Ralph Compton Blood Duel

Chapter 1

The man who rode into Coffin Varnish did not look like a killer. If anything, he had more in common with a mouse. He was small like a mouse, not much over five feet, with stooped shoulders that gave the illusion he was hunched forward in the saddle when he was sitting as straight as he could sit. He wore a brown hat with so many stains that a person could be forgiven for thinking he used it to wipe his mouth. His buckskins were a mousy brown, and his boots had holes in them, one at the toe, the other above the heel.

The man rode a gruella, which was fitting, since a gruella is a mouse-colored horse, a sort of gray-blue more commonly called mouse dun. The horse, like the man who rode it, was weary to its core, and like as not would not have minded being put out to pasture, if only the rider owned a pasture. But all the rider owned were the clothes on his back and the gruella and a few odds and ends in his saddlebags, and that was it.

The other thing the rider owned was a revolver. It was the one thing about him that was not ordinary. No common Colt, this was a Lightning, with a blue finish and pearl grips. The man had spent extra money to have it engraved. He had also filed off the front sight and removed the trigger guard. Since it was in a holster high on his right hip, no one noticed the modifications he had made to his hardware when he rode into Coffin Varnish. If they had, they would have known right away that he was not the mouse he appeared to be.

The single dusty street was pockmarked with hoofprints and rutted by wagon wheels. Horse droppings were conspicuous, and other droppings were almost as plentiful. A couple of chickens were pecking at the dirt near the water trough. A dog lay in the shade of the general store. It raised its head but did not bark. When the rider reined to the hitch rail in front of the saloon, the dog lowered its head and closed its eyes.

The rider stiffly dismounted. Putting a hand at the small of his back, he arched his spine, then looped the reins around the hitch rail. Not much of a town you got here.

The two men in rocking chairs under the overhang regarded him with no particular interest. They had not yet seen the Colt; its pearl grips were hidden by the man’s arm.

More of a town than you think, Chester Luce replied. He was a round butterball whose head was as hairless as the rider’s saddle horn and shaped about the same. His suit was the one article in the whole town that did not have a lick of dust on it because he constantly swatted it off.

The rider studied him. You must be somebody important hereabouts.

Chester smiled and swelled the chest he did not have, and nodded. That I am, stranger. You have the honor of addressing the mayor of this fair town.

Fair? the rider said. He had a squeaky voice that fit the rest of him. If this place was any more dead, it would have headstones.

From the man in the other rocking chair came a chuckle. He had white hair and wrinkles and an unlit pipe jammed between his lips. He also wore an apron with more stains than the rider’s hat. He did not wear a hat, himself. You do not miss much, do you?

I live longer that way, the rider said, and went under the overhang. He pointed at the apron. If you’re not the bar dog, you are overdressed.

Again the white-haired man chuckled. I do in fact own this establishment. My name is Win Curry. Short for Winifred. Win stared at the rider expectantly, as if waiting for him to say who he was, but the rider did no such thing. Instead, he nodded at the batwings.

This saloon of yours have a name, too? There is no sign.

No sign and no name. I couldn’t think of one I liked, so it is just a saloon, Win explained.

The rider arched a thin eyebrow. All the words in the world and you couldn’t come up with one or two?

Win defended the lack. It is not as easy as you think. Do you name everything you own?

The rider looked at the gruella. I reckon I don’t, at that. Anyhow, I’m not here to jaw. I’m here to drink in peace and quiet.

Go in and help yourself. I’ll be in directly.

Right friendly of you, the rider said.

Coffin Varnish is a right friendly place, Win told him. Not a grump in the twelve of us. His eyes drifted toward Chester. Well, leastways most are daisies.

Twelve, huh? the rider said. Must make for long lines at the outhouse. The batwings creaked as he pushed on through.

Chester Luce frowned. I don’t know as I like him. He poked fun at our town.

Hell, can you blame him? Win responded. As towns go it would make a great gob of spit.

Be nice.

We have to face facts, Winifred said. Another five years and Coffin Varnish will be fit for ghosts.

Five years is stretching, Chester Luce said gloomily. I will be lucky to last two. He gazed across the dropping-littered street at the general store. I haven’t had a paying customer in a month.

I’ve got one now, Win said, and went to stand. He stopped with his hands gripping the rocker’s arms and squinted into the heat haze to the south. Glory be.

What? It was no small source of annoyance to Chester that the older man’s eyes were twice as sharp as his.

There are more riders coming.

You’re drunk.

The hell I am. I haven’t had but one drink all morning and that was for breakfast. Win’s brown eyes narrowed. Two of them, by God. One isn’t much of a rider. He flops around something awful.

Three visitors in one day, Chester marveled. We haven’t had this many since I can remember. He pried his round bulk from his chair and ran his pudgy hands down his jacket. I better go to my store in case they want something. I would hate to lose a sale.

More than likely they won’t even stop, Win said. We’re not far enough from Dodge for them to have worked up much of a thirst.

Chester scowled. Don’t say that name. You know I hate it.

Don’t start, Win said.

I will damn well do as I please, Chester said heatedly. And if I damn well happen to hate Dodge City for what it has done to us, you can damn well show me the courtesy of never mentioning that damn vile pit in my presence.

You are plumb ridiculous at times. Do you know that?

I know Dodge stole the herds from us. I know Dodge stole the railroad and the wagon trains and all the trade that goes with them.

Dodge stole nothing. It just happened, Win argued.

When will you admit the truth? Chester demanded. Dodge has had it in for Coffin Varnish from the beginning.

Win sighed. Keep this up and folks will think you are touched in the head.

Chester’s pie face became cherry red. He stabbed a pudgy finger at the saloon owner and snapped, How come you always take their side? How come you never stand up for the town you helped found? You’re the one who named it.

I was drunk. We were all drunk. If we hadn’t been, maybe we would have come up with a better name than Coffin Varnish.

It is original. You have to give us that much. But there is nothing original about Dodge. And the gall, to call themselves a city when they are hardly a big town.

Damn it, Chester, stop. Win bobbed his chin at the stick figures. Not with them almost here.

It will be minutes yet, Chester said. He stepped to the edge of the overhang. You can’t blame me for feeling as I do. No one can. I had high hopes for Coffin Varnish.

Oh, hell. When you get formal I am in for a speech.

Mock me all you want, Chester said. The facts speak for themselves. Dodge City and Coffin Varnish started about the same time. We can thank Santa Fe traders for that. Dodge and Coffin Varnish were a bunch of shacks and tents. Then you built your saloon and I built my store and for a while there, we were bigger than Dodge and—

Before you prattle on, Win interrupted, I have heard this probably a million times and I do not care to hear it a million and one. We both know what did Coffin Varnish in. The Santa Fe Railroad decided to run through Dodge and not through us. Dodge prospered and we withered. It is as simple as that.

I hate trains to this day, Chester said vehemently, and shook a pudgy fist at an imaginary rail line. I will walk before I will take a train. I will crawl!

Here we go, Win said.

It’s just not fair, Chester lamented. I put all I had into my store, stocked it so I could outfit traders and emigrants and anybody else under the sun. And what happened? People stopped coming. They went to Dodge. He glowered in the general direction of the offending municipality. Want to know what my mistake was?

God, not that again.

My mistake was in not blowing Dodge to bits and pieces. I could have, back when they were the same size as us. I could have bought a wagonload of powder and snuck into Dodge one night and blown it to Hades and back.

You can’t sneak around in a wagon, Win said.

Chester did not appear to hear him. I could have disguised myself as a trader and they never would have suspected. I’d have waited until they were all abed, then lit the fuse and got out of there. Chuckling, he rubbed his palms together. Oh, to see the looks on their faces when their precious town was in ruins!

You worry me sometimes, Chester. You truly do.

Dodge would have been no more. Coffin Varnish would be what Dodge is today. Prosperous, booming, with a stage line and the cow trade and more customers than a store owner can shake a stick at.

Win sadly shook his head. You could move to Dodge City and open a store and have all the customers you would want.

Chester turned, his pie face mirroring shock. "Move to Dodge? Are you addlepated? After what they did to us?"

You take things much too personal, Win said.

Sniffing, Chester hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his vest. And you don’t take them personal enough. As your mayor, I can’t say I am pleased by your lack of civic devotion.

Win sat up. Don’t you dare take that tone with me. If that means what I think it does, I have as much devotion as the next gent.

Who are you kidding? Chester rebutted. You are perfectly content to laze away the rest of your days in that rocking chair. You don’t care one whit about making money.

I am not as devoted to being rich as you are, no, Win conceded.

Where is the sense in starting a business if you are not out to make a profit? It is blamed silly.

I won’t be insulted.

Before Chester could respond, hooves drummed. Into Coffin Varnish trotted the two newcomers. They were not dressed as cowhands or farmers but in the dandified attire of city dwellers. The taller of the pair had on a fine blue coat and white pantaloons; the other’s suit was gray. Both wore derbies. They came to a stop near the hitch rail and the tall man gave the mouse dun close scrutiny. Where is he?

Where is who? Winifred asked.

The rider of this animal, the tall man in the white pants said with a jerk of his finger at the gruella.

You are from Dodge, aren’t you? Chester inquired.

Oh Lord, Win said.

The tall man glanced from one to the other in some annoyance. What of it? I happen to be Edison Farnsworth. He waited, and when he did not get a reaction, he snapped, "Surely you have heard of me. I write for the Dodge City Times."

The what? Chester Luce said.

Edison Farnsworth jerked back as if he had been slapped. What foolishness is this? You can’t stand there and tell me you have never heard of it, either.

Why can’t I?

For one thing, this dreary hamlet of yours is only a two-hour ride from Dodge City, Farnsworth said. "For another, the Times is the leading newspaper in the entire county, if not all of Kansas. There isn’t a living soul within five hundred miles who hasn’t heard of my newspaper."

You own it, then? Winifred asked.

Farnsworth shook his head. Didn’t you hear? I said I write for it. I am the best journalist on their staff.

"We haven’t heard of the Times here, Chester assured him. And Coffin Varnish is a town, not a hamlet."

Farnsworth shifted in his saddle toward his younger companion. Do you believe what you are hearing, Lafferty?

If I hear it, I guess I do.

Pay no attention. Go inside and confirm he is in there and let him know I will be conducting an interview.

Lafferty started to climb down.

Hold on there, Winifred said. What is this about? I won’t have my customers bothered.

"I plan on writing an article about the gentleman in there for the Times, Edison Farnsworth replied. I tried to interview him in Dodge but he slipped away and left town."

Chester snickered. Anyone who wants to be shed of Dodge has my blessing. What has he done worth an interview, anyway?

Farnsworth leaned on his saddle horn. Can it be? You have no notion of who he is?

He’s not the governor, Win said, and turned to Chester. Who holds the office these days? Is it Anythony? Or did St. John beat him in the last election? I don’t pay much attention to politics.

Which is fine by me or you might take it into your head to run for mayor. Chester stared at the newspaperman. What was that about the runt inside?

I would not let him hear you say that, Farnsworth advised. That runt, as you call him, is one of the deadliest killers alive.

Chapter 2

Winifred Curry and Chester Luce stood in the doorway and peered over the batwings at the small man sipping whiskey at a corner table and listening to young Lafferty.

You’re joshing, Chester said. He doesn’t look any more deadly than a minnow.

Farnsworth, smoothing his sleeves, came up behind them. Shows how deceiving looks can be. That there is Jeeter Frost.

The name does not mean a thing to me, Chester said.

Frost? Win repeated. There was a curly wolf with that handle who made a reputation for himself maybe seven to ten years ago.

One and the same, Farnsworth confirmed. With a tally of seventeen kills to his credit.

And he is still breathing? Winifred marveled. It has been so long, I figured he was worm food.

Not Jeeter Frost, Farnsworth said. The worms would spit him back out. He is too mean to die. They say he once shot a man for snoring.

I can’t blame him there, Win said. My first wife snored. She sounded like an avalanche. I couldn’t sleep unless I plugged my ears with wax, and even that didn’t always shut out the racket she made. Then one day in Kansas City we came across a patent medicine man selling a cure for snoring.

A cure? Farnsworth said skeptically.

I bought six bottles on the spot, Winifred related. I don’t know what was in them. He claimed it was rare plants and such. I had my suspicions it was opium and whatever else he had handy.

Did it cure her? the journalist asked when the saloon owner did not go on.

Hell no. But she got addicted to the stuff. Couldn’t go a day without a spoonful of her precious bitters, as she called it. Before long she went from a spoonful to half a bottle and from half a bottle to a full bottle. Then she died.

The cure killed her?

No, a tree I was chopping down fell the wrong way and crushed her, Win said. Her busted bones were sticking out all over.

You have a frivolous nature, sir, Farnsworth stated in mild disgust and shouldered past them. Excuse me while I conduct my business.

Win nudged Chester. He sure is prickly.

It comes of being from Dodge, Chester said. People there have no manners.

Are you still going over to your store?

I’ve changed my mind, Chester answered. I think I would like to hear this. It could be entertaining.

Lafferty was hurrying toward Farnsworth. His expression did not bode good news. He says he does not want to talk to you. He says you would be well advised to turn around and leave.

Oh, he does, does he? Farnsworth drew himself up to his full height, adjusted his derby, and strode toward the corner table with a confident swagger. If he noticed the small man’s glare, it did not deter him. Jeeter Frost, he loudly announced. I mean to have your life story.

You are not one for hints, the notorious leather slapper rasped. I thought I made it plain in Dodge I do not want to talk to you.

"But I want to talk to you, Farnsworth said. You are news, sir, whether you like it or not. And I, sir, have a duty to my readers to present them with the news. I am a journalist, and a good one, if I do say so myself."

If I am news, Jeeter said, it is old news, and no one but you is interested. I told your boy and now I am telling you: Go away and leave me be or you will not like what happens.

Was that a threat, sir? Farnsworth asked.

Mister, I am trying to be polite, Jeeter Frost replied. But you can take it as a threat if you want if it will persuade you to pester someone else. I am not in the mood for your brazen antics.

Lafferty cleared his throat. Maybe you should listen to him, Mr. Farnsworth. He has the right not to be interviewed, doesn’t he?

Farnsworth dismissed the legal quibble with a wave of his hand. "He is news, I tell you, and good journalists, those who make their mark as I have, go to whatever lengths are necessary to see that the news is printed. His own wishes do not enter into it."

So you say, Jeeter Frost said. Mister, stick your nose where it is not wanted and you are liable to find yourself without one.

Oh, please, Farnsworth said. Spare us the melodramatics. They might scare my assistant but they do not scare me. He pulled out a chair. Now then, I would like to begin with the first man you ever killed and take it from there.

I have a better idea, Jeeter Frost said.

Hear me out. I will begin with an account of one of your triumphs, Farnsworth said. Then I will delve into your past. What it was like growing up. Did you love your parents? Did they love you? Who was the first person you ever killed? Did you tingle at the deed or were you filled with revulsion?

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?