Blood Duel (20 page)

His mind made up, Seamus gigged his horse into a different street than the one he left Dodge by. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Sheriff Hinkle’s face
when he told him. The schoolmarm and the worst short-trigger man in three states. Hinkle would find it as hilarious as he did.

Horace Dundleman had been a justice of the peace since Dodge City was founded, and before that, in St. Louis a good many years. He liked the job. He met a lot of interesting people, and Horace liked people. He also liked that it was not physically demanding because at his age, seventy-one, he was not as spry as he used to be. His joints ached and creaked, and his vision was so bad he needed spectacles.

Those spectacles delayed Horace when someone began pounding on his door. He groped for them on the nightstand and accidentally knocked them onto the floor. The knocks grew louder and more insistent as Horace groped about near the bed until he found them. Finally perching the spectacles on his nose, he went to the closet, opened it, and took his heavy robe from a peg.

“Hold your horses! I’m coming!” Horace hollered as he shuffled down the hall past the parlor that served as his office. He threw the bolt that would admit his visitors. “It is awful late.”

Ernestine Prescott glanced nervously behind her before slipping inside. She had her arm wrapped around Jeeter Frost’s and had no intention of letting go. “I am sorry but it could not be helped.”

Behind the thick lenses of his spectacles, Horace’s owl eyes blinked. “Miss Prescott? What are you doing out and about at this hour?” He did not come out and say that schoolmarms should be discreet in their behavior, but he was thinking it.

“You perform weddings, do you not, Mr. Dundleman?”

Horace could not have been more stunned if she pulled out a gun and shot him. He blinked anew, then focused on her companion. The man reminded him of a ferret, and was obviously on edge from the way he fidgeted and was sweating. “I perform civil ceremonies, yes,” Horace said guardedly, thinking to himself that surely the schoolmarm was not thinking of doing what her question suggested.

Ernestine smiled. “Then I would like very much for you to perform one for us, here and now.”

“At this hour?”

Jeeter Frost did not like how the old man looked at him. He did not like that a lawman had seen them on their way there. He could use a drink, could use a drink badly. To his annoyance, he was sweating like a stuck pig, and worried he was about to make the worst mistake of his life. He cared for Ernestine so much, he was afraid of shackling her with himself. But if it was what she wanted, then by God he would go through with it. “You heard the lady,” he growled. “What difference does the hour make?”

“None, really,” Horace admitted. “But this is sort of sudden, is it not?” He addressed the schoolmarm.

“Yes, it is,” Ernestine said. “So please. Can we get on with it?”

Horace adjusted his spectacles and then his robe. He was stalling. “There are formalities to observe, you know. A form to fill out. A fee to pay. Usually people fill out the form and come back in a few days.”

“We don’t have a few days,” Jeeter said. “Just get on with whatever you have to do.”

“No need to be cross with me, mister,” Horace said. He was old but he would not kowtow to anyone, particularly runts with an attitude.

“Don’t rile me, old man,” Jeeter warned.

Ernestine gave his hand a hard squeeze. “None of that kind of talk, if you please. This is a special occasion. I want to have fond memories of it.”

Horace sensed fear in her tone. Something was going on here, something out of the normal. He looked at her more closely and saw that she was nervous, too, which was not like her at all. The few times he had spoken to her, she had been a portrait of calm and serenity. “Is everything all right, Miss Prescott?”

“Of course, Mr. Dundleman,” Ernestine said. “But it is not every day a woman is wed.”

“No, it is not,” Horace agreed. “All the more reason for the woman to be positive she wants to say I do.”

“I am positive.”

But she did not sound positive to Horace, and as he led them into the parlor he racked his mind for a way to delay joining them as husband and wife. Only for a day or so. He fumbled with the lamp, got it lit, and turned it up so the parlor flooded with bright light. Only then did he see the Colt Lightning on the groom’s hip. Only then did he get a good look at the groom’s features.

“Something wrong?” Jeeter Frost demanded. The old geezer was staring at him as if he had risen from a grave.

“No, no, nothing at all,” Horace said. “It is just unusual, is all, for a man to drag a woman in here in the middle of the night to get hitched.”

“It’s hardly the middle of the night,” Jeeter said. He was losing his patience with the old man. “And as for the dragging, I do as I damn well please, or as she damn well pleases.”

Ernestine pouted. “I won’t ask you again. Be polite, for my sake if for no other reason.”

“Just so the old buzzard gets it over with,” Jeeter said.

Horace stepped to his desk and opened the top drawer. The forms were in a neat pile on the right. “You must fill one of these out. It asks your name, your age, a few other things.”

“You are a nosy old coot,” Jeeter said. The form intimidated him. He had learned the alphabet, but he wrote letters as slow as molasses.

“Not me, mister,” Horace said. “It is for the government, for their records, so everything is nice and official.”

“Official be hanged,” Jeeter groused.

Ernestine sighed. “You will not desist, will you? You push and push when there is no cause. I am here with you, aren’t I? You need not be so forceful.”

Horace wondered what she meant by that. He sat in his chair and fiddled with his robe. “I don’t suppose you would let me go get dressed?”

“No,” Jeeter said.

“I will fill in the form,” Ernestine offered. She took pride in her precise handwriting. When she was done she slid the form toward Dundleman. “We do not have a ring. Is that all right?”

“It is not essential,” Horace said, running his gaze down the paper. He read the groom’s name. He read it twice, and a lightning bolt seared him from head to
toe. Struggling to keep his voice level, he said, “So you are to become Mrs. Jeeter Frost?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Jeeter demanded.

“No, sir,” Horace lied. “There is no problem at all.”

Seamus Glickman took his time returning to the sheriff’s office. He stopped at the Long Branch for a drink.

Front Street was bedlam, as always at that hour. People, horses, wagons, buckboards, carriages, dogs and pigs and poultry, mingled and mixed in a perpetual whirl. Animals were not supposed to run loose, but hardly anyone kept theirs leashed or penned. The town council had imposed fines, but people still couldn’t be bothered. They saw it as their God-given right to let their pigs do their business in the middle of the street.

Seamus bellied up to the bar and smacked the counter to get the bartender’s attention. He sipped the whiskey brought to him and let the sights and sounds of the saloon wash over him. The games of chance, poker and faro and roulette, the babble of voices and laughter, the thick cigar smoke, and the perfume of the doves—this was his element.

When George Hinkle’s term of office was up, Seamus planned to turn in his badge. He would devote himself to acquiring a saloon of his own. That, and his partial interest in the Comique, would ensure a
comfortable income, enough to spoil himself with the creature comforts he was so fond of.

Seamus thought it a shame he had not been born into money. Wealth would become him. The best clothes, the best liquor, the best food, the best women, they were the nectar that sweetened the tedium of life. He became so absorbed in his musing that he was on his third glass before he realized it. A glance at the clock told him he should be on his way. Hinkle had said to report to him as soon as he got back.

Seamus was in good spirits as he reined to the rail in front of the sheriff’s office. The door was open, which puzzled him, and deputies and other men were coming and going in a hurry, which added to his puzzlement. Climbing down, he encountered Deputy French, who was coming out.

“Glickman! Where have you been? The sheriff has had us looking all over for you.”

“He has?”

“You better get in there. I have to go to the stable for the packhorse we will need to bring the body back. Although why we don’t bury him there is beyond me.”

“Body?” Seamus said, but Deputy French had already hurried on down the street. Squaring his shoulders, Seamus entered, and nearly collided with an elderly man he recognized as the justice of the peace, who was just leaving.

“Watch where you are going, sonny.”

Seamus opened his mouth to tell the old man where he could go. But George Hinkle stepped between them.

“Finally! Where the hell have you bent? I sent you to do a simple job and all hell has busted loose.”

“I did as you wanted,” Seamus said. “I went to the schoolhouse but the schoolmarm wasn’t there.” He started to smile, to tell the sheriff about the schoolmarm and the shootist.

“She wasn’t there because she was at the justice of the peace, being forced to wed against her will.”

“What?”

“That was Horace Dundleman. He says Jeeter Frost dragged Miss Prescott to his place and made him marry them.”

“What?”

“Dundleman says there was nothing he could do to stop it. Frost was wearing that fancy Colt of his and was in a foul temper. Dundleman says he was lucky Frost didn’t shoot him.”

“What?”

George Hinkle studied Seamus. “Why do you keep saying that? Where have you been, anyhow? I expected you back long ago.”

It took some doing but Seamus collected his wits. “I was patrolling Front Street.”

“You should have come straight back, like I told you to,” Hinkle said. “All hell has broken loose. In addition to Frost stealing our schoolmarm, there has been another killing. Out-and-out murder this time, no self-defense.”

“Coffin Varnish?” Seamus naturally assumed.

“Crooked Creek,” Sheriff Hinkle said. “Sam Hoyt has been shot. No word on who is to blame, but whoever it is did a thorough job. Sam has twenty to thirty bullet holes in him.”

“What?”

“There you go again,” Sheriff Hinkle said. He
moved to the gun cabinet, opened it, and took out a Winchester. “We have a murder and a kidnapping on our hands. I will investigate the murder. You will lead a posse and go after Jeeter Frost and Miss Prescott.”

Seamus needed to sit down. He could use another drink, too. “A posse?”

The sheriff glanced sharply around. “You begin to worry me. Yes, a posse. What else did you expect? That we would let a killer waltz in and steal the flower of our womanhood without lifting a finger to stop him?”

“You are sure about the marrying?”

Hinkle helped himself to a box of cartridges. “You saw Dundleman with your own eyes.”

“No, I meant are you sure she was forced?” Seamus could not shake the image of the woman and the man by the side of the road, and how it was the woman who pulled the man close and kissed him.

“Are you suggesting that our schoolmarm, a model of decorum for the whole community, would want to wed a man like Jeeter Frost?”

“We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Seamus said.

“Where is the jump? Our schoolmarm disappears. She shows up at the justice of the peace with a notorious gun shark who insists the justice of the peace marry them then and there.” Hinkle began feeding cartridges into the Winchester. “The whole town will be out to stretch Jeeter Frost’s neck, and I can’t say as I blame them.”

“I better organize that posse,” Seamus said despondently. Once again circumstances conspired to force him to leave Dodge.

“Being tended to as we speak,” Sheriff Hinkle said. “I told Deputy Powell to round up twenty sober men who can ride.”

“Do we have any idea which direction they went?” Seamus had no desire to spend hours riding in circles.

“No, we do not.”

“Has anyone checked the schoolhouse? Or wherever the schoolmarm is staying?”

“No one is at the schoolhouse. I had Powell check,” Sheriff Hinkle said. He sat on the edge of his desk and pursed his lips. “That is a good idea about the other. I seem to recollect she is at the boardinghouse over on Third. Head on over there and talk to the landlady. Have her let you into the schoolmarm’s room and see if Miss Frost has taken any of her personal effects.”

So much for a quiet, relaxing night, Seamus reflected. “I will come straight back this time.”

“You better.”

Seamus was as certain as he could be that things were not as Hinkle thought they were. The schoolmarm had not been abducted. She was with Frost because she wanted to be. But Seamus was not about to try and convince George Hinkle or anyone else. They would laugh him to scorn. Worse, Hinkle might accuse him of making it up to try and get out of leading the posse.

Seamus bent brisk steps toward the boardinghouse. It was a frame dwelling, larger than most, with extra rooms at the back for boarders. He had been there once before. The windows were dark save for one at the rear. He drifted around to the alley that bordered
it and was almost to a gate in a picket fence when a large shape moved out of the shadows and stared at him with its ears pricked.

Seamus stifled an oath. It was the gruella! Beyond it were two other horses, one with a saddle, the other laden with packs.

Suddenly the lit window took on new significance. Drawing his Merwin and Hulbert revolver, Seamus opened the gate. He winced when a hinge creaked. Leaving the gate open, he crept to the back door. It was ajar. He quietly opened it and sidled along the wall to the first door on the right. It, too, was ajar. He heard rustling and a female voice.

Seamus smiled. He was about to impress the hell out of Sheriff Hinkle by rescuing the schoolmarm and taking Jeeter Frost into custody. He carefully placed his other hand on the door and slowly pushed. Luck was with him. The door did not creak.

Ernestine Prescott was taking folded clothes out of a dresser and placing them on the bed next to an open carpetbag. She was humming to herself.