Ralph Compton Blood Duel

Startled, Temple Blight straightened and whirled. He was not quite all the way around when a pistol barrel poked from under the table, pointed at his groin. The pistol cracked, and Temple shrieked and clutched at himself, dropping his Remington. The next shot caught him smack in the center of the forehead and blew out the rear of his cranium in a spray of hair and gore.

By then Zebulon and Barnabas Blight were rushing to their brother’s aid. Zeb jerked his Winchester to his shoulder, but he did not quite have it level when the pistol under the table boomed a third time and Zeb’s left eyeball dissolved.

Barnabas did not bother with aiming. He simply trained his shotgun at the table. But he had to thumb back the hammers before he could fire. It only took a second and a half, which was long enough for the pistol under the table to go off twice more. Slugs smacked into Barnabas and he staggered back, swearing. He had been shot through the heart. Gamely, with his final flicker of life, he squeezed both triggers.

The shotgun was not pointed under the table. It was pointed at the chair in which Edison Farnsworth sat. Farnsworth was starting to rise when it went off, and the full force of both barrels, loaded with buckshot, caught him in the chest. His chest exploded like so much melon and the impact lifted him off his feet and flung him onto his back on top of the table.

In the silence that ensued, none of the living moved. Lafferty lay on the floor where he had dived when the first shot rang out. Winifred and Chester were rooted in shock.

A foot slid out from under the table, and another foot, and then the rest of Jeeter Frost. He stepped clear of Edison Farnsworth’s dangling legs and calmly commenced reloading.

“You shot them!” Chester Luce blurted.

“I sure as hell did,” Jeeter Frost agreed.

“You killed them!”

“Generally when I shoot it is to kill,” Jeeter said. “They were close enough. It was easy.”

Winifred found his voice. “But you shot them from under the table! They didn’t stand a prayer.”

“And how much of a chance do you reckon they’d have given me?” Jeeter rejoined. “What did you expect? That we’d go out in the street and stand back to back and take ten steps like in a duel?” He laughed.

“No, no,” Win said, gaping at the bodies. He had seen men shot before but never like this, never so abruptly, so methodically, so—so—coldly, as if they were targets in a shooting gallery. Most of the shootings he witnessed were drunken affrays waged in the heat of anger and under the influence of liquor.

“Four men dead!” Chester exclaimed. “Just like that!” He snapped his pudgy fingers.

“They were lying about me not having cause,” Jeeter said. “That brother of theirs, the young one, was cheating at cards. I caught him and he pulled his iron on me.” He leaned toward the table and examined the hideously huge cavity in Edison Farnsworth’s chest. Rib bones gleamed, framing internal organs. “Too bad about this fella. I was just getting used to his airs.” He turned. “How are you doing down there, sonny? Were you hit?”

Frank Lafferty had sat up and was groping himself. “Apparently not,” he said in amazement. “I am unscathed.” He slowly rose, his horrified gaze glued to the remains of his associate. “I never saw anyone move so fast as when you ducked under that table.”

“It always pays to have an edge, boy,” Jeeter Frost said. “Take that brother of theirs who cheated. I let him start to walk off before I shot him.”

“In the back?”

“He had his pistol out.”

“But in the back!”

Jeeter finished reloading and slid the Colt Lightning into his holster. “I would take exception if you weren’t so green behind the ears. He cheated, boy. He had it coming. Whether I shot him in the front or the back doesn’t much matter, but the back is always safer.”

“What kind of killer are you?” Lafferty asked.

“The kind who likes to go on breathing.” Jeeter reclaimed his bottle and gulped, whiskey dribbling over his lower lip. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he made for the door, saying, “It has been interesting. But I reckon I’ll mosey on before more trouble shows up.”

“Wait!” Lafferty cried.

Jeeter stopped, his right hand straying to the Lightning. “What is it, boy? You sound like a girl when you screech that way.”

Frank Lafferty stepped to the table and gingerly pulled the paper and pencil from under Farnsworth. The paper was spattered with scarlet drops. “I want to do the interview.”

“How’s that again?”

“The interview Mr. Farnsworth wanted with you. He’s gone, so it is up to me.”

“Hell, boy. His body ain’t cold yet and already you want to fill his boots?” Jeeter grinned. “You are my kind of hombre.”

“Frank,” Lafferty said. “You can call me Frank. And yes, I want to. I can write up the interview and then write about the shooting. Every paper in the state will carry it. Even some out of state will pick it up. I will go from a nobody to a somebody overnight.” His face positively gleamed. “I can ask for more money. A lot more money.”