Ralph Compton Blood Duel

“Oh, please,” Farnsworth said. “Spare us the melodramatics. They might scare my assistant but they do not scare me.” He pulled out a chair. “Now then, I would like to begin with the first man you ever killed and take it from there.”

“I have a better idea,” Jeeter Frost said.

“Hear me out. I will begin with an account of one of your triumphs,” Farnsworth said. “Then I will delve into your past. What it was like growing up. Did you love your parents? Did they love you? Who was the first person you ever killed? Did you tingle at the deed or were you filled with revulsion?”

The journalist might have gone on endlessly had it not been for the metallic ratchet of a hammer being thumbed back. Farnsworth glanced up into the muzzle of the Colt Lightning. “What is this?”

“A pistol. A six-gun. A hog leg. A man-stopper. A smoke wagon,” Jeeter quickly recited. “I am surprised a good journalist does not know what they are called.”

“You are not amusing,” Farnsworth said.

“Oh, I’m amused,” the killer said, and then mimicked the other’s manner and previous statement, saying, “Your own feelings do not enter into it.”

Farnsworth had no shortage of bluster. “You do not scare me, sir. I know you will not shoot. I know it as truly as I have ever known anything.”

Jeeter Frost cocked his head and studied the newspaperman much as he might a new kind of toad. “How some folks cram so much stupid between their ears is a wonderment.” And then, without so much as a bat of his eye or a twitch of his mouth, Jeeter Frost squeezed the trigger.

The blast and the belch of smoke were simultaneous. So, too, was the derby’s remarkable feat. It took wing, performing an aerial somersault that ended with the bowler on the floor at its owner’s feet, a hole in the crown.

Jeeter snickered and twirled the Lightning and neatly slid it back into its holster. “Now take your pot and skedaddle, you damned nuisance.”

Win Curry and Chester Luce tried to smother grins but did not succeed. Even young Lafferty was on the verge of guffaws but trying mightily not to give in.

To their considerable amazement, Edison Farnsworth calmly picked up his derby, calmly replaced it on his head, and calmly sank into the chair across from Jeeter Frost. “If you are done with your theatrics, may we begin?”

About to take a swig, Jeeter lowered the bottle to the table with a loud thunk. “You beat all, scribbler.”

“I only do my job as best I am able,” Farnsworth said. From under his jacket he produced a pencil and a few folded pieces of paper. He unfolded a sheet and spread it on the table, then wrote the date at the top. “I am ready when you are.”

Jeeter Frost looked from the journalist to the sheet of paper and back again. “You are like a tick I can’t pry out.”

“Is it true you were born in Missouri? And that you killed your first man at fourteen when he insulted your sister?”

“Where in God’s name did you hear such foolishness?”

“In a penny dreadful,” Farnsworth said.

“A what?” Jeeter asked.

“A penny dreadful,” Farnsworth repeated. “They have been all the rage for close to ten years now. Most are published back East. They recount the life stories of famous frontiersmen like Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone, outlaws such as Jesse James, and desperadoes of lesser notoriety, such as yourself.”

“Are you saying it is some kind of book? Someone went and wrote a book about me?” In his astonishment Jeeter needed another healthy swig.

“Not a book, exactly,” Farnsworth said. “They are not quite as long and the binding is not as permanent.” Stopping, he turned and snapped his fingers at young Lafferty. “Fetch my saddlebags. Instead of telling him I will show him.”

His assistant wheeled and hurried out.

“You must be mistaken,” Jeeter said. “I never talked to anyone about my life. How can there be a story about me?”

“Quite often those who compose them make up the tale as they go,” Farnsworth elaborated. “Writers never let facts stand in the way of a good yarn. Which is all the more reason for me to do an account of your life based on the truth and not make-believe.”

“About me, by God?” Jeeter snorted and swallowed more red-eye.

“I can’t believe you have never read one,” Farnsworth said. “They are hugely popular. You can find them practically everywhere.”

Jeeter Frost looked down at the table and said something that came out barely more than a mumble.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“I can’t read.”

Farnsworth removed his derby and set it in front of him. The sight of the hole caused his jaw muscles to twitch.

“Did you hear me?” Jeeter asked.

“Yes. You can’t read. A not uncommon condition,” Farnsworth said with the air of a man addressing an imbecile. “Yet another contributing factor to the widespread ignorance of the lower classes. Into this darkness I cast my shining light of truth.”

“Is it me or do you talk peculiar?” Jeeter reached for the bottle again. “Wait. What was that about lower classes?”