Blood Duel

by Ralph Compton

  “Do you have a place in mind?”

  “I have been thinking California would be nice,” Ernestine said. “It is far enough from your usual haunts that you can change your name and no one will ever know you. And they are in need of teachers.”

  “California?” Jeeter had been thinking maybe Topeka.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no, not at all,” Jeeter said. “California is a far piece, but if that is how far we have to go to live our lives in peace and quiet, then California it is.”

  “In that case, let us find the justice of the peace.”

  A flash of fear spiked through Jeeter, and he froze.

  “What is it?” Ernestine asked.

  “Are you sure about this? I don’t want to ruin your life.”

  Ernestine laughed and drew him to her. “Silly man. I am as certain as I have ever been about anything. Now kiss me, and then we will begin our marvelous future together.”

  “Together,” Jeeter Frost breathed in awe.

  Chapter 18

  The collection of shacks and soddies had no name. Not officially. Everyone called it Crooked Creek because it was on the north bank of Crooked Creek. Who first gave it a name no one knew, although Crooked Creek Sam, as he was called, who owned the saloon, liked to claim credit. No one argued with him because Sam Hoyt could become downright mean when his dander was up.

  Sam’s customers knew that if they caused trouble in his place, he was liable to whip a revolver from under the bar and cut loose at the offenders without a by-your-leave. So everyone behaved.

  Still, Sam did not like it when, along about ten that night, the four Haslett brothers came into his place and moved to the far end of the bar. They were always quarrelsome, and were constantly spitting tobacco. It wasn’t the spitting he minded; it was the fact that they never used the spittoon.

  Sam liked it even less when fifteen minutes later four more men entered and came to the near end of the bar. The short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled. Trouble was brewing, and he might be caught in the middle.

  The newcomers were the Larn brothers. They, like the Hasletts, were from the South. They, like the Hasletts, were cantankerous. But the worst of it was, the Larns and the Hasletts hated one another.

  Sam decided to show them he would not abide any foolishness by taking his old Colt Dragoon from under the bar and setting it down on the counter loud enough to draw their attention. “I will not abide any shenanigans.”

  Abe Haslett, who resembled a beanpole with limbs and a large Adam’s apple, stared at the Dragoon, then said, “No need for threats. We are not here to spill blood. You have my word.”

  “And mine,” declared Stern Larn, the oldest of the Larn brood. “We came to palaver about the big shoot.”

  “The what?” Sam asked.

  Happy Larn, the second oldest, chuckled and said, “We want to end the feud once and for all.”

  Crooked Creek Sam was a Northerner. He was the first to admit he found Southerners and Southern ways peculiar. For instance, the Larns were all named after emotions. There was Stern Larn, then Happy Larn, then Cordial, and finally the youngest, Verve Larn. Who in their right mind gave their kids names like that? South Carolinians, apparently.

  “That’s right,” Abe said. “Back to home the Hasletts and the Larns have been feudin’ for nigh on a hundred years. Now we aim to settle it.”

  Sam regarded the Haslett faction. In addition to Abe, there was Jefferson, Quince, and Josephus. Josephus, not Joseph. All four were string beans. All four had Adam’s apples a turkey buzzard would envy. All four wore shabby homespun and stank to high heaven. And all four could drink everyone else in Kansas under the table. “Explain something to me, if you don’t mind. Why come here to settle your feud? Why not settle it back home?”

  Abe Haslett answered, “We left Spiny Ridge pretty near two months ago. Heard about all the money to be made out West. Never figured on meetin’ up with no Larns.”

  “We never reckoned on meetin’ up with any Hasletts when we took it into our heads to see some of the country,” Stern Larn said.

  “God works in mysterious ways,” Happy Larn said, and laughed.

  Crooked Creek Sam had first heard of the brothers when they swapped lead in Dodge City. The marshal had arrested them. Since no one was hurt, and it was their first offense, the judge fined them and let them go. By some quirk of fate, they had drifted to Crooked Creek and taken to frequenting his saloon. Now this. “How do you aim to end the feud?”

  “Coffin Varnish,” Abe Haslett said.

  “I gave you a bottle but you have barely touched it,” Crooked Creek Sam noted.

  “No, not coffin varnish the drink,” Abe said. “Coffin Varnish the town.”

  Understanding dawned, and Sam said, “That notice in the Dodge City Times?”

  All the Larns and all the Hasletts nodded.

  “We read about those other fellers,” Verve Larn said. He had the habit of never being still. He was always twitching, shifting, scratching, rubbing his nose. “That Caine and the one who got his brains blowed out.” He stopped. “Well, Stern read it to us, since he’s the only one of us can read.”

  “We figure if they can blow out their brains, we can blow out ours,” Stern Larn said.

  Sam needed a drink. After he had poured and his throat was on fire, he coughed and said, “You realize all of you could end up dead?”

  The eight looked at him as if he were a few bales short of a wagonload.

  “That’s what feudin’ is all about,” Abe Haslett said.

  “It’s another word for killin’,” Stern Larn said.

  “You can’t talk it out?”

  Stern and Abe both started to talk at once; then Abe stopped and gestured at Stern. “After you.”

  “Our clans have been feudin’ since Hector was a pup. With all the blood that’s been spilled, talkin’ it out would be an insult to those who have gone to their reward.”

  “That it would,” Abe agreed. “Why, our ma would horsewhip us if we dishonored our kin that way.”

  Sam gave thanks he had been born in Ohio. “What started this feud of yours?”

  “A Larn shot a Haslett over a pig,” Abe said.

  Stern shook his head. “No, it was a Haslett shot a Larn, and it was over a chicken.”

  “It was a pig.”

  “It was a chicken.”

  “Pig.”

  “Chicken, damn you.”

  The Larns glared at the Hasletts and the Hasletts glowered at the Larns. Verve started to sidle his hand toward his hip.

  “None of that!” Sam bellowed. “You are here to talk, remember? If you want to wipe each other out, fine and dandy, but you will not do it in my saloon.”

  “A truce, remember?” Abe Haslett said.

  “A truce, brothers,” Stern stressed for the benefit of his siblings.

  Several on both sides echoed, “A truce.”

  Sam refilled his glass. He had built his saloon on Crooked Creek instead of in Dodge because he did not like towns and cities with their hustle and bustle. He liked a slow pace of life—the slower the better. He was not all that fond of people, either, Southerners in particular. He had lost an uncle and several cousins in the War between the States, and he had never forgiven the South for fighting a war over something as stupid as states’ rights and slavery, but that was neither here nor there. “Get this talk over with. You are commencing to aggravate me.”

  “I don’t like your tone,” Stern Larn said.

  “Me neither,” Abe Haslett said.

  Sam picked up his revolver. “I don’t give a good damn what you do and do not like. This is my place and I can say and do as I please.”

  “Yankees,” Abe spat.

  “They are the same everywhere we go,” Stern mentioned.

  “Get your talk over with,” Sam repeated. He wished other customers were there. The hicks were less apt to act up if there were other customers.

  “Always l
ookin’ down their noses at us,” Jefferson Haslett said.

  “I don’t look down my nose at anyone,” Sam lied. “Haven’t I treated you decent, the times you have been in here?” He was always agreeable, even when he did not want to be. It was good business.

  “That you have,” Stern Larn allowed.

  “You never insulted the South,” Abe Haslett said.

  “There you have it,” Crooked Creek Sam said. “So we’ll have no more talk of Yankees and noses and such. You can’t blame me for wanting you to control your tempers while you are under my roof.”

  “I reckon not,” Cordial Larn said. Where the rest of the Larn brothers had hair as black as a raven’s wings, Cordial’s was the same tawny hue as the pelt of a mountain lion. His eyes were different from theirs, too, blue where theirs were brown.

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, let me ask you. When do you propose to hold your lead-fest?”

  “Our what?” Quince Haslett asked. He had the dubious distinction of having not only a big Adam’s apple, but a big nose as well, so big that his face was more nose than anything else.

  “Your lead chucking,” Sam said. “Or are you aiming to fight it out in Coffin Varnish with knives?”

  “Knives are too messy,” Abe said. “You get blood all over the place. Plus, you can’t always be sure. You stick a man in the gizzard and expect him to fall, but he keeps on fightin’.”

  “I never have put my trust in knives,” Stern Larn said.

  “Pistols will suit us.” From Jefferson Haslett. He sported a bushy mane of hair and a jaw like an anvil.

  “When?” Crooked Creek Sam said.

  “We haven’t gotten around to that yet,” Cordial Larn said. “We have to work out the details.”

  Happy Larn laughed. “Our kin back home will be powerful upset they missed the frolic.”

  “Are there many in your family?” Sam asked.

  “About one hundred and eighty, give or take a few,” Stern Larn said.

  “Two hundred and forty on our side,” Abe Haslett revealed, and grinned. “We are better at breedin’ than they are.”

  “There have always been more of you Hasletts,” Stern Larn said.

  “We are rabbits and you are gophers,” Josephus Haslett boasted. He was the shortest of the brood, which was not saying much since it was only by a few inches.

  Happy Larn lost some of his happiness. “I do not like being called a gopher. You will take that back.”

  “I will not,” Josephus said.

  “You will take that back or else,” Happy said.

  Crooked Creek Sam swore. “Here we go again. If you can’t flap your gums without arguing, maybe none of you should talk except for Abe and Stern.”

  “I will talk when I please,” Happy informed him.

  “Me too,” Josephus said.

  That was when Sam made his mistake. It slipped out of his mouth as smoothly as a slick grape and had the same effect as waving a rattler under someone’s nose. “Stupid Southerners. How many times must I tell you before you will listen?”

  Silence fell, except for the ticking of the clock on a shelf. No one moved except for Verve Larn, who never could stand still for more than two seconds.

  “What did you call us?” Abe Haslett broke the quiet.

  “Not a thing,” Sam said. He was aware he had blundered, but he was confident he could soothe any hard feelings.

  “Like hell,” Stern Larn said. “I heard you, too, as clear as day. You called us stupid Southerners.”

  “Not you,” Crooked Creek Sam said, smiling. “Not any of you.”

  “Then who?” Cordial Larn asked.

  Sam made his second mistake. He answered without thinking. “I meant Southerners in general.”

  Another silence, but shorter than before.

  “Anyone born south of the Mason-Dixon Line is naturally stupid, is that how it goes?” Jefferson Haslett asked.

  “Don’t be putting words in my mouth,” Crooked Creek Sam said. He was beginning to lose his temper.

  “It was your word,” Jefferson said. “Stupid.”

  “Look,” Sam reasoned. “You take things much too serious. I could just as well have said stupid Northerners.”

  “It was stupid Southerners,” Verve Larn said. “My ears hear just fine.”

  Abe Haslett nodded. “Could be you are one of them who looks down their nose at us. Could be we don’t take kindly to that. We don’t take kindly at all.”

  Crooked Creek Sam placed a hand on his Colt Dragoon. “Don’t threaten me. You have treed a cougar when you threaten me.”

  “I ain’t seen one of those percussion Colts in a coon’s age,” Abe Haslett commented. “They were prone to misfire.”

  “Not mine,” Sam said.

  “Big and heavy, those old models,” Stern Larn said. “Even us stupid Southerners know enough not to rely on one.”

  “Takes a real gun shark to handle one halfway decent,” Jefferson Haslett said.

  “And you don’t strike us as a gun shark,” Happy Larn threw in.

  Crooked Creek Sam broke out in a cold sweat. He recognized the signs: the hard stares, the pinched mouths, the tense bodies. “Now, you just hold on! Every last one of you, hold on!”

  “He sounds scared to me,” Stern Larn said.

  “To me too,” Abe Haslett agreed. “Usually when someone is scared they have done something they shouldn’t.”

  “He shouldn’t ought to call people stupid,” Cordial Larn said.

  Sam had put up with all he was going to. “I want you out of my saloon! Every last one of you coon-eating sons of bitches!”

  The next moment Abe and Stern and Cordial had their six-shooters out, and the others were unlimbering theirs.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Crooked Creek Sam screeched.

  “What do you say?” Abe Haslett asked. It was hard to tell who he was asking since he was staring at the Dragoon.

  “I say the North has insulted us enough,” Stern Larn said. “I say for once the Larns and the Hasletts have common cause.”

  “Twice,” Abe said. “We wore the gray together.”

  “It is a shame we are enemies,” Stern said. Then, to Sam, “Any last words, you stinkin’ Yankee?”

  Crooked Creek Sam could not believe what was happening. “I will give you more than a word, you lousy Reb.” He started to level the Dragoon but could not make up his mind who to point it at. The moment’s indecision was costly. The last sound he heard was the crashing boom of revolvers. The last sight was a roiling cloud of gun smoke.

  The shooting went on and on. It stopped only when every cylinder was empty.

  “We done shot him to pieces,” Verve Larn said, grinning.

  “It is too bad we have to do the same to us,” Abe Haslett said. “Coffin Varnish, here we come.”

  Chapter 19

  It was a warm night. The breeze that had picked up from out of the northwest did little to alleviate the heat of the day. The sky was clear, the stars a sparkling host shining benignly down on Kansas.

  “It is a night made for romance,” Adolphina Luce remarked.

  Chester Luce was so shocked he nearly tripped over his own feet. They were taking a rare stroll down Coffin Varnish’s dusty street. He had been watching out for horse, pig, and chicken droppings, and glanced up in bewilderment. “Did I hear you right, my dear?” He could not remember the last time his wife had been in a romantic mood. There had been their wedding night, of course, and five or six times after that. It got so that he wearied of waiting for her to say yes, and stopped hinting.

  “Romance,” Adolphina confirmed, her usual hard tones softened. “A girl thinks of romance when she is happy.”

  The shocks kept coming. Chester never thought of her as a girl. Not as old and as big as she was. A woman, yes, a bear, often, but she had given up any pretense at girlish ways long before she met him. And to hear her say she was happy was enough to convince him he must be dreaming. But no, a pile of horse dropp
ings made his nose want to curl in on itself, and no dream ever did that. “I am glad you are happy,” he said. “Was it Gemma’s meal?” They had been invited to supper at the Giorgios’, another first. Gemma had cooked traditional Italian fare, with lots of pasta and thick sauce and meat rolled into balls, and it had been delicious. Much more so than anything his wife ever cooked. Her food tended to be bland and unappetizing. Some nights, he had to force himself to have three helpings.

  “No, it is not that. Who can stand all that garlic she uses? And those brats of her always underfoot. If I were her, I would take a board to their backsides. That would cure them.”

  Chester had considered the boys well behaved. Although the oldest, Matteo, had made an unfortunate remark to the effect that Adolphina was the first woman he ever met with a mustache.

  “Things are going nice for once. A girl is happy when things go nice. When they go the way she wants them to go.”

  “We sure had a lot of people come to view Paunch Stevens,” Chester said. “We made more money off him than we did off that first bunch.”

  “There will be more,” Adolphina said. “A lot more. I can feel it in my bones. I feel something else, too.” She squeezed his arm.

  It had never occurred to Chester that money made women romantic. The revelation put his brain in a whirl.

  “That newspaperman promised to give us copies of the next edition of the Times,” Adolphina mentioned. “The edition in which he is writing about us.”

  “I just hope the article is favorable,” Chester said. In politics, press that praised was everything.

  “He promised it would be. He said not to worry, that he is on our side, that he will write about us so people are on our side, too.”

  “When did he say that?” Chester asked. “He did not say it to me.”

  “To me,” Adolphina said. “When I had him up for coffee. You were busy showing the body and giving a speech at the livery.”

  Chester was not so sure he liked the idea of his wife and the journalist alone in their parlor. Then he looked at her and his jealously evaporated. “It is obliging of him.”