Blood Duel
Page 1
A LOW BLOW
“Where in the 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.”
“Sooner rather than later,” came a voice from under the table.
Startled, Temple Blight straightened and whirled. He was not quite all the way around when a pistol barrel poked from under the table, pointed at his groin. The pistol cracked, and Temple shrieked and clutched at himself, dropping his Remington. The next shot caught him smack in the center of the forehead and blew out the rear of his cranium in a spray of hair and gore.
By then Zebulon and Barnabas Blight were rushing to their brother’s aid. Zeb jerked his Winchester to his shoulder, but he did not quite have it level when the pistol under the table boomed a third time and Zeb’s left eyeball dissolved….
Ralph Compton
Blood Duel
A Ralph Compton Novel
by David Robbins
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, December 2007
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2007
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-4406-2021-8
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
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THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling, allowing me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
—Ralph Compton
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
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 wer
e 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, boomi
ng, 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.”