Blood Duel

by Ralph Compton

  Winifred said, “Sally, please.”

  “Oh, you are no better than he is,” Sally snapped. “Why you went along with this harebrained notion, I will never know. Or is money all you care about, too?”

  “That is unfair,” Win said, “and untrue. I have never been all that interested in being rich. Hell, if I was, do you think I’d have stayed in this godforsaken excuse for a town as long as I have?”

  Sally had no answer for that.

  “I stay because I like the pace of life,” Win said. “I like things slow and easy. I like not having to shave if I don’t want to, or having a boss breathe over my shoulder.”

  Club Caine thumped the bar to get their attention. “I did not ride all this way to listen to you people bandy your petty problems about. Let’s get this over with. That is, if Mr. Stevens is still eager for this to be his last day on earth.”

  Paunch Stevens bristled and started to reach for his revolver but stopped and snarled, “The sooner I can empty my pistol into you, the better I will feel.”

  Apparently everything was striking Sally as hilarious because she laughed anew, then said, “Grown men acting like ten-year-olds. There are times I am mighty glad I am a woman, and this is one of them.”

  “What are you on about?” Club Caine asked her.

  “Men,” Sally said. “How silly they are. You don’t see grown women waving revolvers at each other, do you?”

  “You are threepence short of a shilling yourself,” Club Caine said.

  Sally tilted her head. “What did you just say?”

  “That you are a bit dotty,” Club answered. “It must be because you have about gone by.”

  “You are English, aren’t you? With that accent and all.”

  “I was born and raised in a city called Liverpool, yes,” Club revealed. “Why do you ask?”

  “It explains why you talk so strange,” Sally said. “You being a foreigner and all.”

  Paunch Stevens snorted. “You tell him, lady.”

  “Sod off, the both of you,” Club rejoined, then turned to Chester Luce. “I have had all the silliness I can take for one day. Where are the permits? Is there a form for us to sign?”

  Chester was momentarily at a loss. It was Adolphina who had come up with the idea of requiring permits, and he had thought it delightful once she explained about the fees he should collect. But it had never occurred to him to go have the permits printed, or even to draw them up himself.

  “Well?” Club Caine asked. “Is there a problem?”

  “There is nothing to sign,” Chester said. “You pay the fee, I make out the form and keep it on file.”

  “One form for both of us or one form for each of us?”

  Chester almost said, “What the hell difference does it make?” He could not understand why the Englishman was making such a fuss. “One form for each of you. I will need you to write down your names, where you live, next of kin, that sort of thing.”

  “What are we to write with?”

  Chester’s irritation mounted. He had not thought to bring ink, pen, and paper. “To make things easier, just tell me what I need to know and I will write it down later. I have a good memory.”

  “Rather a shoddy way of doing things,” Club Caine said. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to write it on the actual permit? Why do I have the impression you do not have this whole thing worked out yet?”

  “Nonsense,” Chester said. To agree was to suggest he did not know what he was doing. He turned to the bar. “Win, can I borrow paper and something to write with?”

  Winifred came back with “How do you borrow paper? Once you use it, it is of no use to me.”

  “Quit quibbling and help out,” Chester chided.

  “I would like to oblige you but I can’t. The only paper in this whole place are the labels on the bottles.”

  “Organized as hell,” Club Caine muttered. “Bloody Yanks.”

  “I have plenty of paper in my store,” Chester said. “If you two gentlemen would be so kind as to follow me, we will soon have the preliminaries out of the way and you can get down to the killing.”

  “That suits me just fine,” Paunch Stevens said. He had refilled his glass and took a healthy swig. “All this jabbering made me thirsty.”

  “I am surrounded by idiots,” Club Caine said. “But very well. Let us repair to your establishment.” He started toward the batwings.

  Chester turned to follow, promising, “The delay will be short, I can assure you.”

  “Jabber, jabber, jabber,” Paunch Stevens said. He set down his empty glass and winked at Winifred Curry. As he winked he drew the Smith & Wesson. Win opened his mouth to shout, but Paunch pointed the gun at him, put a finger to his lips, and shook his head. Then, grinning, he extended the revolver in the direction of Club Caine. “It is a good thing you are so short, Mr. Mayor.”

  “What did you say?” Chester had not been paying attention. He glanced over his shoulder and very nearly screamed. The Smith & Wesson’s muzzle seemed to be pointed right at him. “No!” he bleated.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Paunch Stevens said.

  Thunder boomed, and a leaden bee buzzed past Chester’s ear. In pure reflex he fell to the floor, squawking in terror.

  Club Caine was knocked violently forward. He stumbled, recovered, and sank to one knee. Unlimbering the Webley, he pivoted, a look of intense concentration on his face.

  Paunch Stevens laughed. “That will teach you to steal my woman.” He took a step, swaying slightly, and sighted down the barrel. Again his revolver spewed smoke and lead.

  The slug missed.

  Club Caine gripped the Webley with both hands and was taking deliberate aim. Beads of sweat had broken out on his face. “Back shooter!” he rasped.

  “Tea drinker.” Paunch fired a third time and a corner of the left batwing exploded in a shower of wood slivers. “Damn.” He stared at his revolver in disbelief. “How do I miss at this range?”

  “I won’t,” Club Caine said. The Webley cracked and Stevens’s hat went flying. “Bollocks!”

  “Stop shooting!” Chester shouted, waving an arm. “You haven’t paid for your permits yet!”

  Paunch took an unsteady step. “Forget your stupid permit. In another couple of seconds this will all be over.”

  “That it will!” Club Caine cried, and banged off his second shot. He winced as he fired, and his whole body twitched.

  “Ha!” Paunch Stevens bellowed. “You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn if you were standing next to it.” His Smith & Wesson bucked. “Take that, woman stealer!”

  Club Caine looked down at himself. “Bloody hell,” he said. “You missed again. Drink more whiskey, why don’t you?” Suddenly rising, he lurched toward his enemy. “I will do this right even if you can’t.”

  “Can’t I?” Paunch angrily countered. “This time for sure.”

  “Enough!” Win Curry had his shotgun. But he could not decide which one to point it at, so he was not pointing it at either of them when Caine and Stevens pointed their revolvers at him. Win ducked, not a heartbeat too soon, and the mirror behind the bar, the mirror he had sent all the way to St. Louis for, dissolved in a shower of broken bits.

  Paunch Stevens laughed and swung back toward Club Caine. “That will teach the meddler!”

  “That it will!” Caine continued limping toward him. “Out of my way!” he commanded the quaking figure at his feet.

  Chester Luce was happy to oblige. He was awhirl with fear. Everything had gotten out of control. He would be lucky now if he was not killed! Staying on the floor, he scrambled under a table and threw his arms over his head.

  “Lily-livers,” Paunch spat. He was trying to aim at Caine. Then Caine’s Webley went off and he was punched in his big belly by an invisible fist. There wasn’t much pain, certainly not enough to prevent him from squeezing off another shot of his own. “I will do you in if it is the last thing I do.”

  Club Caine only had a few feet to go
. “Boasts and hot air!” he cried. “Hot air and boasts!”

  Paunch Stevens was trying to remember if he had fired four shots or five. If he only had one shot left, he must be sure not to miss. “How many shots do I have left? I have lost count.”

  “Count this,” Club Caine said. By then he was close enough to press the Webley against Stevens’s ribs and fire.

  “Damn you,” Paunch Stevens said. He looked down at the bright scarlet stain spreading across his belly. “That one hurt.” His legs trembled and he staggered. Thrusting out his other arm, he braced himself against the bar to keep from falling. “You better not have hit my vitals.”

  “Bloody hell. Why aren’t you dead yet?” Club Caine stepped back and sought to steady his Webley in both hands.

  It was then that Sally Worth did something she should not have done, something people commented on for months afterward whenever the affray was talked about. Sally laughed and merrily exclaimed, “You two are pitiful! My grandmother can shoot straighter than you and she has never shot a gun in her life.”

  “Think so, do you?” Paunch Stevens said. Rankled by her insult, he snapped off a shot in Sally’s general direction. He did not aim. He was just so mad, he wanted to shut her up.

  Everyone saw the result. Paunch, Club Caine, who glanced at her when the Smith & Wesson went off, Win, who had poked his head up from behind the bar, and Chester, peeking from under the table. They all saw a hole appear in the center of Sally’s forehead even as the rear of her cranium erupted in a shower of brains and gray and brown hair. Under different circumstances her look of amazement would have been comical. As it was, she collapsed without a sound, pinkish fluid seeping from the new hole.

  “I’ll be damned!” Paunch exclaimed in delight. “I hit something.”

  “You are an inspiration,” Club Caine said. Lunging, he jammed the Webley’s muzzle against Stevens’s forehead and emptied the Webley into the man’s skull. He had to step aside to avoid being bowled over as the heavy bulk fell.

  Then he was the one gripping the bar for support, and smiling. “All’s well that ends well, eh?”

  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 tha
t 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.