Ralph Compton Blood Duel

Jeeter self-consciously ran a hand over his oily hair. His hat was on a peg by the door and he cast a yearning glance in its direction before saying, “My folks take the credit there. I can be almost a gentleman when I put my mind to it.”

“You have impressed me,” Ernestine said. Suddenly coughing, she said, “Suppose we get back to your studies. Practice writing the e, oh, twenty times.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jeeter picked up his pencil. He hesitated, the tip of his tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth, then painstakingly imitated the e in the McGuffey’s Reader. When he was done, he held the paper so she could see. “Look! I done it!”

“You did it,” Ernestine corrected. “Now write it nineteen more times.” As he bent to the task she turned and walked to the window. It would take him a while. He did his best, but he was as slow as a turtle. The sprinkling of lights in Dodge reminded her night had fallen. She should tell him to leave. She had her reputation to think of. A schoolmarm must be above reproach, and here she was, alone with a man. She walked back to her desk and sat in her chair. She did not tell him to leave.

“I really am doing good, ma’am?”

His question surprised her. Not that he asked it, but his sincerity. Ernestine had never met anyone who yearned to learn as keenly as he did. “It has only been three days and already you are up to e. Yes, I would say you are doing quite well, Mr. Frost.”

Jeeter bent to the sheet of paper again. “You can call me Jeeter if you want, ma’am. It’s just the two of us here.”

Ernestine glanced up sharply. But there had been no hint of impropriety in his tone. “And you may call me Ernestine if you so desire.”

“You are sure I won’t get you into trouble, coming here as I do?”

“That is the fifth time you have asked, and no, you will not,” Ernestine assured him. “Who I teach on my own time is none of anyone’s affair.” She laughed lightly. “Besides, Dodge has another matter to keep tongues wagging. From what I hear, there has been a steady stream of otherwise sensible citizens traveling to Coffin Varnish to admire your handiwork.”

Jeeter looked up, the tip of his tongue sticking out. “How’s that again, ma’am?”

“Haven’t you heard? The four men you killed are on display. They are quite the attraction. At a dollar a head, someone is making a lot of money.”

“Are you joshing me, ma’am?” Jeeter was astounded. He had been avoiding human contact, except for coming to the schoolhouse for his lessons, and spent his nights camped out on the plain.

“Why, no, Mr. Frost, I am not,” Ernestine said. “You sound upset.”

“Wouldn’t you be, ma’am?” Jeeter came out of the desk, or tried to. He had to wriggle some to unfurl to his full height. “I reckon as how I better pay Coffin Varnish a visit.”

“Not right this minute, surely?” Ernestine said. “You have only been here half an hour and we agreed on an hour’s lesson each day.”

“Yes, ma’am, but—”

“But nothing, Mr. Frost.” Ernestine got up and came over and put her hand on his arm. “Kindly retake your seat.”

Jeeter could not remember the last time a woman touched him. A woman he had not paid to touch him, that is. He quickly sat and picked up the pencil. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Ernestine returned to her desk. Her hand was hot where she had placed it on his arm, and she rubbed it against her hip. But it only became hotter. “Why would you want to go there, if you do not mind my asking?”

“I shot those men,” Jeeter said. “I should have a say in what’s done with them. And I say the decent thing to do is to bury them.”

Clasping her hands behind her, Ernestine composed herself. He was constantly saying things that surprised her, and this was one of them. “That is quite noble of you, Mr. Frost.”

“Shucks, ma’am, I wouldn’t know noble from buffalo chips,” Jeeter told her. “I just know I don’t want nobody I shot made a spectacle of.”

“Anyone you shot,” Ernestine said. “Or perhaps someone, depending on whether you intended the singular or the plural.”

Jeeter set down the pencil. “When you talk like that, Ernestine, my brain goes numb.”

Ernestine smiled. It was the first time he had called her by her first name. “What will you do if you go to Coffin Varnish?”

“Ask them, polite-like, to bury the bodies,” Jeeter said. “And if they refuse, I’ll ask again, only not so polite.”

“I imagine the whole issue will soon be moot,” Ernestine commented.

“What do cows have to do with it?” Jeeter asked.

“Cows?” Ernestine repeated, and giggled. She covered her mouth with her hand but could not stop.

“What is so all-fired hilarious?”

With an effort Ernestine smothered another giggle, and replied, “Moot is not the sound cows make. In the sense I used it, I simply indicated that going to Coffin Varnish would be pointless.” His confusion was so apparent that she added, “The deceased have become rather ripe. So much so, yesterday’s newspaper mentioned that the bodies were to be buried sometime today.”