Blood Duel (3 page)

The journalist might have gone on endlessly had it not been for the metallic ratchet of a hammer being thumbed back. Farnsworth glanced up into the muzzle of the Colt Lightning. “What is this?”

“A pistol. A six-gun. A hog leg. A man-stopper. A smoke wagon,” Jeeter quickly recited. “I am surprised a good journalist does not know what they are called.”

“You are not amusing,” Farnsworth said.

“Oh,
I’m
amused,” the killer said, and then mimicked the other’s manner and previous statement, saying, “Your own feelings do not enter into it.”

Farnsworth had no shortage of bluster. “You do not scare me, sir. I know you will not shoot. I know it as truly as I have ever known anything.”

Jeeter Frost cocked his head and studied the newspaperman much as he might a new kind of toad. “How some folks cram so much stupid between their ears is a wonderment.” And then, without so much as a bat
of his eye or a twitch of his mouth, Jeeter Frost squeezed the trigger.

The blast and the belch of smoke were simultaneous. So, too, was the derby’s remarkable feat. It took wing, performing an aerial somersault that ended with the bowler on the floor at its owner’s feet, a hole in the crown.

Jeeter snickered and twirled the Lightning and neatly slid it back into its holster. “Now take your pot and skedaddle, you damned nuisance.”

Win Curry and Chester Luce tried to smother grins but did not succeed. Even young Lafferty was on the verge of guffaws but trying mightily not to give in.

To their considerable amazement, Edison Farnsworth calmly picked up his derby, calmly replaced it on his head, and calmly sank into the chair across from Jeeter Frost. “If you are done with your theatrics, may we begin?”

About to take a swig, Jeeter lowered the bottle to the table with a loud
thunk
. “You beat all, scribbler.”

“I only do my job as best I am able,” Farnsworth said. From under his jacket he produced a pencil and a few folded pieces of paper. He unfolded a sheet and spread it on the table, then wrote the date at the top. “I am ready when you are.”

Jeeter Frost looked from the journalist to the sheet of paper and back again. “You are like a tick I can’t pry out.”

“Is it true you were born in Missouri? And that you killed your first man at fourteen when he insulted your sister?”

“Where in God’s name did you hear such foolishness?”

“In a penny dreadful,” Farnsworth said.

“A what?” Jeeter asked.

“A penny dreadful,” Farnsworth repeated. “They have been all the rage for close to ten years now. Most are published back East. They recount the life stories of famous frontiersmen like Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone, outlaws such as Jesse James, and desperadoes of lesser notoriety, such as yourself.”

“Are you saying it is some kind of book? Someone went and wrote a book about
me
?” In his astonishment Jeeter needed another healthy swig.

“Not a book, exactly,” Farnsworth said. “They are not quite as long and the binding is not as permanent.” Stopping, he turned and snapped his fingers at young Lafferty. “Fetch my saddlebags. Instead of telling him I will show him.”

His assistant wheeled and hurried out.

“You must be mistaken,” Jeeter said. “I never talked to anyone about my life. How can there be a story about me?”

“Quite often those who compose them make up the tale as they go,” Farnsworth elaborated. “Writers never let facts stand in the way of a good yarn. Which is all the more reason for me to do an account of your life based on the truth and not make-believe.”

“About me, by God?” Jeeter snorted and swallowed more red-eye.

“I can’t believe you have never read one,” Farnsworth said. “They are hugely popular. You can find them practically everywhere.”

Jeeter Frost looked down at the table and said something that came out barely more than a mumble.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“I can’t read.”

Farnsworth removed his derby and set it in front of him. The sight of the hole caused his jaw muscles to twitch.

“Did you hear me?” Jeeter asked.

“Yes. You can’t read. A not uncommon condition,” Farnsworth said with the air of a man addressing an imbecile. “Yet another contributing factor to the widespread ignorance of the lower classes. Into this darkness I cast my shining light of truth.”

“Is it me or do you talk peculiar?” Jeeter reached for the bottle again. “Wait. What was that about lower classes?”

“Some say that society is divided into those who have and those who have not but wished they had. I believe a more fundamental division is between those who know and those who do not know and have no idea they do not know.”

“What in hell did you just say?”

“The important point is that this ignorance must be alleviated,” Farnsworth continued. “Newspapers perform an invaluable function in that regard, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mister, you lost me back at penny dreadfuls.”

“I will remedy that momentarily. Ah, here he comes now.” Farnsworth accepted the saddlebags from Lafferty and placed them on the table. He began opening one. “I brought yours with me to use as reference material.”

Lafferty cleared his throat. “Mr. Farnsworth, sir?”

“Not now, boy. Can’t you see I am working? What
have I told you about disturbing me when I am interviewing someone? Whatever you have to say can wait.”

“Very well,” Lafferty dutifully responded.

Farnsworth rummaged in the saddlebag and brought out half a dozen of the publications in question. He sorted through them and smiled. “Here it is. This is you on the cover, with your arm around a fair damsel in distress, brandishing a bowie knife at a horde of red savages.”

“Dear God,” Jeeter said.

“I assure you the story is quite flattering. It paints you as a desperado with a heart of gold.”

“From the looks of this, I am seven feet tall. And why is my hair down past my shoulders? I’ve never worn it that long in my life.”

“The woman is Sagebrush Susan, your sweetheart. She figures prominently in your adventures.”

“But I never met a gal by that name.” Jeeter held the penny dreadful out to Farnsworth and tapped the cover. “What does it say there? All these big black letters?”

“Jeeter Frost, the Missouri Man-Killer,” Edison Farnsworth read. “His thrilling escapades. His narrow escapes.”

Jeeter’s mouth fell open.

“I can tell you are impressed. Here. Let me read a bit more.” Farnsworth opened to the first page. “‘The waterways of Missouri were frozen solid the morning Jeeter Frost came into this world. None could have guessed from his squalling debut that he would grow to lead a life of mayhem and debauch, yet in the end
find true love and the happiness that so eluded him.’” Farnsworth looked up. “What?”

Jeeter Frost’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.

“Here. Let me read more.” Farnsworth flipped pages until he found the one he was looking for. “This next part is one of my favorites. The author, Cooper Fenimore, has a flair. Although I warrant he used a pen name and not his real name.” Farnsworth raised his voice and read, “Into the saloon swaggered the Walker brothers, all nine of them, as vile and despicable a brood of vipers as ever trod this earth. The oldest, Wolf Walker, leered at Sagebrush Susan, who stood at the piano practicing for her next rendition of ‘How Sweet Is Our Valley.’”

“Hold on there,” Jeeter Frost broke in. “I never heard of any Walker brothers. The Blight brothers, yes, but no Walkers.”

“Who are the Blight brothers?” Farnsworth asked, reaching for his pencil and paper.

“There used to be four but I killed one about a month ago over to Topeka, so now there are three. The others have been after me ever since. They’re the reason I lit out of Dodge like I did.”

“You didn’t leave to avoid talking to me?”

“Hell no. You showed up as I was fixing to light a shuck.”

Young Lafferty coughed to get their attention. “These Blight brothers ran into you in Dodge, Mr. Frost?”

“That’s right, boy. Wearing an armory and out for my blood.”

“Is it possible they are still after you?”

“They won’t likely give up this side of my grave,” Jeeter Frost said. “The Blights are big on the feud. Kill one and the rest won’t rest until they have had their revenge.”

“Does one ride a pinto, would you know?”

“The oldest. Temple, his name is.”

Farnsworth turned toward Lafferty in irritation. “Why are you asking all these questions, Frank?”

“I tried to tell you when I came in with your saddlebags. Three riders are headed this way, and kicking up a lot of dust. They should be here any second.” Lafferty paused. “And one of them is riding a pinto.”

As if on cue, Coffin Varnish thundered to the drum of heavy hooves.

The first fifteen years of Winifred Curry’s life were spent on the family farm in Pennsylvania barely eking out an existence. Milking cows and plowing fields never appealed to him, so he struck off to see the world. He dug ditches, he drove freight wagons, and tended bar in St. Louis, Santa Fe, and Houston. He found he liked tending bar, chiefly because he liked drinking even more; the occupation fit him like a liquid glove. When, in a whimsical course of events, he won a few thousand in a poker game, he hoarded the money and eventually used it to start his own saloon in Coffin Varnish. At the time it seemed a fine idea. Coffin Varnish was growing and bound to grow more, or so everyone thought.

But now Coffin Varnish was slowly dying, and with it Winifred’s dream of prosperity. He was getting on in years and was too old to start over. When he was forced to close, he would be adrift with no money and no prospects. He figured that everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. He should have known. Life had a way of kicking people in the teeth just when they found their smile.

Winifred stood flat-footed with astonishment as a
horse nickered outside and someone gruffly declared, “That there is his gruella. We’ve caught up to him.”

Winifred glanced at Chester Luce. “What should we do?”

“Why ask me?”

“You are the mayor.”

There were days, many days, when Chester Luce wished he wasn’t, when he wished he had never set foot in Coffin Varnish and never spent every cent he had to build and furnish the general store. At the time, he had thought it was the right thing to do. His wife said it was, anyway.

The mercantile profession was in Chester’s blood. His father had run a general store, and his father’s father before him. The Luces prided themselves on their head for business.

By rights Chester should have taken over the family store in Buffalo, New York. He was the oldest son. His father had come right out and told him it would be his one day. But that was not enough for Chester. He did not want his life handed to him. He wanted to strike off on his own, to make something of himself through his own sweat and brain. That, and his wife had a yearning to see the West.

So one day Chester rode into the collection of huts and tents that was to become Coffin Varnish, and when he assessed the situation, when he carefully weighed all the factors a good businessman had to consider, and his wife gave her opinion, he concluded he had found that ideal prospect. It never occurred to him that Coffin Varnish might wither and die. He never conceived he could end up a penniless failure.

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.”