Blood Duel Read online

  “I want to thank you again for doing this,” Jeeter Frost said. “It is awful sweet of you.”

  Her cheeks burning, Ernestine replied, “I would do the same for any of my students.”

  “Maybe so,” Jeeter said. “But it means a lot to me, you taking extra time like this so I can learn to read that much sooner.”

  “You are making fine progress, Mr. Frost.” Ernestine twisted the key and entered. The inside was black as pitch. She moved along an aisle between rows of desks with the ease of long familiarity. It took a minute for her to light the lamp. She adjusted the wick and turned, nearly bumping into Jeeter Frost. “My word! You shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Jeeter said. “Old habits, and all.” He took off his hat and claimed his usual desk. “What letter are we up to again? I keep forgetting.”

  “You are up to v. All that is left is w, x, y, and z,” Ernestine revealed. “Another two days, I should warrant, and you will have learned the entire alphabet.”

  “I’ll be switched,” Jeeter said with distinct pride. “Had I known learning it would be so much fun, I’d have done it years ago.”

  Ernestine grinned. “Few of my young charges regard schooling as fun. To them it is more akin to torture.” She opened a drawer and took out the McGuffey’s Reader Frost had been using. As she handed it to him, their fingers brushed.

  “What first?” Jeeter asked. “Want me to write a v twenty or thirty times?”

  “Actually,” Ernestine said, leaning back against the desk, “before we commence your studies I was hoping you would tell me the rest of your story about that incident in Newton you were involved in.”

  Jeeter chuckled. “It beats me all hollow why you let me prattle on about my past. I have told you more about myself than I have ever told anyone.”

  “You honor me with your confidence,” Ernestine said. She did not mention how illuminating the revelations had been. She felt she knew him better than she knew anyone except herself, and the knowledge she gleaned had cast this supposedly notorious killer in a whole new light.

  “As for Newton, there wasn’t much to it,” Jeeter said. “Back in seventy-one, it was, before Dodge City came to be. Then Newton was the wildest and woolliest of the cow towns. The dance halls and saloons were open twenty-four hours of the day. A man could do anything, buy anything.”

  “As you can in Dodge now, south of the tracks,” Ernestine commented.

  “Oh, Newton was wilder, ma’am. It was about the toughest, roughest place I’ve ever been, and that’s saying something. I spent a lot of time gambling in those days, usually at Tuttle’s. One night I was there when some cowhands came up the trail from Texas.”

  Ernestine listened in rapt attention, her eyes shining with more than reflected lantern light.

  “It was the end of the drive and they naturally decided to tear up the town. All the outfits did in those days. They would clean up and get liquored up and make the rounds of all the saloons. Six of them came into Tuttle’s, and that’s when the trouble began.” Jeeter stopped, reliving it again in his mind’s eye.

  “You were playing cards, you say?” Ernestine goaded when he did not go on.

  “Yes, ma’am. I had just been dealt a flush, the best hand I had all night. I bet all I had. If I had won the pot, I’d have been a couple of hundred dollars richer. In those days that was a lot.”

  “It still is,” Ernestine felt compelled to say.

  “I reckon. Anyway, along about then, some drunk punchers got into an argument with some other fellas. There was a lot of name calling and pushing and shoving, and a cowboy came stumbling out of nowhere and fell on our table and upended it. Down went the money, our cards, everything.”

  “That made you mad?”

  “It sure as blazes did!” Jeeter exclaimed. “The cards were all mixed up on the floor. We couldn’t end the hand. Everyone was given their money back, so I suppose I should have been grateful. But when I saw the cowboy who did it standing there smiling like it was a big joke, I lost my temper. I drew my revolver and pistol-whipped the bas—” Jeeter caught himself. “Sorry, ma’am. I tend to forget myself sometimes.”

  “That’s all right. Go on,” Ernestine urged.

  “Well, his pards did not take kindly to me breaking his nose and a few of his teeth, so the next thing I knew, lead started to fly. Two of them were down when a slug caught me in the shoulder. It didn’t break the bone but it sure hurt, and to make my predicament worse, my arm went numb.”

  “Oh my. What did you do?”

  “The only thing I could. I border-shifted and cut loose with the Colt in my left hand. I’m not as good with my left as my right, but I ain’t no slouch, neither. Two more kissed the sawdust. By then Tuttle had grabbed the scattergun he kept under the bar and roared that the next hombre who threw lead would be blowed to kingdom come.”

  “Blown,” Ernestine said.

  “What? Oh. Sorry. But that stopped the fight. Lucky for me the Newton sawbones was there and patched me up on the spot. He patched up three of the four cowboys I shot, too. The fourth was beyond patching.”

  “To think how close you came to meeting your maker,” Ernestine said softly.

  “I’ve come close more times than you have fingers and toes,” Jeeter told her. “But I never thought much of it. It’s just how things are.”

  “I am glad you have survived as long as you have,” Ernestine said. “Otherwise we would never have met, and I would rate that a severe loss.”

  “Shucks, ma’am. No need to flatter me so. I know I am imposing on your goodwill and good graces.”

  “Mr. Frost, I say in all sincerity that I have enjoyed our sessions more than I have ever enjoyed just about anything.”

  Jeeter Frost did not know what to say to that. It sounded to him as if she was saying she liked him, liked him a lot, but that was ridiculous. He was a killer; she was a schoolmarm. He was the dregs of the earth; she was the salt. He was an outcast, shunned by decent folk everywhere; she was all that was pure and virtuous in the world. Finally, when he could not take the strained silence any longer, he forced out, “That was sweet of you to say, ma’am, but you don’t need to pretend on my account.”

  “That is the first unkind thing you have said to me,” Ernestine quietly responded.

  At that Jeeter felt his skin grow warm, as his skin was wont to do in her company. “I would never, ever be unkind to you, ma’am. You are the kindest gal I have ever met. There is no one I hold in higher regard.”

  “I trust you will not consider it too bold of me if I say I hold you in high regard as well.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible, ma’am. I shoot people, remember?”

  “Please call me Ernestine. Yes, you have been quick on the trigger, but in every instance you were provoked or acting in self-defense.”

  Jeeter tried to wrap his mind around the incredible wonder of what she was implying. “Are you saying—surely not—that you condone the deeds I’ve done, ma’am?”

  “My name is Ernestine. No, I do not entirely approve, but neither do I condemn you. The Good Book says to judge not, lest we be judged.”

  “Well,” Jeeter said, at a loss as to what else to reply.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

  “I am a mite confused, ma’am,” Jeeter said. “Does this mean you think of me as a friend, sort of?”

  Ernestine hesitated. Now that she had broached the subject of her feelings, she was deathly afraid of revealing more than she should. “I hold you in high regard, Mr. Frost. And again, call me Ernestine.”

  “This beats all.” Jeeter smiled warmly. “A lady like you, saying all these nice things about me.”

  “You are too hard on yourself, Mr. Frost.”

  “No harder than everyone else is,” Jeeter observed. “Most folks treat me like I have some disease, like one of those, what do you call them, lepers?”

  “Society does not always heed the Good Book,” Ern
estine said. She realized her palms had grown sweaty and was so astounded, she lost her trail of thought.

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Jeeter said. “When I was little I never could savvy why everyone couldn’t be nice and get along. Now I’m a lot older and I can’t say I savvy it any better.”

  “You have a gentle soul, Mr. Frost,” Ernestine remarked.

  “Me, ma’am? Gentle?” Jeeter started to laugh but stopped. It would be rude, he decided. “If you say so. But I doubt there’s another person anywhere in Kansas who would agree.”

  “Perhaps that is because they do not know you as well as I do. You have not bared your soul to them as you have to me.”

  Her mention of “bare” made Jeeter fidget. He suddenly felt awkward and foolish crammed into that desk, and shoving to his feet, he moved toward the window.

  “Is something wrong?” Ernestine asked.

  “No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. Hell, ma’am, I am so confused, I am not sure whether I am awake or dreaming.” Jeeter pressed his forehead to the pane and closed his eyes. He felt queasy, as if he was going to be sick, and strangely light-headed. Under his breath he said, “What is happening to me?”

  Ernestine came up behind him. She knew full well she should not do what she was about to do, but she did it anyway. She put her hand on his shoulder. “Would you care for a glass of water? I have a pitcher.”

  Jeeter could not focus for the life of him. He felt her hand, and that was all. Her hand. On him. “Water would be wonderful, ma’am,” he said, his throat as dry as a desert. He was almost glad when she removed her hand and stepped back to her desk. Almost. He waited, afraid to say anything. Her next question compounded his confusion.

  “How old are you, Mr. Frost?” Ernestine asked as she poured.

  “Thirty-one, ma’am. I am no spring chicken.”

  “I am thirty. We are almost the same age. I find that quite interesting. Don’t you find it interesting?”

  “If you say it is, then it must be,” Jeeter said, uncertain how that was a factor in anything.

  Ernestine brought the glass to him. “Here you go.”

  Their fingers touched, and Jeeter’s heart skipped a couple of beats. He gratefully gulped the water and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Thank you, ma’am.” He hoped they would go back to his lessons so he could feel comfortable again, but it was not to be.

  Gazing past him out the window at the dark prairie, Ernestine said softly, “Do you know what they call a single woman my age? A spinster. A woman who will never marry. A woman with no prospects.”

  “That’s not true, ma’am,” Jeeter said, coming to her defense. “You are as pretty as can be. There ain’t a man anywhere who wouldn’t be honored to come courting.”

  “Isn’t a man anywhere,” Ernestine corrected. “You flatter me, but the truth is, I am too plain and prim. In my more honest moments, I can admit my flaws and foresee the consequences.”

  “Flaws, ma’am?” Jeeter said. “I don’t see any.”

  “Would you like to know the truth, Mr. Frost? I do not like being a spinster. I do not want to end my days alone.”

  “Ma’am?” Jeeter was ready to bolt. They were treading on territory where he would rather not tread.

  “Do you really find me pretty?”

  Jeeter saw where she was leading and a thunderclap filled his ears and seared his body.

  “You are shocked, aren’t you?” Ernestine said. “I have overstepped the boundaries. I have shamed myself and you think less of me as a woman. But you see, that is what I am, a woman. I have a woman’s feelings and a woman’s yearnings. Everyone else places me on a pedestal, but I tread the same earth they do.”

  To shut her up Jeeter did the only thing he could think of, the thing he most wanted to do. His blood roaring in his veins, he enfolded the schoolmarm in his arms and kissed her.

  Chapter 12

  Sheriff Hinkle had his feet propped on his desk and was reading the National Police Gazette when Seamus Glickman walked into the sheriff’s office and over to his own desk. Without looking up Hinkle asked, “What did you find out?”

  “It has been two weeks now and there has not been a lick of trouble in Coffin Varnish,” Seamus reported. “The Times sent one of their reporters up there yesterday, and that piglet of a mayor, Chester Luce, was crying in his cups about how no curly wolves have come calling.”

  “I told you not to worry,” Hinkle said. “I told you nothing would come of it.”

  “I’m still not persuaded,” Seamus said. “It takes time for word to spread. We might still have a batch of murders on our hands.”

  “You need to learn to relax. You are too tense and high-strung.” Hinkle placed the Gazette on his desk and leaned back with his fingers laced behind his head. “A few more weeks and everyone will have forgotten about it. Life will go on as usual.”

  “Damn it, George,” Seamus said. “You don’t take things seriously enough.”

  “Why get all bothered over things you can’t control?” Hinkle rubbed his chin and then his stomach. “What time is it?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  “That’s all? I’m famished. I didn’t eat enough breakfast.”

  Seamus plopped into his chair and picked up a copy of the publication he liked best, the Illustrated Police News. He preferred it over the Gazette because the Police News ran more stories dealing with crimes that had to do with the ravishing of women, and he was hugely fond of ravishing women. “I hope you don’t have much for me to do today. I’d like to stick around the office and take it easy.”

  “What kind of attitude is that for the undersheriff to have?”

  “It is the same attitude the sheriff has, and I never hear him complain.”

  George Hinkle chortled. “And therein is the secret of a long and contented life. Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow. And never, ever get all worked up over trifles.”

  “Coffin Varnish isn’t a trifle.”

  The sheriff sighed and bent to his reading. “There is a task I would like you to do some night soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “We have had a report that a strange man has been seen hanging around the schoolhouse. A couple of parents saw him. I want you to go over there and keep a watch.”

  “On the schoolmarm?” Seamus laughed. “Have you ever seen a more homely female in all your born days?”

  “She isn’t a beauty, I will grant you that,” Hinkle said. “But she is our schoolmarm, and if some shenanigans are going on, we need to know about it before it becomes common knowledge.”

  “Wonderful,” Seamus said. “When do you want me to spy on her?”

  “Some night soon.”

  “I will get around to it,” Seamus said. “But what man would take up with her when there are so many prettier to be had? You couldn’t pay me to ask her out.”

  “Now, now,” Sheriff Hinkle said. “She might be a peach of a girl for all you know.”

  “Have you seen her? Have you talked to her? It wouldn’t surprise me if she wears a chastity belt.”

  Hinkle laughed. “Yes, I have talked to her, and yes, she strikes me as the sort of woman who would rather be burned alive than let a man touch her. But stranger things have happened than her having a beau, and if she has found one I would like to know about it so I can smooth ruffled feathers. Again, it is not urgent. Get back to me if you learn anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look at the bright side. At least I am not asking you to ride to Coffin Varnish again.”

  “The next time you should go. Maybe you will have more influence with them than I did. But watch out for the mayor’s wife. She is the power behind the throne, and big enough to break you over her knee.”

  “Why, Seamus. Did she intimidate you?”

  “Intimidate, nothing. If she were a man I would not have let her talk to me the way she did. She is one of those women who wears the britches and flaunts it.”

  “Well, soon you can forget
about her and Coffin Varnish and their crazy scheme.”

  “That suits me just fine.”

  The sun was at its zenith when the card game got under way at the Long Branch. Aces Weaver took part, but then Aces was always at the Long Branch. His friends liked to joke that the tall drink of water lived there. Aces was a gambler but not a very good one, which was why he plied his trade in a cow town like Dodge and not on a riverboat plying the mighty Mississippi.

  The second player was Joe Gentile. He worked as a clerk at Wright, Beverly and Company, the premier general store in all of Dodge. It was his day off and he had a few extra dollars, so he elected to sit in, in the hope of acquiring a few more.

  On Gentile’s left sat Paunch Stevens. He dabbled in real estate. To look at him, with his big belly and bald pate, he would not be deemed of any account. But Paunch also had a temper, and a Smith & Wesson he was not shy about producing when his temper was aroused. When he sat down at the table, Aces and Joe Gentile glanced at one another but did not say anything.

  The last player to take a chair was William Everett Caine. He owned a freighting company and possessed more money than sense. His nickname was Club. He had a clubfoot, and limped, and was sensitive about having it brought to his attention, which was why he wore a Webley revolver in a holster next to his belt buckle for a cross draw. The Webley was an English model with a bird’s-beak butt and walnut grips. It was not as common as Colts and Remingtons and Smith & Wessons, and many thought it looked downright strange. But no one mentioned that to Club Caine. He was English, and sensitive about that, too.

  The game had been under way about an hour when the trouble started. Paunch Stevens slapped his cards down on the table and growled, “You win again, you damn Brit.”

  “I will thank you not to take that tone with me,” Club said.

  “What does that make now?” Paunch grumbled. “Five hands in a row? Hell, if I had your luck, I would give up selling property and gamble for a living, like Aces, here.”

  “In some games luck is better than others,” Club said.

  Paunch made a sound reminiscent of the snort of an agitated bull, then declared, “Especially when a player improves his luck any way he can. Watch how you deal the next time it is your turn.”