Farnsworth leaned on his saddle horn. “Can it be? You have no notion of who he is?”
“He’s not the governor,” Win said, and turned to Chester. “Who holds the office these days? Is it Anythony? Or did St. John beat him in the last election? I don’t pay much attention to politics.”
“Which is fine by me or you might take it into your head to run for mayor.” Chester stared at the newspaperman. “What was that about the runt inside?”
“I would not let him hear you say that,” Farnsworth advised. “That runt, as you call him, is one of the deadliest killers alive.”
Chapter 2
Winifred Curry and Chester Luce stood in the doorway and peered over the batwings at the small man sipping whiskey at a corner table and listening to young Lafferty.
“You’re joshing,” Chester said. “He doesn’t look any more deadly than a minnow.”
Farnsworth, smoothing his sleeves, came up behind them. “Shows how deceiving looks can be. That there is Jeeter Frost.”
“The name does not mean a thing to me,” Chester said.
“Frost?” Win repeated. “There was a curly wolf with that handle who made a reputation for himself maybe seven to ten years ago.”
“One and the same,” Farnsworth confirmed. “With a tally of seventeen kills to his credit.”
“And he is still breathing?” Winifred marveled. “It has been so long, I figured he was worm food.”
“Not Jeeter Frost,” Farnsworth said. “The worms would spit him back out. He is too mean to die. They say he once shot a man for snoring.”
“I can’t blame him there,” Win said. “My first wife snored. She sounded like an avalanche. I couldn’t sleep unless I plugged my ears with wax, and even that didn’t always shut out the racket she made. Then one day in Kansas City we came across a patent medicine man selling a cure for snoring.”
“A cure?” Farnsworth said skeptically.
“I bought six bottles on the spot,” Winifred related. “I don’t know what was in them. He claimed it was rare plants and such. I had my suspicions it was opium and whatever else he had handy.”
“Did it cure her?” the journalist asked when the saloon owner did not go on.
“Hell no. But she got addicted to the stuff. Couldn’t go a day without a spoonful of her precious bitters, as she called it. Before long she went from a spoonful to half a bottle and from half a bottle to a full bottle. Then she died.”
“The cure killed her?”
“No, a tree I was chopping down fell the wrong way and crushed her,” Win said. “Her busted bones were sticking out all over.”
“You have a frivolous nature, sir,” Farnsworth stated in mild disgust and shouldered past them. “Excuse me while I conduct my business.”
Win nudged Chester. “He sure is prickly.”
“It comes of being from Dodge,” Chester said. “People there have no manners.”
“Are you still going over to your store?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Chester answered. “I think I would like to hear this. It could be entertaining.”
Lafferty was hurrying toward Farnsworth. His expression did not bode good news. “He says he does not want to talk to you. He says you would be well advised to turn around and leave.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Farnsworth drew himself up to his full height, adjusted his derby, and strode toward the corner table with a confident swagger. If he noticed the small man’s glare, it did not deter him. “Jeeter Frost,” he loudly announced. “I mean to have your life story.”
“You are not one for hints,” the notorious leather slapper rasped. “I thought I made it plain in Dodge I do not want to talk to you.”
“But I want to talk to you,” Farnsworth said. “You are news, sir, whether you like it or not. And I, sir, have a duty to my readers to present them with the news. I am a journalist, and a good one, if I do say so myself.”
“If I am news,” Jeeter said, “it is old news, and no one but you is interested. I told your boy and now I am telling you: Go away and leave me be or you will not like what happens.”
“Was that a threat, sir?” Farnsworth asked.
“Mister, I am trying to be polite,” Jeeter Frost replied. “But you can take it as a threat if you want if it will persuade you to pester someone else. I am not in the mood for your brazen antics.”
Lafferty cleared his throat. “Maybe you should listen to him, Mr. Farnsworth. He has the right not to be interviewed, doesn’t he?”
Farnsworth dismissed the legal quibble with a wave of his hand. “He is news, I tell you, and good journalists, those who make their mark as I have, go to whatever lengths are necessary to see that the news is printed. His own wishes do not enter into it.”
“So you say,” Jeeter Frost said. “Mister, stick your nose where it is not wanted and you are liable to find yourself without one.”
“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.”