Blood Duel (28 page)

“You don’t fool us!” Abe shouted. “We know you know about Crooked Creek Sam!”

Seamus began to think the entire world had gone insane. “Crooked Creek Sam Hoyt?”

“You figured out we were in on his killin’,” Abe yelled. “Us and the Larns. That’s why you did the Larns in. But you won’t do us like you done them. No siree!”

“They say they had a hand in murdering Crooked Creek Sam?” Seamus said, more to focus his thoughts than anything else. “Those and the four dead ones we found? Am I getting this right?”

“The countryside is overrun with cutthroats,” a posse member remarked.

Seamus was still putting the mental pieces together. As near as he could tally it, he had four killers—dead killers—in accidental custody, and four more killers were out in the street with the intention of waging war on his posse. “This is a hell of a note.”

“What do we do?” the blacksmith’s apprentice asked. He was young and stocky and had more muscle than hair.

“What do you think we do?” was Seamus’s rejoinder. “We shoot the hell out of them.”

 ∗   ∗   ∗

Thunder revived Adolphina. Crashing thunder in the distance, she thought. But she did not open her eyes or stir. Her head hurt too much. She struggled to remember why and it came back in a wave of pain and anger; that damned rascal Jeeter Frost had walloped her with her own frying pan.

Rage galvanized Adolphina into sitting up. Almost instantly she regretted it as spikes of pain tore through her. Her head felt ripe to burst. Groaning, she touched her temple and stared at a drop of blood on her fingertip. “The weasel. The miserable weasel.”

Thunder rumbled again, only now Adolphina recognized it for what it was: gunfire. She looked about her, then rose and gazed down the hall. The killer and the schoolmarm were nowhere to be found. “Miss Prescott?” she called out. “Are you there?”

Reassured by the lack of a reply, Adolphina moved toward the front of the store. The din in the street was nearly nonstop now. She figured the posse had spotted Jeeter Frost and the runt was being shot to bits. “Nothing would please me more,” she said aloud.

The store was dark, yet to be lit by the glow of the rising sun. Adolphina crept to the window and eased onto her knees. A wretched-looking man was crouched behind a water trough near the store, firing a rifle at the saloon. But it was not Jeeter Frost. She did not know what to make of it. Suddenly lead thudded into the wall, and she ducked down. No sooner did she do so than more shots, from the saloon, struck the window. Three holes appeared, along with a hairline crack.

Adolphina remembered how much that window cost
her and Chester. Anger bubbled within her. “The fools!” she fumed, and rose. Heedless of the danger, she yanked the door wide and bawled, “Watch your shooting over there! You are hitting my store!”

The man behind the water trough glanced around in surprise. He abruptly heaved erect and sprang toward her.

Adolphina did not know what he intended, but she was not about to let him in. She slammed the door, or tried to. He hit it with his shoulder, the impact bashing the door against her, and she teetered on her heels. Although she recovered her balance almost immediately, the harm had been done. He was inside, his back to the wall, his rifle leveled.

“That wasn’t very nice, you tub of lard.”

“I beg your pardon?” Adolphina said. She was prickly about her size. It was not her fault nature had not endowed her with a shape men found more appealing.

“Trying to close the door in my face,” the man growled. “You could have gotten me killed.”

“Leave these premises this instant, whoever you are,” Adolphina demanded.

The man snorted. “That is not about to happen, lady. Me and my brothers are in a tight, and I figure you are our salvation. I am Abe Haslett, by the way.”

“My condolences to your mother,” Adolphina said.

Abe Haslett glowered. “Makin’ me mad ain’t too smart.”

“What is all this shooting about? I was told a posse is in town. Am I to infer you and the posse are at odds?”

“They want us for a killin’ but I will be damned if
they will treat us to a strangulation jig,” Abe said. “Which is where you come in.”

“I am afraid I do not understand,” Adolphina admitted.

“There are too many of them and not enough of us. We could light a shuck, but they would be after us in no time. So I aim to make good our escape by holding you over their heads.”

“You are no gentleman.”

“Dire straits play hell with manners, lady. But don’t fret. We won’t harm you if you don’t give us cause.”

Adolphina was outraged. She clenched her fists and suppressed an urge to pummel him senseless.

The firing in the street had about tapered off; only a few shots were coming from the saloon. Abe Haslett turned his head toward the doorway but did not show himself. “Law dog! Can you hear me over there?”

“I hear you!” Undersheriff Glickman responded.

“I have a woman here!” Abe yelled, and looked at her. “Who are you, anyhow?” After she told him, he hollered, “Mrs. Luce is her name! Unless you want something unpleasant to happen to her, you and your men will lay down your guns and let us ride out.”

“First Frost, now you!” Seamus Glickman shouted. “Whatever happened to chivalry? Did it die with the knights?”

“What in hell is he talkin’ about?” Abe asked Adolphina.

“I will thank you not to use foul language in the presence of a lady,” Adolphina instructed him. “If you insist on hiding behind my skirts, at least be polite about it.”

“You are wearing a dressin’ gown, not skirts,” Abe Haslett said. “And on you it is more like a tent.”

“There you go again. You have a foul mouth.”

Abe’s dark eyes glittered. “You just don’t listen, do you? Female or no, I will not abide slurs.”

“Being called a tent is hardly a compliment.”

“All right,” Abe said. “I will desist if you will behave. Once me and my brothers are in the clear, I will let you go with no hard feelin’s. Do we have a deal?”

“You have the rifle,” Adolphina answered.

By now the firing had completely stopped. Abe cupped a hand to his mouth and bawled, “Jefferson! Quince! Josephus! Are all of you still with me!”

“I am here, brother!”

“Alive and kickin’!”

“I got nicked but I am fine!”

Abe smiled. “Stay put while I show our prize. Then we will be on our way, and good riddance.” He wagged his Winchester. “After you, if you please, and do not think of running or my trigger finger might twitch.”

“You would shoot a woman in the back?” Adolphina asked.

“Back or front makes no never mind to me,” Abe told her. “Now out you go. Keep your hands where I can see them, and don’t speak unless I say you can flap your gums.”

“I hope I get to spit on your grave,” Adolphina said, but she moved past him and out under the brightening sky of dawn. A golden arch crowned the eastern horizon, and down the street a pig, unperturbed by the gunfire, was astir.

“And you call yourself a lady,” Abe criticized, following her out and crouching so she shielded him from the shooters in the saloon. “Do you see her?” he yelled. “I am no bluff.”

Chester Luce appeared in the shattered saloon window. “She is my wife! You had better not harm her!”

“You have my sympathy, mister,” Abe called out. “As for the harmin’, that depends on the cooperation we get.” He raised his voice. “Did you hear that, law dog? Do I have your word we can ride out?”

“You have it,” Seamus Glickman replied. “And I will be delighted the day I officiate at your hanging.”

“Kansans sure are bloodthirsty,” Abe said. Then, “Brothers! We must make ourselves scarce while we have this whale to bargain with.”

“That does it,” Adolphina said, and turned. “I have borne all the bad manners I am going to.”

Abe pointed the Winchester at her bosom. “You will turn back around and behave, damn you.”

“I am not a whale,” Adolphina said.

“You are no guppy, either.”

Between the pain from the gash in her temple and her fury, Adolphina’s head was pounding. “You are as yellow as your teeth. I have half a mind to take that rifle from you and wrap it around your neck.”

“There will be hell to pay if you try,” Abe Haslett warned.

“Hell it is, then,” Adolphina said, and reached for his Winchester.

“I can’t,” Ernestine Frost said.

Jeeter Frost had led the horses out and was holding hers so she could mount. The thunderous din in the street was added incentive for them to fan the breeze, but now his new bride had paused and was staring back at the rear of the general store. “What is it you can’t?” he asked.

“I can’t leave yet,” Ernestine said. “I have to go back and check on her.”

“You do not,” Jeeter said.

“We left her lying there over the table. We don’t know if she was alive or dead.” Ernestine shook her head. “It is not right. We can’t go riding off without doing what we can for her.”

“The cow brought it on herself.”

“Please be nice,” Ernestine scolded. “If you don’t want to go, even though it was you who walloped her with that frying pan, then I will go myself.” She started to walk off but he grabbed her arm.

“Hold on. Hear that shooting? I am the one who has to go.” Jeeter turned her toward her mount. “You climb on and wait for me. I won’t be long.”

“We are man and wife now,” Ernestine said. “We should go together.”

Jeeter decided that if he was to wear the britches in their marriage, he must put his foot down on occasion. This was an occasion. “No. Please. Lead is flying all over the place. I don’t want you taking a stray slug.” He cupped his hands for her use as a step. “I will run in quick, splash water on her face to bring her around, and run back to you. We can be gone in five minutes.”

“You are so sweet,” Ernestine said, and permitted him to give her a boost. He handed her the reins and gave her the reins to the gruella and the lead rope to the packhorse.

“In case they spook,” Jeeter said. Drawing his Colt Lightning, he retraced his steps to the general store. When he saw the kitchen was empty, he smiled. “The sow is all right.” He could return to his new bride.

From the front of the store came voices. The sow’s, and another’s. It might be some of the posse, Jeeter guessed, and she might be telling them about him and Ernestine. He had to find out. Stalking down the hall, he warily slunk to the counter. The front door was open. Out in the street men were hollering. Something about a woman being used as a hostage.

It was none of Jeeter’s business. He should go. But Ernestine might ask if he had seen the Luce woman with his own eyes, and he could not lie to her. He would never lie to her. Feeling supremely stupid, he cat-footed to the front door, and was momentarily stupefied.

Adolphina Luce had hold of the muzzle of a Winchester.
The other end was held by a man Jeeter had never seen before. Even as he set eyes on them, the rifle went off. The lead tore into Adolphina’s chest and ruptured out her back. Recoiling in shock, she let go and said, “I didn’t think you would do it.”

“You dumb cluck!” the man snapped. “Don’t blame me. It went off when you pulled on it.”

From the saloon came a loud wail,
“Adolphina!”

Jeeter had not liked the woman. He felt no regret when her thick legs folded and she keeled over. He had no cause to linger and was turning when the man with the rifle also turned—toward the store.

“Who the blazes are you?”

Jeeter was keenly aware the muzzle was pointed at him now, and he never could stand having guns pointed at him. “Drop your rifle,” he commanded.

“Like hell.”

“Suit yourself,” Jeeter said, and shot the stranger between the eyes. He backed away but had only gone a few steps when a younger man with a rifle materialized beside the twitching body.

“Abe! Abe! Who shot you?” The younger man glanced into the store. “It was you, you son of a bitch!” He started to raise the stock of his rifle to his shoulder.

“The hell with you, too.” Jeeter sent a slug into the man’s forehead. Ordinarily he liked to know who he was killing, and why, but these two had brought their rash ends on themselves. He continued to back up, past shelves crammed with merchandise, his Colt fixed on the doorway, and it was well he did.

Two more men appeared. By their features they were related to the first two. They did not bandy
words but sprayed lead, working the levers of their Winchesters as rapidly as they could.

Jeeter dived behind shelves crammed with dry goods. Pieces of merchandise and wood slivers from the shelves rained around him. He scrambled along the bottom until he came to the end near the wall. The shelves were about a foot wide, six of them spaced evenly from bottom to top. The top came within several feet of the ceiling.

Jeeter kicked folded blankets aside and began climbing. He had maybe thirty seconds before the pair came in. Dishes fell and crashed. A box of silverware made a terrible racket. He reached the top and clung flat on his belly, his breath caught in his throat. The pair were bound to have heard the stuff fall. If they reasoned out where he was, they would drop him like a sitting duck.

Another moment, and the two men were at the aisle end of the shelves, rifles at the ready, sweeping the barrels back and forth.

“Where did he get to, Jefferson?” one asked.

“I don’t know,” the other said. “But he can’t have gotten far, Quince. He’s as good as dead.”

They were not too bright, these boys. They advanced between the shelves, looking right and left and left and right but not up. Never once up. Jeeter shot the one called Jefferson in the top of the head and the one called Quince in the face when Quince glanced at the top of the shelves.

Jeeter reloaded. Always reload right away; that was one of the most important rules, along with always kill with the first shot and never rush your aim if you had the time not to. He did not climb down until he
had six pills in the wheel, and he held on to the Lightning as he descended.

He must get to Ernestine. But he had only taken three steps toward the back when feet thudded in the street and shadows flitted across the window.