by Linda Ellen
Sam growled low in his throat and she could feel he was holding back his temper. But, nevertheless, he tipped his hat politely and answered, “Name’s Sam Maynard. That’s all you’re gonna get.”
“Sam Maynard,” Fetterman mocked Sam’s drawl. “Why, you’re nothing but a...what, a lumberjack? You can’t keep this woman in the style she deserves. A beauty like her deserves fine jewels and furs, and a mansion to live in. You probably live in something like a log cabin or some such nonsense. Lloyd Fetterman the Third will not lose out to someone like you.”
In a flash, Sam let her go and stepped around her, putting himself right up in Fetterman’s face. “You’ve got no choice in the matter, mister. She’s my wife, and if you so much as touch a hair on her head, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.”
Beth Ann held her breath, not daring to move. Fetterman’s eyes had flared and his handlebar mustache had twitched at Sam’s unexpected aggression, but he recovered quickly. As he moved half a step back, a slow, satisfied smile crawled across his face and he drew his hands from the pockets of his overcoat to begin removing his gloves.
“I take that as a threat, Mr. Maynard,” he smirked. Then before she could blink, Fetterman used both gloves to slap Sam back and forth across his face.
“That, Mr. Maynard—in case you aren’t familiar with the ways of civilized men—means I have issued you a challenge. No man threatens me and gets by with it. I challenge you to a duel. Pistols. At dawn on the morrow, in the field I saw just over the rise from town. To the winner go the spoils—the lovely Beth Ann.”
Beth’s mouth had dropped open at his outrageous words. Once he finished, he stepped back again and glared at Sam, waiting for a reply. Beth hadn’t realized that they had drawn a crowd, but now, she looked around and the street around them was filled with people—but no one she immediately knew. Not Finn nor Charise. No one. This can’t be happening!
Sam hadn’t moved, he was merely standing there with both hands curled into tight fists at his sides, engaging in a contest of glares with Fetterman. The men in the crowd began to mumble amongst themselves, and to her alarm, she could hear the beginnings of derogatory phrases being aimed toward Sam.
“Well, Maynard?” one voice hollered. “You gonna answer him?”
“What’s wrong, you scared you can’t beat this city fella?” jeered another.
“Yeah Sammy boy, you’re not yella, are ya?”
The taunts escalated and Beth Ann began to feel her trepidation rising. She moved over behind her husband, unsure what she should do. What does one do in a situation like this? Instinctively, she knew Sam would not, indeed could not, back down, and likewise Fetterman had no intention of doing so. But...a duel, with pistols? Lord in Heaven!
Finally, she felt Sam draw in a big breath and stand at his full height, which was about an inch taller than their nemesis, and growled. “All right Fetterman. I’ll take your challenge.”
“Sam, NO!” Beth gasped, grabbing onto his arm and trying to get him to turn and face her. He stood rock solid, ignoring her as he added, “Dawn. Pistols. I assume you brought some with you—am I right?”
Now, Fetterman’s face slithered into a full smile as if he’d just won a huge pot in a poker game. “That’s right. Bring your second. Until then,” he added, tipping his hat with mock respect toward the both of them, before the three stepped around where they rigidly stood and sauntered down the boardwalk.
Beth had a sinking feeling in her stomach that Fetterman was a crack shot with the pistols he mentioned.
She only hoped Sam was as well, because it didn’t look like her new, wonderful, gentle giant of a husband was going to listen to her pleas to ignore the taunts.
Chapter 14
S am dismounted from his horse as did his brother at his side. Both men as well as their horses huffed out clouds of steamy breath in the frigid air of early morning as tiny snowflakes began to fall.
Waking up warm and cozy with his wife in his arms the morning before, he would never in a thousand years have thought that in a matter of hours, his world would be turned upside down. Fetterman. Here. Challenging me to a duel—with pistols, no less.
For what must’ve been the hundredth time, his mind went back to what had happened the day before.
After the slaps, everything seemed to slow down to where he felt like he was crawling through molasses. His heart thundering, his vision blood red with rage, it had taken every ounce of control he could muster to keep from launching himself at the blackguard and choking the life out of him. But...there had been Beth Ann to consider, so he’d refrained. She was his first concern and responsibility, and she took precedence over his wounded pride.
Then came the taunts and jeers—from townspeople he had known most of his life! He hadn’t expected that. How could a man retain his self-respect and hold his head up if he backed down from a challenge such as that? He had to go through with it. He’d never be able to look himself in the mirror again—and he wouldn’t be able to look Beth Ann in the eye and feel like he was her man. Fetterman, no doubt, had planned it all just that way.
Oh, but Beth...she’d cried and sobbed, begging him to call it off, pleading with him to not go through with it, but he’d had to deny her request. Married only five days and he’d already had to deny her something she desperately wanted. It tore at his guts.
Once the crowd had dispersed, he’d gone to see his brother. Finn, of course, had railed at him for being a fool. He’d raked him over the coals and recited things their father used to say about never accepting challenges from crazy men and avoiding unnecessary fights at all costs. Zeb had put in his two cents, of course on the side of Finn and Beth. He’d also pointed out that a Fetterman always stacked his deck, and the two men with him would more than likely be instructed to make sure their boss had the edge in the contest.
But Sam had remained firm, even in the face of Beth Ann’s tearful eyes and splotchy cheeks, sobbing in Charise’s arms as the girls both tried to get him to renege on his word.
But, curse that son of a lousy, stinking, mangy dog, Sam Maynard had never backed down from a challenge in his life! He’d never gone back on his word, and he most certainly was not going to start now. Period.
In the end, Finn had growled and grunted, but he’d finally acquiesced to Sam’s request to act as his second in the duel. For good measure and safety’s sake, Finn had insisted they spend the night in Beth Ann’s old room in the apartment.
So, they had.
What a night it had been. After he and Beth had engaged in some intense and emotionally charged lovemaking in which both of them seemed to be trying to get their fill in case the worst should happen, she’d slept fitfully and cried a good portion of the night. He’d not slept a wink, but laid in bed with his wife in his arms, staring at the ceiling and imagining over and over what he would do the following morning. Would he live to spend the rest of his life in this blissful marriage with his wonderful bride? Or...would this be where he met his end. Perhaps he’d be injured and spend the remainder of his days an invalid; he’d heard of that happening in the old days when duels of honor were the norm. He’d tried to push the thought of that possibility aside, but it stubbornly remained and added to his apprehension.
Now, here they were. He’d tried to get Beth Ann to promise that she wouldn’t watch, but she’d have none of that. The best he’d been able to do was secure Zeb’s word that he would keep the girls out of danger. A large bunch of the town’s people, as well as a multitude of faces Sam didn’t recognize, seemed to be swarming over the hill to watch.
Great, just what I need—an audience. Everybody in town must have heard about this. Here they come, look at ‘em...like patrons going to a circus... All of ‘em hoping to see a little bloodshed. The whole affair disgusted him.
“You think he’ll show?” Finn asked, rubbing his hands briskly together.
Sam turned his head and spit on the ground as the very image of the man put an instant bad taste
in his mouth before growling, “He’ll show.”
“Sam, uh...” Finn began, but Sam flashed him a piercing glare. “I know, I know,” Finn qualified, “Look...you’re a crack shot with a hunting rifle—I’ve seen you drop a four point buck with one shot at a hundred yards—and I know you’re pretty good with a revolver, too, but...you think you’re good enough to take him?”
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we,” he stated flatly.
“Sam, this is just plain stupid. The man has to be off his nut!” Finn groused. “And of all the times for Sheriff Dave to be out of town. You’d think he planned it this way.”
Sam just shrugged. He’d been thinking the same thing. Sheriff Dave had left the day before, saying something about being summoned to Nebraska City to help out with a prisoner being transferred to the Nebraska State Penitentiary in Lincoln—oddly enough, something he’d never been asked to do before.
Just then, a man rode up in a buggy and climbed out before motioning for a bystander to take it and the horse out of harm’s way.
“Doc Reeves, I’m glad you’re here,” Finn exhaled with relief, reaching to shake the doctor’s hand. Maybe you can talk some sense into my brother.”
“Hello Finn. Sam. Charlie came and got me. Sam, is there anything I can say to convince you to call off this ludicrous—”
Sam flung up a hand to ward off his words, scowling at the doctor as he declared, “I’ve been through all this with Finn and my wife, Doc. I’m glad you’re here...in case you’re needed. But, I ain’t changing my mind. Sometimes, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. It’s as simple as that.”
“If Dave were here, he’d put you both in the jail and tell you to cool off!” Finn groused.
“Yeah well, he ain’t here. And I refuse to be called a coward, and yella. And have Beth Ann think of me as less of a man. I ain’t backin’ down Finn, don’t even start—”
At that moment, a carriage topped the rise and headed their way. Recognizing the occupants, Sam’s mouth went completely dry and his heart thundered in his chest.
The time had come.
“Oh Charise, why is this happening?” Beth Ann wailed to her friend as she and Zeb waited with her in front of the barbershop for the reverend to pick them up in his surrey.
The evening before, the minister had also tried his hand at convincing Sam to back down, but it was to no avail. Sam had explained to the reverend the crux of the situation and secured his promise that he would do all in his power to protect Beth Ann and not allow the man to take her back to Louisville under any circumstances...should the worst happen. Finally, he had given the newly married man his word that he would keep his wife safe—no matter what.
Charise wrapped an arm around her. “Hold on, sweetie, and don’t count your husband out yet. I can’t believe God put you two together just to let something like this tear you apart so quickly. Let’s just pray that if nothing else, they both get wounded and call it a draw...and that Sam will heal quickly.”
Beth’s eyes welled up and spilled over again. “But I don’t want Sam to be wounded! I can’t stand the thought of him suffering and in pain because of me! He’s done nothing to deserve this. Maybe I should just give up and tell the man I’ll go with—”
“Are you crazy?” Charise sharply interrupted, gripping both of Beth’s arms and making her meet her eyes. “Hush now. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk. Everything is going to be all right. Trust me. I have a feeling about this. Somehow...I don’t know how, but somehow everything will work out and this will be an end to it all.”
“I agree with Charise,” Zeb’s voice chimed in. “Somehow...the Almighty has everything in hand. There are forces at work here that we can’t see. He always has several different purposes to His plans. Trust Him, Bethie girl,” he urged.
“I just don’t see how anything good could come out of this,” Beth Ann argued with a moan as she sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with an already damp handkerchief. She shook her head mournfully. From her point of view, this duel between Sam—her gentle, kind husband, the man she loved—and a man who she had hoped to never see again, seemed fraught with nothing but danger, sadness, pain, and misery. If they went ahead with it, how could anything good happen as a result?
However, she swallowed and forced herself to nod in agreement with her friends, allowing them to embrace and try to console her until they heard the jingle of a horse’s rigging.
“Here’s the reverend now,” Zeb mumbled. “Come on, let’s go see if we can find a spot to watch Sam put that idiot in his place.”
Beth Ann climbed up into the carriage and settled herself between Zeb and Charise, and shut her eyes to pray.
Fetterman climbed out of the rented carriage, his two henchmen following behind. One of them was carrying what Sam presumed to be the gun case.
They approached Sam, Finn, and the doctor. Like English gentlemen, they introduced themselves and Finn and Doc Reeves did likewise. Sam held back the urge to jeer at the absurdity of it all. Who did this idiot think he was, anyway? Prince Albert?
As the uninvited crowd of gawkers mingled about, the taller of Fetterman’s assistants stepped forward and opened the case, revealing to Sam and Finn two of the most ornate dueling pistols they had ever seen. Several in the crowd pushed forward to gape, murmuring in fascination at the contents. The firearms were at least fifteen inches long, with highly polished, carved handles and gleaming barrels. Inside the case lined with green felt were other things such as what looked to be repair tools, two spare nipples, a ramrod with multiple attachments, several extra lead balls, a large capped tin, a powder flask, and a ball mold.
Sam knew quite a bit about firearms, not that they were a hobby or anything. Having guns for sport or recreation wasn’t something he’d ever been interested in. However, he had seen a pair similar to these once before, when he’d been stationed in Georgia during the war. Flintlock pistols. I bet these cost more than the mill nets in a year. What a waste of money...
“Genuine John Manton percussion dueling pistols. They belonged to my great grandfather who emigrated here from England,” Fetterman bragged, rocking back on his heels as he grasped his lapels and sneered at Sam.
Sam exchanged looks with Finn, both of them discreetly rolling their eyes at the boorishness of this peacock, who had dressed for the occasion in a top hat and tails, no less!
“As the Royal Code of Honor states, the one challenged shall have his choice of weapon,” Fetterman drawled as if suddenly bored with the whole matter.
Sam looked them over and then flicked a glance at his brother. “You pick.”
Finn’s eyes widened, but he nevertheless lifted up each one, examined it to see if it was loaded and tried to the best of his knowledge to assure it was in good working order, although he’d also never seen these exact models before. Regardless, he chose one and handed it to Sam.
The man with the case turned to allow Fetterman to pick up the other, and then closed and locked the case with a snap. Then, he looked first at Sam, and then his boss and cleared his throat.
“As you know, the rules are that you stand back to back, cock your weapons, and begin pacing forward on the count. When the count reaches ten, turn and fire without pausing to aim. Whoever is left alive is the winner. In case of a draw, the next move will be decided upon then. Is this clear?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s clear. Let’s just get on with this, all right?” Sam sneered before stalking to the center of the cleared space and taking up a stance facing the direction of the town. The gawkers and onlookers moved back en masse, well out of the way of any stray shots, and watched as Fetterman took his time preparing himself.
Closing his eyes as he waited, Sam said a quick, heartfelt prayer for God to watch over him, and especially for everything to work out for Beth Ann. Although she would argue the point, she truly was the most important factor in all of this.
He’d made his peace with God the night before—praying through as his mama used to say,
and making sure his slate was all confessed and clean before the Lord—and knew if the worst happened, he’d go to meet his Maker in a few moments. That didn’t scare him—he was confident of his salvation, having accepted the Lord Jesus as his Savior when he was twelve. But leaving Beth Ann to the clutches of a man like Fetterman made him sick to his stomach. Please God...do something to intervene... Then for good measure, he began to whisper the Lord’s Prayer...Our Father, Who art in Heaven...
As he opened his eyes, the sun was peeking over the horizon and illuminating a carriage from behind just as it was topping the hill. The conveyance stopped a hundred yards away from him, but even at that distance, he couldn’t mistake the beloved head of fiery auburn hair almost glowing in the beautiful rays of morning. Oh no God...If I should...don’t let her see...
Then, he felt the warmth of the other man at his back as Fetterman took up his position.
Sam swallowed, clamped his teeth together, and pulled in a deep breath to try and steady his nerves. At the sound of the other man’s gun being cocked, he raised his own and did likewise. Then, he set his face forward. Step at each number, wait for the word ten, turn as fast I can and fire as true as I’m able. The rest is in Your Hands, God. I’ll try to just wound him. Forgive me if I kill the man, Father, even if he kills me as well...
“Ready?” shouted a voice.
Sam felt the other man nod, and he followed suit.
“One!” They both stepped off.
“Two!”
“Three!”
The count went on and on. Sam’s palm started to sweat against the slick polished handle of the gun and he suffered a moment of panic that it would slip from his grasp, but he tightened his hold and stepped forward.
“Seven!”
“Eight!”
“Nine!”
