Ralph Compton Blood Duel

The rider studied him. “You must be somebody important hereabouts.”

Chester smiled and swelled the chest he did not have, and nodded. “That I am, stranger. You have the honor of addressing the mayor of this fair town.”

“Fair?” the rider said. He had a squeaky voice that fit the rest of him. “If this place was any more dead, it would have headstones.”

From the man in the other rocking chair came a chuckle. He had white hair and wrinkles and an unlit pipe jammed between his lips. He also wore an apron with more stains than the rider’s hat. He did not wear a hat, himself. “You do not miss much, do you?”

“I live longer that way,” the rider said, and went under the overhang. He pointed at the apron. “If you’re not the bar dog, you are overdressed.”

Again the white-haired man chuckled. “I do in fact own this establishment. My name is Win Curry. Short for Winifred.” Win stared at the rider expectantly, as if waiting for him to say who he was, but the rider did no such thing. Instead, he nodded at the batwings.

“This saloon of yours have a name, too? There is no sign.”

“No sign and no name. I couldn’t think of one I liked, so it is just a saloon,” Win explained.

The rider arched a thin eyebrow. “All the words in the world and you couldn’t come up with one or two?”

Win defended the lack. “It is not as easy as you think. Do you name everything you own?”

The rider looked at the gruella. “I reckon I don’t, at that. Anyhow, I’m not here to jaw. I’m here to drink in peace and quiet.”

“Go in and help yourself. I’ll be in directly.”

“Right friendly of you,” the rider said.

“Coffin Varnish is a right friendly place,” Win told him. “Not a grump in the twelve of us.” His eyes drifted toward Chester. “Well, leastways most are daisies.”

“Twelve, huh?” the rider said. “Must make for long lines at the outhouse.” The batwings creaked as he pushed on through.

Chester Luce frowned. “I don’t know as I like him. He poked fun at our town.”

“Hell, can you blame him?” Win responded. “As towns go it would make a great gob of spit.”

“Be nice.”

“We have to face facts,” Winifred said. “Another five years and Coffin Varnish will be fit for ghosts.”

“Five years is stretching,” Chester Luce said gloomily. “I will be lucky to last two.” He gazed across the dropping-littered street at the general store. “I haven’t had a paying customer in a month.”

“I’ve got one now,” Win said, and went to stand. He stopped with his hands gripping the rocker’s arms and squinted into the heat haze to the south. “Glory be.”

“What?” It was no small source of annoyance to Chester that the older man’s eyes were twice as sharp as his.

“There are more riders coming.”

“You’re drunk.”

“The hell I am. I haven’t had but one drink all morning and that was for breakfast.” Win’s brown eyes narrowed. “Two of them, by God. One isn’t much of a rider. He flops around something awful.”

“Three visitors in one day,” Chester marveled. “We haven’t had this many since I can remember.” He pried his round bulk from his chair and ran his pudgy hands down his jacket. “I better go to my store in case they want something. I would hate to lose a sale.”

“More than likely they won’t even stop,” Win said. “We’re not far enough from Dodge for them to have worked up much of a thirst.”

Chester scowled. “Don’t say that name. You know I hate it.”

“Don’t start,” Win said.

“I will damn well do as I please,” Chester said heatedly. “And if I damn well happen to hate Dodge City for what it has done to us, you can damn well show me the courtesy of never mentioning that damn vile pit in my presence.”

“You are plumb ridiculous at times. Do you know that?”

“I know Dodge stole the herds from us. I know Dodge stole the railroad and the wagon trains and all the trade that goes with them.”

“Dodge stole nothing. It just happened,” Win argued.

“When will you admit the truth?” Chester demanded. “Dodge has had it in for Coffin Varnish from the beginning.”

Win sighed. “Keep this up and folks will think you are touched in the head.”

Chester’s pie face became cherry red. He stabbed a pudgy finger at the saloon owner and snapped, “How come you always take their side? How come you never stand up for the town you helped found? You’re the one who named it.”

“I was drunk. We were all drunk. If we hadn’t been, maybe we would have come up with a better name than Coffin Varnish.”

“It is original. You have to give us that much. But there is nothing original about Dodge. And the gall, to call themselves a city when they are hardly a big town.”

“Damn it, Chester, stop.” Win bobbed his chin at the stick figures. “Not with them almost here.”

“It will be minutes yet,” Chester said. He stepped to the edge of the overhang. “You can’t blame me for feeling as I do. No one can. I had high hopes for Coffin Varnish.”

“Oh, hell. When you get formal I am in for a speech.”