Ralph Compton Blood Duel

Chapter 16

Seamus Glickman was a quarter of a mile out of Coffin Varnish when an inner sense that he was being followed prompted him to glance over his shoulder. Despite his feeling he did not really expect to see anyone, so he was mildly taken aback to behold a rider seeking to overtake him. The man was riding like a madman, at a full gallop, arms and legs flapping as if he were an ungainly goose trying to take wing. When Seamus recognized the flapper, his surprise changed to anger, and he drew rein.

The other was not long in coming up beside him. The man’s mount was lathered with sweat and winded.

“Trying to ride that poor beast into the ground, are you?” Seamus asked.

“I would ride ten into the ground to get a good story,” Frank Lafferty answered. He, too, was slick with sweat. “And a shooting is always news.”

“Let me guess,” Seamus said. “Aces Weaver told you?”

“It might turn out to be the best dollar for a tip I ever spent,” Lafferty said enthusiastically. “Think of it. Two of Dodge City’s leading citizens swapping lead over a woman!”

“Nine times out of ten, there is a woman involved somewhere,” Seamus mentioned. The tenth time was either a long-standing grudge or resentment over a slur.

“Harriet Fly, no less,” Lafferty said. “A cow in a dress. How any man would take to fighting over her is beyond me.”

“There is no accounting for taste, boy,” Seamus said. He clucked to his mount and the young journalist did the same. “I don’t suppose if I ask you to turn around and go back to Dodge that you would?”

“You must be joking,” Lafferty rejoined in disbelief.

“Some stories are better not written.”

“But if there has been a shooting—” Lafferty started to argue.

“All the more reason,” Seamus said, raising his voice over the drum of hooves. “Listen. So long as no one took the idiots in Coffin Varnish up on their addlepated notion, the sheriff did not mind their lunacy. But if Caine and Stevens have swapped lead, they have opened the floodgates. A thing like this could catch on and bring no end of trouble.”

“Aren’t you making more out of it than there might be?”

“No, boy, I am not. Sheriff Hinkle does his best to make the Jeeter Frosts of this world unwelcome in Ford County. Now, thanks to the jackasses in Coffin Varnish, we are extending an invite to every curly wolf from here to California and back again to come and kill. Can’t you see the problems that will cause?”

“All the more reason for me to write about it,” Lafferty said. “So I can present your side of the issue. So the people can be informed.”

Seamus had not thought of that. Public outrage was a powerful force—force politicians were more apt to respond to than anything else. “It has to be done right.”

“Never fear. I won’t glorify it if blood has indeed been spilled,” Lafferty said. “Maybe nothing has come of it, though. Maybe they came to their senses and called it off.”

Seamus was not optimistic. Paunch Stevens had a notorious temper, and Club Caine was not to be trifled with.

A commotion at the saloon did not bode well. The Mexicans were there, standing in the hot sun in their sombreros. The Italian family was under the overhang, the boys trying to peer in the window, the mother not letting them. No one said a word as Seamus strode inside. He stopped at the sight of two bodies and a god-awful amount of blood. “Son of a bitch,” he snapped.

“I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head,” Adolphina Luce said. She was bent over Club Caine, who was in a chair, stripped to the waist. “There is a lady present.”

Seamus almost asked, “Where?” but bit it off. He stared at the dead dove, then at what was left of Paunch Stevens, then at Win Curry, who had his lips glued to a bottle and was as pale as a sheet. Chester Luce was watching his wife tend Club Caine’s wound. Seamus went over. “How bad is he?”

“I can answer for myself,” Club said. “The cur nicked me in the shoulder. In a month I will be as good as new.” He smiled broadly. “As you can see, he got the worst of our exchange.”

“I want details,” Seamus said. “You might be charged with murder.”

“Not bloody likely seeing as he shot first.”

“That’s true, Sheriff,” Chester Luce said, his voice squeaking more than normal. “If there was ever an instance of self-defense, this was it.”

“You and your damned stupid idea,” Seamus said.

Adolphina looked up, her washcloth poised. “I will not remind you again, Sheriff Glickman. I will be treated with respect whether you want to treat me with respect or not.”

Seamus, angry as hell, said to Caine, “How could you? I can understand Paunch. He never could think straight when his dander was up. But you I credited with more sense.”

“Thank you,” Club said. “But some things just need to be done. He was talking about me behind my back and insulting a lady of my acquaintance.”

“Hardly cause to kill a man.”

“Do you suffer insults?” Club asked. “From what I have heard, no, you do not. You are a fine one to cast stones.”

“Oh, hell,” Seamus said, and turned. Lafferty was hunkered by Paunch Stevens and furiously scribbling notes. “What are you writing?”

“Descriptions, while they are fresh and vivid. Half his head is missing! It is gloriously hideous.”

“The whole world has gone insane,” Seamus opined, and moved to the bar. “Give me a drink. I don’t care what so long as it is not water.”

Winifred Curry’s eyes were moist. “I liked her,” he said hoarsely as he slid a bottle across. “Liked her a lot. She and I were friends for years.”

“The whore?” Seamus said without thinking.

“Who else?” Win chugged more bug juice. “I swear, I am going to get so booze blind, I can’t stand up.”

“Before that happens, suppose I start with you. Tell me everything you saw, everything you heard. Leave nothing out.”

It took half an hour for Seamus to get the statements. When he was done he went out for a breath of air. The Mexicans and the Italian family were still there, and so were the Swedish farmer and his wife. “I trust you are all proud of yourselves,” Seamus said bitterly.

“I not approve,” Dolph Anderson said somberly. “To kill be very bad. My wife, she agree.”

“As do I,” Placido said.

“Then why didn’t you speak up when your idiot mayor came up with the idea?” Seamus asked.

“He is mayor,” Anderson said simply.

“Sí, senor,” Placido echoed. “He decides what the town does. I feed and rent horses and shovel their manure.”

In disgust, Seamus snapped, “Fools, the whole bunch of you. Because none of you have a backbone, one of your own has died.”

“I will miss Sally Worth,” Placido said. “She was always nice to Arturo and me. She had lived so much of life, she understood.”

“She won’t be doing any more living,” Seamus said, rubbing it in. He heard the batwings creak.

Frank Lafferty hurried to the hitch rail. He was grinning as might a kid who had just been given a long-sought present.

“You are lighting a shuck already?”

“If I want to make the next edition.” Lafferty swung up with all the grace of a lump of clay. He had to try twice to slide his other foot into the stirrup. “The paper will sell out.”

“It is nice to see you so broken up that two people have been killed,” Seamus said.

“Spare me your sarcasm, if you please,” the journalist replied. “I merely report events.”

“Report them? Or revel in them?” was Seamus’s rejoinder.

Lafferty was in too good a mood to let the criticism affect him. He hauled on the reins and slapped his legs and headed south in a swirl of dust.

“There are days I hate this world and everyone in it,” Seamus remarked. Suddenly he wanted out of there. He wanted to shed the whole sick, twisted affair. But he was not quite done. He went back in.

Club Caine was gingerly sliding into his shirt, with Adolphina’s help. The bandage she had applied bulged white against Club’s skin. “Still wearing that sour face, I see?”

“You would wear one too if you were in my boots,” Seamus said. “You don’t realize what you have done.”

“I have defended my honor and I feel wonderful,” Club declared.

“An innocent woman died, or doesn’t she count?”

“Since when do you care so much about worn-out hags? She was not much to look at, you must admit.”

“Club, I have always liked you,” Seamus said. “But that was cruel.” The devil of it was, though, Seamus knew the man was right. He never much cared what happened to others, and he did not much care about the whore. What he did care about, what bothered him most, was the fact that his tidy, orderly life had been disrupted, with the very real possibility of a lot worse to come.

“Suit yourself, Yank,” Club said. “Me, I am riding back to Dodge to find Harriet so we can celebrate.”

“The sheriff will want to talk to you. You might be called before a grand jury.”

“Whatever is required. No charges will be filed. Not under the circumstances.” Club rose and turned to Chester and Adolphina. “I believe I owe you some money.”

“Blood money,” Seamus remarked.

“Coffin Varnish officially thanks you,” Chester said as he accepted. Adolphina immediately took it from him.

“Who is going to pay for Sally’s burial?” Winifred asked. “I wouldn’t mind, her being my friend and all, but I wasn’t the one who shot her.”

“Already taken care of, my friend,” Chester said, and winked. “I went through the pockets of the deceased. He had more than enough.”

Seamus could not stop himself. “You people sicken me.” He walked out and forked leather and rode off without a backward glance. If he never saw Coffin Varnish again, it would be too soon, but he doubted he would be so lucky.

He was in no hurry to reach Dodge City. Hinkle would be furious, and he couldn’t blame him. A whirlwind had been unleashed, a tornado that could sweep all of them up in a vortex of unending violence. No, he told himself, not unending. There had to be a way to put a stop to it, to nip the stupidity in the bud. The county commissioners could weigh in. The governor should be notified. Before another month went by, a political deluge would rain on Coffin Varnish, rain on the heads of that butterball of a mayor and his bull of a wife.

Seamus couldn’t wait.

It was everything Lafferty hoped it would be.

The shooting was the talk of the town. The Times did indeed sell out, and the owner decided to print a second edition. The staff was astounded when that sold out as well. They debated a third and decided not to.

Lafferty’s boss was immensely pleased. “Keep this up and you will be the next Edison Farnsworth.”

That was fine, but Lafferty had higher aspirations. He was thinking of London, or maybe Paris.

The world was Lafferty’s journalistic oyster, provided Coffin Varnish went on inviting would-be killers to buck each other out in gore. The way Lafferty saw it, his career and Coffin Varnish’s notoriety were inextricably linked. With that in mind, he did not slant the story as he had told Glickman he would; he did not heap scorn and ridicule on Coffin Varnish. Instead, he discreetly implied that maybe, just maybe, Coffin Varnish was doing Ford County, and Kansas, a favor by offering itself as a killing ground. Lafferty wrote in his concluding paragraph:

After all, the more badmen and shootists who flock to Coffin Varnish, the fewer shootings Dodge and other cities and towns must contend with. Brave Coffin Varnish is doing the rest of us a favor by drawing to herself all those who make our streets unsafe. Instead of condemning her, might it not be better to praise her civic leaders for having the courage to do what no one else ever has? Instead of demanding they cease and desist, might it not be wiser to let them continue in their admittedly bizarre but nonetheless beneficial practice? Wise or folly, my fellow citizens, which is it?

Lafferty thought that last a nice touch.

His newfound fame was a tonic he could not get enough of. Strangers bought him drinks and plied him with questions. He had been there. He had seen the aftermath with his own eyes. He basked in his fledgling fame, intoxicated by the attention paid to him, by the praise.

Lafferty did not mind that another celebrity was created. Club Caine was treated with respect bordering on awe. When Club entered the Long Branch, a hush fell. Whispers broke out. Fingers pointed. Lafferty went over and offered to buy Club a drink. Within moments they were surrounded by men anxious to bask in the glow of greatness.

Lafferty ate it up.

The only sour note came later that night as Lafferty was strolling down Front Street.

“I hope you are proud of yourself.” Seamus Glickman stepped out of the shadows, a folded newspaper in his hand. He threw it in the dirt at Lafferty’s feet. “Take that to the outhouse. It is all it is good for.”

“You sound mad,” Lafferty said.

“You have no idea what you have done.”

“I am making the most of it, I admit,” Lafferty said. “But your worries are unfounded. The situation is temporary. Someone will put a stop to it before too long. Sheriff Hinkle, if no one else.”

“You better hope someone does,” Seamus said. “Or I will drag you to Coffin Varnish, pay their fee, and see if you can shoot as well as you write.”

“Your joke is in poor taste,” Lafferty said.

Seamus bent toward him and poked him in the chest. “Who said I was joking?” he grimly growled. Then, pivoting on a boot heel, he stalked off.