Blood Duel (7 page)

“It’s not on the house,” Win said.

Seamus fished a half eagle from a vest pocket and
flipped it to Curry, who deftly caught it. He was tempted to say Curry could keep it, just to show off, but he didn’t.

“Here is your change,” Win said. “You will need it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I will let the mayor tell you.” Win changed the subject by asking, “After you are done here, are you going after Jeeter Frost?”

“By myself?” Seamus said. “A rip-snorter like him, I would need a posse, and the county is not about to foot the bill when he is probably halfway to California by now.”

“It is too bad about that gent from the
Times
,” Win said. “He sort of fancied himself. Did you know him?”

“Farnsworth? Knew him well,” Seamus said. Which was not entirely true. He had talked to the pompous ass every now and again, principally because Farnsworth spent a lot of his after hours at the Comique, and they shared a few drinks, but that was the extent of it.

“Being in the wrong place at the wrong time kills more men than smallpox,” Winifred commented.

Seamus drained his glass and set it down. The idle chat was already wearing thin. “I reckon I should get started.” The sooner he talked to everyone involved, the sooner he could head for Dodge. Maybe he could make it back by nightfall. A nice meal, his seat at the theater, and then a visit to Madame Blatsky’s would set the world right again. “Suppose you tell me what you saw.”

Winifred did more than that. He showed the lawman
exactly where each of the Blights had been standing when they were shot and mimicked the positions of their bodies after they fell.

Seamus only interrupted once, to chuckle and say, “The bastard shot them from under the table?” He crouched and peered under the table in the corner. “Damned sneaky, that Frost.”

“You ever heard of anyone doing that before?” Win asked.

“No, I surely haven’t,” Seamus said. He had heard of men shot from behind trees and from behind boulders, and he had heard of men shot from rooftops and from horseback and from a moving stage, but he had never heard of anyone shot from under a table. Until now.

“It is probably just as well you are not going after him,” Winifred said. “He would only add to his tally.”

“I appreciate the confidence,” Seamus said dryly. “Now why don’t you show me the bodies.” It was a command, not a question.

“I would like to,” Win said, “but they are over to the livery and no one can see them without the mayor’s permission.”

Seamus tapped his badge. “This tin star gives me the right to do as I please. The county has jurisdiction, not Coffin Varnish.”

“I know, I know,” Win said. “But—”

Before he could finish, a door at the back opened and in sashayed Sally Worth. She had done herself up, brushed her hair, and put on her best dress. It was faded but accented the swell of her bosom and her hips. Brazenly, she came up to Glickman, hooked her
arm in his, and curled her red lips in a seductive smile. “I thought I heard a new voice down here.” She introduced herself. “I don’t believe we have ever met.”

“No, we haven’t,” Seamus said. He never forgot a whore. He was particular about those he slept with, and never in a million years would he sleep with one as old as this one. Although he had to admit she had a nice body.

“Care to buy a working girl a drink?”

“I am on official business, Miss Worth,” Seamus said. “In fact, I am just on my way to talk to your mayor. Luce, isn’t that his name?”

“Chester Luce,” Sally amended. “But he is not the one who runs Coffin Varnish. Not really.”

“Sally,” Win said.

“Then who is?” Seamus asked.

“Chester’s wife, Adolphina. He never does a thing without her say-so. It was her idea to have the bodies taken to the livery and—”

“Sally,”
Win said sharply.

“What?”

“It will be better if Chester tells him. Let them hash it out officially,” Winifred advised.

Seamus was confused. “Hash what out? What the hell are you talking about? I just want to get this over with and get back to Dodge.”

“Visit the general store,” Win urged. “His Honor will fill you in.”

Sally touched Seamus’s cheek. “And when you are done, come on back so we can get acquainted. I will make your ride here worthwhile.”

Seamus inwardly shuddered. He would have to be booze blind to let a dove her age lure him under the
sheets. The gray streaks in her hair, all those wrinkles, and, he noticed, a few teeth missing. “I will give it serious consideration, madam,” he assured her.

“You do that.” Sally beamed.

Seamus was glad to get out of there. Swirls of dust rose from under his boots as he crossed the street. Two Mexicans were in front of the livery, watching him. Two boys were out in front of the cottage, equally curious. Seamus smiled and waved. He couldn’t say why, since he did not give a good damn about any of them.

The general store had not changed, either. Seamus bought tobacco on his last visit. It cost him fifty cents more than it would in Dodge. He started down an aisle, ignoring the items for sale.

The Luces were waiting for him behind the counter. Chester smiled somewhat nervously and held out his pudgy hand. “Undersheriff Glickman. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Seamus was staring at the wife. She was big enough to wrestle a bear, and win. In fact, except for her pale skin, she resembled more than anything a she-bear in a dress.

Adolphina extended her own hand. “I did not have the honor of meeting you on your last visit, but my husband told me all about you. He said you are a fine lawman, and in the next election might take Hinkle’s job.”

“Oh, really?” Seamus had never expressed any interest in being sheriff, and if he did, he certainly would not tell someone he hardly knew.

“We imagine you want to see the bodies?” Chester asked.

“In a bit,” Seamus said. “There seems to be some confusion over who has authority over them. The saloon owner told me I had to talk to you first.”

“That was nice of him,” Adolphina said.

“My point is, I don’t need your permission,” Seamus said. “Coffin Varnish does not have a marshal. If it did, he would have jurisdiction. Since it doesn’t, the sheriff enforces the law just as he does in the rest of the county outside of town and city limits.”

“We could quibble the finer points of the law, but we won’t,” Adolphina told him.

“No?”

“Not at all. Our concern is that you intend to take the bodies with you. We would rather you didn’t.” Adolphina smiled sweetly. “You see, we have plans for them.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Seamus was at a loss.

Chester and Adolphina came around the counter and Adolphina took Seamus’s arm in her hands. “We would rather you see for yourself. It will save a lot of explaining.”

Confused and curious, Seamus permitted them to lead him down the street to the livery. The Mexicans had disappeared and the wide double doors were closed. But on the doors, in freshly painted red letters, was the answer.

“I’ll be damned,” Seamus Glickman said.

Frank Lafferty tried not to fidget in his chair as he waited for his editor’s decision. He was dressed in his finest suit and had paid the barber a visit to give the best impression. So much was riding on the outcome that a fine sheen of sweat covered him from crown to toe. He hoped the editor would not notice.

Ezekiel Hinds, or Zeke as those at the
Times
called him, had been in the newspaper business for more years than everyone on the staff combined. A seasoned journalist who knew all there was to know and then some, he was responsible for hiring and promotions.

Lafferty desperately desired to move up. He had been at the
Times
for a year and a half, half of that as Edison Farnsworth’s assistant. Farnsworth had regarded himself as God’s gift to journalism and treated Lafferty as little more than his personal errand boy. He once told Lafferty, “The only way you or anyone else will ever fill my shoes is if I die.”

Lafferty had resigned himself to being an assistant forever, and then Farnsworth had done something wonderful: He had gone and gotten himself killed.

Now the suspense was killing Lafferty. Hinds had
read the piece twice and was reading it a third time. Unable to keep silent any longer, Lafferty quietly asked, “Well?”

“Not bad, son.” Hinds always called men younger than him “son.” “Not bad at all. You stuck to the facts.”

Lafferty felt the tension drain from him in a rush of release. “Thank you, sir.” He beamed. He saw the job as his. He saw himself as the rising star of Dodge City journalism, and once he conquered Dodge, who knew? New York City, perhaps, or San Francisco.

“But it is not enough,” Hinds said, bursting Lafferty’s bubble.

Panic welled, nearly constricting Lafferty’s throat, nearly making it impossible for him to squeak, “Sir?”

Hinds leaned back in his chair. He was slight of build and gray of hair. Those who did not know him would never suspect his unassuming appearance hid as keen a mind as anyone could ask for. “The facts are not always enough. Sometimes they need to be embellished. Surely you read a lot of what Farnsworth wrote?”

“He had me go over everything for spelling and grammar,” Lafferty said. As much as he hated to admit it, he rarely found a mistake. Farnsworth had a swelled head, yes, but he had the talent to justify the swelling.

“Didn’t you learn anything?” Hinds asked, not unkindly. He placed his forearms on his desk. “Listen, son. The newspaper business is not cut-and-dried. It is not just the facts and only the facts. Facts are dry. Facts are boring. They are the bare bones, if you will,
and what our readers want is the juicy meat. Do you follow me?”

Lafferty was not quite sure what the editor was getting at, but he responded, “Of course, sir.”

“Then follow his example. Take this and rewrite it. Throw in some emotion. Stir people up. Decide whether you want this Frost character to be the hero or the villain and slant your account accordingly.”

“The hero or the villain?” Lafferty had always been under the impression that a journalist’s first and foremost responsibility was to be objective.

“A hero. A man who shot a card cheat and then defended himself when the cheat’s brothers sought revenge. A villain. A man who cowardly shot another man in the back and then murdered the brothers while hiding under a table. You decide which you want him to be.”

Lafferty could not keep quiet no matter how much he wanted to. “But shouldn’t that be for the readers to decide? Is it right to lead them around by the nose?”

Hinds sat back and thoughtfully tapped the edge of his desk. Finally he said, “What is the
Times
, son?”

“A newspaper.”

“What else, son?” Hinds asked, and when Lafferty did not answer right away, he said, “The
Times
is a business. All newspapers are. They exist to make money. If they don’t make money, they fold. Therefore it behooves them to do whatever is necessary to increase their circulations so they make as much money as they can. Follow me?”

“I never thought of it in quite that fashion,” Lafferty admitted.

Hinds smiled. “That is because you are young and an idealist. I was the same at your age. Ideals are fine and dandy, but we must never let them get in the way of reality, and the reality is that people don’t want just the bare bones—they want juicy meat, and the more of that meat we feed them, the more of them buy our paper. Follow me now?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I will tell you what,” Hinds said, sliding the piece across the desk. “Rewrite this. Throw in some juice. Do a good job and we will run it in the afternoon edition. Do a really good job and I will let you fill in for Farnsworth on a probationary basis.”

“Probationary?”

“You must prove yourself, son. Show me you have what it takes and the job is yours. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

“More than fair,” Lafferty said, excitement bubbling in him like bubbling water in a hot pot.

Hinds grew thoughtful again. “In fact, now that I think about it, write two pieces. One about Frost and another about Farnsworth. Make Farnsworth out to be a lion of journalism. Lament his loss to the good people of Dodge City, and to the world.”

Lafferty took a risk. “I don’t mention he was in love with himself and thought most people are idiots?”

Hinds laughed. “No, you do not mention he was an egotistical ass. Praise his virtues, and if you have to, make up virtues to praise. Stir the emotions of our readers. That’s the juicy meat, son.” When the younger man did not leap up and run off to rewrite the story, Hinds asked, “Is something else on your mind?”

“I was thinking, sir,” Lafferty said. “I can turn this into a series of articles. Milk it for all it is worth.” Now that he knew what was required of him, he saw all sorts of possibilities.

“That is fine but don’t get ahead of yourself. Do the rewrite and we will talk some more.”

Lafferty rose and offered his hand in gratitude. “Thank you, sir. I have learned more from you in the past ten minutes than I ever learned from Edison Farnsworth.”

“Flattery, son, will get you everywhere.”

The white one-room schoolhouse sat by itself five hundred yards beyond the town limits. That was Ernestine Prescott’s doing. When she answered the appeals placed in several Eastern newspapers for a schoolmarm and came to Dodge City only to find they did not have a schoolhouse, she politely but firmly requested that it be built outside town, where her young charges could pursue their education in relative peace and solitude. Noisy streets were not conducive to study.

Dodge’s civic leaders were happy to oblige. Schoolmarms were hard to come by. There were not enough of them to meet the growing demand on the frontier, and Ernestine’s credentials were impressive. She had taught school for six years in Hartford, Connecticut, and for another six at a country school in the Catskills.

Ernestine was devoted to teaching and inspiring young minds. So much so, one day she realized she was pushing thirty and did not have a husband or a family or any of the trappings that went with them. That bothered her, but not nearly as much as the realization
that there was a great big wide world out there she had seen precious little of. Connecticut and New York were the only places she had been.