Ralph Compton Blood Duel

But, God, he hated leaving Dodge! Usually Seamus avoided it by sending a deputy. But one of the deputies was returning a couple of deserters to the army, another was helping escort a federal prisoner to Kansas City, and the third went and shot his own foot while practicing with his six-shooter.

Buildings sprouted ahead and Seamus sat up straighter. He wanted to make a good impression. He took off his bowler and slapped it against his leg to shake off the dust. Before putting it back on, he took out his comb and ran it through his well-oiled black hair. He liked to slick it with Macassar oil, as much for the shine as the perfumed scent. He had a pompadour, but his hat invariably flattened it, and wide muttonchops. In his suits and polished boots, he presented a fine figure of a man, or so he often flattered himself.

As he drew closer, Seamus parted his jacket so the badge on his vest and the ivory-handled Merwin and Hulbert revolver on his left hip could be plainly seen. The pistol was another vanity. He was no kind of shot with it unless whatever he was shooting at was less than ten feet away, and even then he had to hold the revolver steady with both hands and take good aim. But then, he was not in the law business to shoot people. He was in the law business to make money. That he actually had, on occasion, to enforce the law was a nuisance he could do without.

Seamus had only ever been to Coffin Varnish once and that had been once too many. He recalled hearing that in the early days Coffin Varnish had been fit to rival Dodge as the queen of the plains, but Dodge had long since outstripped its rival in every respect. Fact is, he had forgotten Coffin Varnish even existed until Frank Lafferty came huffing and puffing into the sheriff’s office. Damn him.

Nothing had changed since Seamus’s last visit. The single street ran from south to north. On the right was the general store and some other buildings, four or five abandoned and in disrepair. On the left was the livery, an empty building, then the saloon, then more empty and boarded-over buildings, and finally a cottage. What in hell a cottage was doing there was anyone’s guess, but Seamus remembered it from his last visit.

It was near eleven o’clock when Seamus, after a two-hour ride, drew rein at the hitch rail in front of the saloon and gratefully climbed down. As he looped the reins, he noticed a man in a rocking chair in the shade of the overhang. The man’s gray hair sparked another memory. “Winifred Curry, as I recollect. You own this saloon.”

“You recollect rightly, Sheriff Glickman,” Win complimented him. “It has been a spell since you were here last.”

“Undersheriff,” Seamus corrected him. “Hinkle is the sheriff.”

“Is that the same as a deputy?” Win asked.

“Higher than a deputy but lower than the sheriff,” Seamus clarified, stretching.

“Then what do we call you? Is it Deputy Glickman or Undersheriff Glickman? Undersheriff is a mouthful.”

“I guess calling me Sheriff Glickman won’t hurt anyone’s feelings,” Seamus said. Certainly not George Hinkle’s, who at that time of day was usually sitting in the cushioned chair at his desk with his feet propped up, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. Seamus was angry at him, too.

“We have been expecting someone with a badge ever since that Lafferty fellow lit out,” Win informed him. “I reckon he told you about the shootings.”

“I came to view the bodies and talk to any witnesses,” Seamus said. “But first I can use a drink. My throat is dry from all the dust I swallowed on my way here.” He started toward the batwings but abruptly stopped to avoid stepping in pig droppings. “Damn. Your street is worse than the streets in Dodge.” He hated the streets in Dodge.

“Not by much.” Win rose and preceded him.

The saloon smelled of stale odors and some not so stale, notably the unmistakable odor of fresh blood. Seamus knew the smell well from the short time he had spent working in a slaughterhouse when he was younger. Vile work, that, and hardly fitting for a man of his refined sensibilities. He regarded the new stains on the plank floor. “You have moved the bodies, I see.”

“I didn’t want folks tripping over them,” Winifred said. He produced a glass and a bottle of his best Monongahela. “Want me to pour?”

“If you would.” Seamus tried not to breathe too deep. Resting an elbow on the bar, he accepted the glass and let the whiskey burn a path down his throat to his stomach. “Ahhh. I’m obliged.”

“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?”