Blood Duel (27 page)

Chester hoped they killed Frost. Or, better yet, took him alive so he could hang. Frost would deny murdering Adolphina, but it would be Frost’s word against his. The schoolmarm might side with Frost, but Chester would say she was not in the room when Adolphina was killed, and anyway, no one would believe her once they found out she had run off with Frost and not been abducted.

Chester opened the door and bolted out, only to stop short.

Four riders had drawn rein near the posse’s horses and were staring at the bodies wrapped in blankets. To the east the sky was brightening, and Chester could see the four were lanky and dirty and had bulging Adam’s apples. Scruffy sorts, bristling with weapons. More riffraff passing through, he judged.

“Hold on there, mister,” said the oldest of the four in a distinct Southern drawl. “We would like a word with you.”

“I am in a hurry,” Chester said.

“You can take the time to be civil,” the man said, an edge to his tone. “Who might you be?”

Chester introduced himself, stating proudly, “I am the mayor of Coffin Varnish, and I have urgent business in the saloon.”

“I am Abe Haslett. These are my brothers, Jefferson, Quince, and Josephus.” The three nodded in turn. “We have business, too. With you. But it can wait.”

“Before you scoot off,” Jefferson Haslett said, “do you mind tellin’ us who these dead folks were?”

“I was told they are the Larn brothers,” Chester replied, and was taken aback by their shock.

“The devil you say!” Abe Haslett declared.

“The Larns!” Jefferson exclaimed.

“How in hell?” asked the youngest, Josephus.

“Who could’ve done it?” wondered the last, Quince.

Chester thought he understood. Glickman had mentioned something about the Larns being from the South. These Hasletts were from the South, probably their friends. “Did you know them?”

Abe Haslett nodded, his gaze glued to the bodies. “I should say we did. Their families and ours go back a long ways.”

“Whoever killed them has deprived us,” Jefferson said.

“I am sorry to hear that,” Chester said. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He could imagine them getting worked up, and he did not want to be the brunt of their anger. Skirting their mounts, he was almost to the batwings when they opened and out stepped Lawrence Fisch, the son of the president of the First Bank of Dodge City.

“Who are those fellows you were talking to?” Fisch asked.

“Friends of the Larns,” Chester said. “Good friends, as upset as they got when I broke the news.”

“You don’t say?”

“Southerners,” Chester added, and went to go on by, but Fisch was blocking the doorway.

“Just what we need. More Southern trash. My father does not think much of Southerners and neither do I.”

“What’s that about the South, sonny?”

Chester had not heard Abe Haslett dismount and come up behind him. The man moved as quietly as a
cat. He did not like the glint in Haslett’s dark eyes, but young Fisch did not seem to notice.

“My father says you are a bunch of poor losers,” the banker’s son said. “He was in the South right after the war.”

“This pa of yours,” Abe said. “He is a Yankee, I take it?”

“He was born and raised in Indiana,” Lawrence Fisch said. “He did not fight in the war, though. He was and has always been a businessman.”

“I fought in the war,” Abe said. “I wore the gray with pride.”

“Good for you,” Lawrence Fisch said.

Abe Haslett colored. “This pa you keep mentionin’, he was in the South, you say? Right after the war? And he was in business?”

“Your ears work at least,” Lawrence replied.

“That would make him a carpetbagger,” Abe Haslett said. “One of those vultures who preyed on us when we were down, buyin’ land cheap and such so they could fill their pokes.”

“Now, you hold on,” Lawrence bristled. “My father is always fair and honest in his dealings.”

“Sure he is, boy,” Abe said with thick scorn. “He is a stinkin’ Yankee carpetbagger and you are the son of a stinkin’ Yankee carpetbagger.”

Chester thought he should say something. “Please. Let’s not provoke one another. There is no call for this.”

“There is plenty of call,” Abe Haslett said, and motioned at his brothers. “My kin and me hate Yankee carpetbaggers. Our family, our friends, lost land and valuables to the scum.”

“You better not mean my father when you say that,” Lawrence Fisch said.

“If the shoe fits, boy. He is a Yankee and he was a carpetbagger, so that makes him scum the same as the rest.”

“The hell you say, you damn Reb,” Lawrence said angrily, and put his hands on his nickel-plated Remingtons.

“You just made the biggest mistake of your life, pup,” Abe Haslett said, and went for his own hardware.

Minutes earlier, in the bedroom of Chester and Adolphina Luce, Ernestine Frost pried herself from the man she had married and dreamily asked, “Did you just hear a bell?”

“All I hear is my heart pounding in my chest,” Jeeter told her. It had been his idea to come upstairs. They could not see the street from the kitchen and he wanted to keep a close eye on things and note the posse’s comings and goings. Ernestine had refused to stay in the kitchen alone.

“What if this poor woman wakes up? She will be mad as can be and will take it out on me.”

“She won’t wake up for a month of Sundays,” Jeeter had responded. But he let Ernestine come. The bedroom was small but nicely furnished and smelled of pleasant odors. They had not made it to the window, though. Halfway across, Jeeter took her in his arms and kissed her as he had hankered to kiss her ever since they said their I do’s. She had the softest lips, this woman. One kiss was not enough. They had kissed and kissed and kissed some more, until Jeeter
thought his chest would explode. “I didn’t hear no bell and I am a better hearer than you.”

“I am sure I did,” Ernestine insisted.

“Maybe it was a wedding bell,” Jeeter joked.

“Oh, you.” Ernestine grinned. “You are superbly wonderful, do you know that?”

Jeeter wished he could stand there forever with his arms around her waist and that loving look in her eyes. “I have been called many things but never wonderful.”

“Any woman would be proud to call you hers.”

Jeeter knew better. “The only female I want is you, so it has worked out right fine.”

Ernestine giggled, then said tenderly, “Each moment with you is a moment of discovery for me.”

“Discovery?” Jeeter repeated.

“I learn truths about myself I never realized,” Ernestine explained. “You bring me out of myself.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It is a very good thing,” Ernestine assured him, and tilted her face to be kissed yet again.

Jeeter would gladly have obliged her, but at the juncture hooves clomped in the street. “Hold on,” he said, and darted to the window. Cautiously parting the curtains, he peered down on four dark silhouettes and their mounts.

“Who are they?” Ernestine whispered at his elbow.

“Maybe more of the posse showing up late.”

“Oh Lord. There must be a couple of dozen. We can’t let them find us, Jeeter. I will die if anything happens to you.”

Jeeter smiled at her. “I ain’t about to be bucked out in gore now that I have you.”

“But there are so many,” Ernestine fretted. “We should leave. Now. Before we are found out.”

“You worry too much,” Jeeter said. “The safest place to be is right under their nose.”

Ernestine crooked her neck around. “I just heard the bell again.”

Jeeter heard voices. He looked outside. The mayor was talking to the four newcomers. “Did he just come out of the store?”

“That’s what that bell was!” Ernestine exclaimed. “The one over the front door.”

“Then he has seen his wife,” Jeeter guessed, and lowered his hand to his Colt Lightning.

Placing her hand on his, Ernestine pleaded, “No shooting! Please! There are too many of them.”

“He will warn them.”

“Let’s just go,” Ernestine urged. “Let’s sneak out the back and get our horses and leave Coffin Varnish before they find us.”

“You want me to tuck tail and run?”

“It is not running. It is avoiding trouble,” Ernestine answered. “Besides, didn’t you tell me that you left Dodge to avoid the Blight brothers? This is no different.”

“I didn’t have you then.”

Puzzled, Ernestine asked, “How am I a factor?”

“No man likes to show yellow in front of his sweetheart,” Jeeter said. “I would as soon go down with my guns blazing as be a coward in your eyes.”

“That you could never be,” Ernestine said. “Didn’t that penny dreadful call you the Missouri Man-Killer and the Terror of the West? You instill fear in others. They do not instill fear in you.”

Jeeter had never thought of it quite like that. “I reckon my reputation does make others a mite skittish.” Not that it caused the Blights to think twice about tangling with him.

“We must go before the posse puts your reputation to the test,” Ernestine said, and pulled on his arm.

Jeeter glanced back out the window. The mayor had moved to the saloon and was talking to someone under the overhang. Jeeter dipped at the knees but could not see who it was.

“Please,” Ernestine said. “For my sake if you won’t do it for your own. I do not care to be a widow so soon after becoming a wife.”

Jeeter wavered. The window was a good vantage point. He could shoot anyone who tried to cross to the store. But he could not stop the lead from flying, and two dozen guns was a lot of lead. Ernestine might be hit. “All right.” He gave in. “We will do it your way.”

“Thank you,” Ernestine said, and kissed him on the cheek. “You are doing the right thing.”

Hand in hand they descended the stairs to the hall and were a few steps from the kitchen when all hell broke loose.

Chester Luce saw it. He saw Lawrence Fisch jerk at his nickel-plated Remingtons, but the revolvers were not quite clear when Abe Haslett’s pistol boomed. Fisch staggered against the batwings and looked down at a hole in his shirt over his sternum, a hole that had not been there a second ago.

“You have killed me, you son of a bitch.”

“Not yet,” Abe Haslett said, and shot him again.

As shouts and yells erupted in the saloon, Lawrence Fisch slowly turned. He swatted at the batwings and shouldered on through, crying, “Help me, someone! I am done for!”

Chester was only a step away from the Southerner. He did not want to draw attention to himself, but acrid powder smoke tingled in his nose and before he could stop himself, he sneezed.

Abe Haslett looked at him, and the muzzle of Haslett’s six-shooter swung in his direction. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

“Only that he is part of a posse,” Chester said, “and they are liable to take exception.”

“A what?”

The other Hasletts had dismounted and were running toward the saloon. They stopped when Abe Haslett whirled and bellowed, “I just shot a John law! Take cover!”

Chester dived under the batwings. He rolled and collided with something that should not be there. For an instant he was nose to nose with Lawrence Fisch. Their eyes met just as the spark of life faded from Fisch’s. It made Chester think of Adolphina, dead in their kitchen, and he squawked in terror.

Strong hands gripped him by the arms and hauled Chester erect. He was surrounded by posse members, foremost among them Undersheriff Glickman, who snapped, “What in hell happened? Who shot Fisch, and why? Is Jeeter Frost out there?”

“It was a Haslett,” Chester said. “There are four of them. Rebs. Friends of the Larns.”

“But why shoot Fisch?” Seamus was thinking of how mad George Hinkle would be, to say nothing of the boy’s father.

Over at the window the butcher’s helper said, “They are shucking rifles from their saddles and taking cover. It looks like they mean to shoot it out with us.”

“But
why
?” Seamus said. He was after Jeeter Frost and only Jeeter Frost. “This makes no kind of sense.” He grabbed the front of the mayor’s coat. “You were out there. Why, damn it?”

“They don’t like people who don’t like Rebels,” was all Chester could think of to say.

Out in the street a rifle cracked and the window-pane splintered but did not shatter. Win Curry dashed from behind the bar, saying, “Stop them! They are shooting my saloon!”

Chester tore his gaze from Lawrence Fisch. “My wife is dead, too. Jeeter Frost is to blame.”

“What?” Seamus said, unsure he heard correctly.

“He killed her in our kitchen,” Chester elaborated. “I think he beat her to death.”

“You
think
?”

“It must have been a terrible way to go. Better if he had stabbed her with the butcher knife or chopped her with the meat cleaver.”

“Hold on.” Too much was happening too fast for Seamus. “Are you saying Frost has been in Coffin Varnish this whole time? Is he with the schoolmarm? Why were they in your kitchen?”

“What does anyone do in a kitchen?” Chester evaded the question.

Another shot struck the window. The pane dissolved in shards, and Abe Haslett bellowed, “Poke your heads out and we will give you the same! We won’t let you take us in, do you hear?”

Seamus’s confusion grew. “Why would we want to arrest them?” he asked no one in particular. “Someone tell me what in hell is going on.”

“I wish I could,” a store clerk said. “But someone would first have to tell me.”

“I hate this stupid town,” Seamus said.

Chester heard that. “You can’t blame Coffin Varnish. This is Dodge City’s fault. Dodge got the railroad and we didn’t.”

Seamus was fit to slug someone. “So now the railroad is involved? Why not throw in prairie dogs and George Custer?”

“You are talking nonsense,” Chester Luce told him.

That did it. Seamus hit him, as fine a punch as was
ever thrown, flush on the point of the mayor’s dumpling chin. Chester Luce went down and did not stir once he hit. Seamus stalked to the window, and careful not to show himself, hollered, “This is Sheriff Glickman! You will account for yourselves and your antics!”

“This is Abe Haslett! You ain’t takin’ us in, you hear, tin star?”

“Why in hell would we want to?” If Seamus were any more confused, he would swear he was drunk.