays to have an edge, boy,” Jeeter Frost said. “Take that brother of theirs who cheated. I let him start to walk off before I shot him.”

  “In the back?”

  “He had his pistol out.”

  “But in the back!”

  Jeeter finished reloading and slid the Colt Lightning into his holster. “I would take exception if you weren’t so green behind the ears. He cheated, boy. He had it coming. Whether I shot him in the front or the back doesn’t much matter, but the back is always safer.”

  “What kind of killer are you?” Lafferty asked.

  “The kind who likes to go on breathing.” Jeeter reclaimed his bottle and gulped, whiskey dribbling over his lower lip. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he made for the door, saying, “It has been interesting. But I reckon I’ll mosey on before more trouble shows up.”

  “Wait!” Lafferty cried.

  Jeeter stopped, his right hand straying to the Lightning. “What is it, boy? You sound like a girl when you screech that way.”

  Frank Lafferty stepped to the table and gingerly pulled the paper and pencil from under Farnsworth. The paper was spattered with scarlet drops. “I want to do the interview.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “The interview Mr. Farnsworth wanted with you. He’s gone, so it is up to me.”

  “Hell, boy. His body ain’t cold yet and already you want to fill his boots?” Jeeter grinned. “You are my kind of hombre.”

  “Frank,” Lafferty said. “You can call me Frank. And yes, I want to. I can write up the interview and then write about the shooting. Every paper in the state will carry it. Even some out of state will pick it up. I will go from
a nobody to a somebody overnight.” His face positively gleamed. “I can ask for more money. A lot more money.”

  “If it means that much to you, and because I have a generous nature,” Jeeter said, “I will give you five minutes and only five minutes for twenty dollars.”

  “Five minutes isn’t much.”

  “It is more than your friend got.”

  “And I don’t have twenty dollars. All I have is—” Lafferty shoved a hand in a pocket and happened to gaze down at the former leading light of Kansas journalism. A new gleam came into his eyes and he quickly bent and went through each of Edison Farnsworth’s pockets. “Ah!” he cried, and flourished a wallet. Opening it, he counted aloud, “Ten, twenty, thirty, why, there is over sixty dollars here.” Beaming, he strode toward Frost. “Here you go.” He held out twenty dollars.

  Jeeter accepted the bills. “Forty more and you can ask me any questions you want.”

  “But you said twenty and I gave you twenty.”

  “That was before I knew you had sixty.” A sly grin curled Jeeter’s mouth. “Besides, how much is being somebody worth to you?”

  Frank Lafferty laughed. “Point taken. Here. Have it all.” He shoved the wallet at Frost. “But I expect my money’s worth. Five full minutes, and you will answer every question truthfully.”

  “As best I can, boy, but my memory ain’t all it should be.”

  They went out. Chester and Winifred swapped looks and Chester asked, “What in God’s name just happened?”

  “You saw it all the same as me,” Win said. “You were right next to me the whole time.” He swore. “There are four dead men here. Why couldn’t they be dead in your store? Who is going to clean up all this blood and whatnot? I shouldn’t have to. I didn’t shoot anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t count on Jeeter Frost volunteering,” Chester Luce said.

  “I have half a mind to march outside and demand he do it.”

  “Go right ahead,” Chester said, “and there might be five bodies to bury instead of four.”

  “Hell in a basket.” Win stepped to the fallen form of Zebulon Blight and started to go through the dead man’s pockets. Suddenly he stiffened and held up a fat poke. He shook it and coins jingled. Loosening the drawstring, he whistled. “Land sakes. There must be thirty dollars.”

  Chester went to Barnabas Blight and squatted. He patted each pocket. “Look at this!” The poke he found had twenty-four dollars in it. “Where do you suppose they got all this money?”

  “Maybe they sold some stock.”

  “Rustled stock is more like it. Or else robbed a bank.”

  “No, we would have heard if they did that.”

  Win hurried to Temple Blight, Chester at his elbow. The poke was inside Temple’s shirt, above the right hip. Fatter than the others, it contained eighty-six dollars in coins and banknotes.

  “What should we do with all this?” Win wondered.

  Chester glanced at the batwings. “Fifty-fifty sounds fine to me.” He fondled Temple Blight’s poke, and smiled. “There is more to this killing business than I ever imagined. It is food for thought.”

  Chapter 4

  Not two hours later Mayor Chester Luce called a special meeting of the Coffin Varnish Town Council. It was the first time the council had met in over six months. He did not have to go to any special effort to get them together; everyone in Coffin Varnish converged on the saloon to find out what the shooting was about. Or nearly everyone. The Swede and his wife, who lived a mile north of town but were considered residents anyway, did not hear the gunshots.

  Chester sent one of the Mexicans, as he always called them, to fetch the Swede, as Chester always called him.

  The Mexicans had names. One was Placido, the other Arturo. They had shown up one day shortly after the saloon and the general store were built, and for reasons of their own decided to stay. They erected and ran the livery, and lived together in a room at the back. They kept to themselves and were seldom seen. When they were seen they were always together. On several occasions they were observed holding hands, which Chester thought a damned silly custom for grown men, but he always tried to be tolerant of those unfortunate enough not to be born white, and he did not say anything. Little was known about their past. Gossip had it they were from a small village somewhere in the mountains of northern Mexico and had to leave when they got into some kind of trouble.

  The source of the gossip was Sally Worth, a dove well past her prime. She lived above the saloon. Rented a room, although the rent was not in the form of money. She was an old friend of Win’s who had appeared out of the dust one day, worn and beat and just looking for a place to stay for a week or so while she pulled herself together. The week became a month and the month became a year and she never left.

  Coffin Varnish boasted two other women. One was Chester’s wife, Adolphina. The term most used to describe her was formidable. She was big, a lot bigger than Chester, with big bones and big shoulders and a disposition that Winifred Curry once compared to a grizzly in a bad mood. She was the only female on the town council. She had not been elected to the post. She just came to the meetings and no one dared object.

  The third female was the Italian’s wife, Gemma. The Italian was Minimi Giorgio, a native of Naples. They had two sons, seven-year-old Angelo and twelve-year-old Matteo. They lived in a cottage at the north end of the street. A real cottage, not a cabin or a shack, built by Minimi. Like nearly everyone else in Coffin Varnish, they tended to keep to themselves. No one knew much about them. They were secretive about their past and, it was noticed, wary of strangers. Every now and again a letter arrived from Italy, and for days afterward Minimi and Gemma would walk around with sad faces.

  That left the Swede. Dolph Anderson and his wife, Filippa, wrested a living from a one-hundred-and-sixty-acre farm. They had a big white frame house and a big red barn and a chicken coop and pigs and a team of horses for plowing and four cows, and without a doubt were Coffin Varnish’s most prosperous citizens. They were also its most industrious. The big Swede worked from dawn until dusk six days a week. On the seventh day they observed the Sabbath. A stream bordered their property, and thanks to the irrigation ditches the Swede had dug and maintained, he grew corn and wheat and barley and had a small orchard. He sold his surplus in Dodge City—much to Chester’s annoyance.

  The Andersons did not come into town all that often. Adolphina blamed it on uppity Swedish airs. Chester was of the opinion they were kind, gentle folk who simply could not take much time away from their daily toil, but he did not offer his opinion to Adolphina. She generally disliked opinions that were not her own.

  Twelve people. The total population. All that remained of the four score who once called Coffin Varnish home.

  The dust from the departures of Jeeter Frost and Frank Lafferty had not yet settled when Chester and Win came out of the saloon. Lafferty had galloped south toward Dodge. Frost had ridden west toward God knew where. The bodies, and the blood, had to be dealt with, and Chester and Win were arguing over whether Chester should help clean up the mess when the Giorgio family came from their cottage and Placido and Arturo hurried from their livery, all with worried expressions. Gunfire in Coffin Varnish was unheard of.

  “Everything is all right, folks,” Chester cheerily assured them. “There has been an incident but it is over.”

  Minimi Giorgio, at a nudge from his wife, came closer. “Per favore, signore. Non capisco. Che cos’e quello? Incidente?”

  “Damn it, Mini,” Chester testily responded. “I have just been through hell and you stand there chirping at me. How many times have I told you to speak American or don’t speak at all?”

  “I am sorry, signore,” Giorgio said politely. “I always forget. But what is this incident you make mention of?”

  Win answered him. “In this case four men have been shot dead.”

  “Four men killed in your saloon?” Giorgio blanched and translated for his wife, who also blanched and wrapped her arms around their t
wo boys and hugged them as if in fear of their being shot.

  “Tell your woman there is nothing for her to fret about,” Chester said. “The killer is gone, leaving us the mess to clean up.”

  “We will have a lot of explaining to do when the sheriff gets here,” Win commented.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Chester said. “He is bound to come once he hears about it.”

  “Him, or a deputy.”

  At the juncture the door to the general store opened and out lumbered the mayor’s distaff half. Adolphina plowed across the street as a ship might plow through a sea, her dress billowing like a sail, her moon face set in a scowl. “What is all the ruckus?” she demanded. “I was napping and could swear I heard gunshots.”

  “You did, heart of my heart,” Chester said. “There has been a shooting.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Here.”

  “In Coffin Varnish?”

  “In the saloon,” Winifred clarified.

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  Chester enlightened her. “Four men were shot to death. Three nobodies and a newspaperman from that city south of us.”

  “Dear God in heaven.” Adolphina barged past them to the batwings and nearly collided with Sally Worth, who was coming out. Adolphina’s scowl deepened. Sniffing, she said, “Well, are you just going to stand there blocking the doorway or let a lady pass?”

  “I am so sorry,” Sally Worth said. “Here. Let me hold these open for you.” She pushed the batwings wide. “Is that enough room or would you like me to knock out the wall?”

  Adolphina hissed and stalked on in.

  “You should be nicer to her,” Win said to the dove.

  “Why? She is never nice to me.” Sally Worth was in her fifties. The wear and tear of her profession was evident in her stringy brown hair streaked with gray and her many wrinkles. Her body was still shapely, though, if a bit thick through the middle, and she still sashayed with the best of them, swinging her hips fit to throw them out with every step she took. Scratching under her armpit, she yawned and commented, “That’s quite the mess you’ve got in there. Why didn’t you give a holler? The only excitement this lice trap has ever had and I missed it.”