Ralph Compton Blood Duel

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.

Chapter 7

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.”