Ralph Compton Blood Duel

“Some say that society is divided into those who have and those who have not but wished they had. I believe a more fundamental division is between those who know and those who do not know and have no idea they do not know.”

“What in hell did you just say?”

“The important point is that this ignorance must be alleviated,” Farnsworth continued. “Newspapers perform an invaluable function in that regard, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Mister, you lost me back at penny dreadfuls.”

“I will remedy that momentarily. Ah, here he comes now.” Farnsworth accepted the saddlebags from Lafferty and placed them on the table. He began opening one. “I brought yours with me to use as reference material.”

Lafferty cleared his throat. “Mr. Farnsworth, sir?”

“Not now, boy. Can’t you see I am working? What have I told you about disturbing me when I am interviewing someone? Whatever you have to say can wait.”

“Very well,” Lafferty dutifully responded.

Farnsworth rummaged in the saddlebag and brought out half a dozen of the publications in question. He sorted through them and smiled. “Here it is. This is you on the cover, with your arm around a fair damsel in distress, brandishing a bowie knife at a horde of red savages.”

“Dear God,” Jeeter said.

“I assure you the story is quite flattering. It paints you as a desperado with a heart of gold.”

“From the looks of this, I am seven feet tall. And why is my hair down past my shoulders? I’ve never worn it that long in my life.”

“The woman is Sagebrush Susan, your sweetheart. She figures prominently in your adventures.”

“But I never met a gal by that name.” Jeeter held the penny dreadful out to Farnsworth and tapped the cover. “What does it say there? All these big black letters?”

“Jeeter Frost, the Missouri Man-Killer,” Edison Farnsworth read. “His thrilling escapades. His narrow escapes.”

Jeeter’s mouth fell open.

“I can tell you are impressed. Here. Let me read a bit more.” Farnsworth opened to the first page. “‘The waterways of Missouri were frozen solid the morning Jeeter Frost came into this world. None could have guessed from his squalling debut that he would grow to lead a life of mayhem and debauch, yet in the end find true love and the happiness that so eluded him.’” Farnsworth looked up. “What?”

Jeeter Frost’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.

“Here. Let me read more.” Farnsworth flipped pages until he found the one he was looking for. “This next part is one of my favorites. The author, Cooper Fenimore, has a flair. Although I warrant he used a pen name and not his real name.” Farnsworth raised his voice and read, “Into the saloon swaggered the Walker brothers, all nine of them, as vile and despicable a brood of vipers as ever trod this earth. The oldest, Wolf Walker, leered at Sagebrush Susan, who stood at the piano practicing for her next rendition of ‘How Sweet Is Our Valley.’”

“Hold on there,” Jeeter Frost broke in. “I never heard of any Walker brothers. The Blight brothers, yes, but no Walkers.”

“Who are the Blight brothers?” Farnsworth asked, reaching for his pencil and paper.

“There used to be four but I killed one about a month ago over to Topeka, so now there are three. The others have been after me ever since. They’re the reason I lit out of Dodge like I did.”

“You didn’t leave to avoid talking to me?”

“Hell no. You showed up as I was fixing to light a shuck.”

Young Lafferty coughed to get their attention. “These Blight brothers ran into you in Dodge, Mr. Frost?”

“That’s right, boy. Wearing an armory and out for my blood.”

“Is it possible they are still after you?”

“They won’t likely give up this side of my grave,” Jeeter Frost said. “The Blights are big on the feud. Kill one and the rest won’t rest until they have had their revenge.”

“Does one ride a pinto, would you know?”

“The oldest. Temple, his name is.”

Farnsworth turned toward Lafferty in irritation. “Why are you asking all these questions, Frank?”

“I tried to tell you when I came in with your saddlebags. Three riders are headed this way, and kicking up a lot of dust. They should be here any second.” Lafferty paused. “And one of them is riding a pinto.”

As if on cue, Coffin Varnish thundered to the drum of heavy hooves.

Chapter 3

The first fifteen years of Winifred Curry’s life were spent on the family farm in Pennsylvania barely eking out an existence. Milking cows and plowing fields never appealed to him, so he struck off to see the world. He dug ditches, he drove freight wagons, and tended bar in St. Louis, Santa Fe, and Houston. He found he liked tending bar, chiefly because he liked drinking even more; the occupation fit him like a liquid glove. When, in a whimsical course of events, he won a few thousand in a poker game, he hoarded the money and eventually used it to start his own saloon in Coffin Varnish. At the time it seemed a fine idea. Coffin Varnish was growing and bound to grow more, or so everyone thought.