Ralph Compton Blood Duel

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 two 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.”

“It happened sort of fast,” Win said.

Chester avoided looking at Sally as he remarked, “It was terrible. Not fit for a woman to see.”

“I am not squeamish,” Sally said. “I’ve seen it before, more times than I can count. When you have worked in saloons all your life, you see it all.”

The batwings creaked and in came Adolphina. “Who were those four men again, Chester?” She was not upset; she was not disturbed in any way.

Chester related all he knew about them, which was not much, then all he knew about their killer.

Sally Worth listened with her arms folded across her bosom, and when he was done, she said, “Jeeter Frost made his name in Texas. He was a ranch hand on the Bar T. A friend of his owned it, by the name of Tyler. A squabble started over water rights. There was a lot of shooting and burning and pretty near twenty men died. Tyler was murdered, ambushed one night by five of his enemies. Frost hunted them down and shot them dead.”

“How is it you know all that?” Winifred asked her.

“I was in Texas at the time, in San Antonio. It was all anybody talked about.”

Adolphina was gnawing her lower lip, a habit of hers when she was deep in thought. “So this Frost fellow is famous?”

“Not famous famous, like Wild Bill Hickok was, or like John Wesley Hardin,” Win said. “Famous in a small way. One penny dreadful and a lot of bar talk.”

“Still, people have heard of him.” Adolphina’s dark eyes, which were more close set than was common, bored into her husband’s. “You need to call a meeting of the town council, Chester.”

“I do? Why?”

“Use your head. The sheriff will come. Others, too. The curious. Maybe friends and acquaintances of the deceased.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Chester said, brightening. “Why, some of them might even buy something in our store.” He turned to the liverymen, who had been quietly listening. “Placido. Arturo. Would one of you Mexicans ride to Anderson’s and tell the Swede I am calling an emergency meeting of the town council in an hour and he must be here?”

“Sí, senor,” Placido said. He had his sombrero in his hand as a token of respect for the presence of the senoritas.

“Do you understand what has happened?” Chester struggled to think of the right word. “Do you comprende?”

“I speak excellent English, senor. Remember?” Placido said.

It was true, and it rankled Chester that a Mexican spoke it even better than he did. “Those priests taught you good, didn’t they?”

“They taught us very well, indeed, senor,” Placido said. He was always polite to everyone. Always a pleasant smile and a pleasant manner, and much more talkative than Arturo.

“Then off you go,” Chester said. He noticed the Giorgios were drifting in the direction of their cottage and hollered, “Minimi, you have to be at the meeting, too.”

“Me, signore? But the consiglio, it is you and Mr. Curry and Mr. Anderson. I am not a member.”

“You are today,” Chester said. “We have a decision to make that will affect everyone, so you might as well sit in.”

“As you wish. You are the alcade,” Minimi said, but he did not sound particularly happy about the invitation. His wife said something in Italian and he replied and she cast a worried look at Chester.

“What was that about, I wonder?”

Adolphina shrugged. “Who can tell with foreigners? That’s the problem with our town. Too many foreigners.” She lumbered from under the overhang. “I will go freshen up and sweep the place out.”

Chester grunted. The council meetings were held in their store. Originally, the town council met in the saloon, which proved convenient when their throats became dry from excess talking. But when Adolphina started attending, they had to switch to somewhere respectable.

Sally Worth yawned. “Well, if all the excitement is over, I guess I will go back up and finish my nap.”

“You can sleep with dead men below you?” Win asked.

“Hell, I’ve slept with all kinds of men under me, and over me, too.” Sally grinned. “Smelly men, ugly men, stupid men, toothless men. Dead is an improvement.”

“The things that come out of your mouth,” Chester said.

Sally winked at him. “I never hear you object to the things that go into it. But then, you have cause not to, don’t you?”

Chester glanced sharply at the retreating bulk of his wife, a red tinge creeping from his neckline to his hairline. “Keep your voice down. She might hear you.”

“Not from there,” Sally said. “You worry too much.”

“I don’t blame him,” Winifred said. “If that battle-ax ever finds out, she will take a knife to his manhood, strangle you with her bare hands, and probably shoot me for letting him dally with you.”

“I do as I want,” Chester said curtly. “And I will thank you not to refer to my wife in that manner when I am standing right next to you.”

“Men,” Sally said in mild disgust, and stepped to the batwings. “But don’t worry, Your Honor, sir. I am not about to give your secret away. You are one of the few paying customers I have left.”

“Is that all I am to you? Money?”

Sally twisted at the hips and regarded him with amusement. “What else would you be?”

“A friend, at least. It has been a couple of years now.”

“Every Wednesday evening for two years,” Sally said. “Your wife permits you one hour to drink and sling the bull with Win and you spend part of that hour giving me a poke.”

“We do more. We talk.”

Sally tiredly brushed a stray wisp of gray-brown hair from her eyes. “You talk, I listen. You pay for that privilege.” She looked at Winifred. “Explain to your friend how it is. I don’t want him getting silly notions.” She left them, her hips swinging.

“You shouldn’t have said that to her,” Win criticized. “Now she will think you care for her more than she should be cared for.”

“How can you say that? She’s your friend.”

“She is my friend and she is a whore and I have the sense not to confuse the two. You should have the sense not to make more of her parting her legs for you than there is.”

“That is harsh,” Chester said softly.

“Life is harsh,” Winifred Curry replied. “If you think it isn’t, just ask the four bodies in my saloon.”

“Adolphina could be on to something. We can benefit from their deaths.”

“No good ever comes from killing,” Winifred said. “Mark my words. We will live to regret it.”