“In that case, let us find the justice of the peace.”
A flash of fear spiked through Jeeter, and he froze.
“What is it?” Ernestine asked.
“Are you sure about this? I don’t want to ruin your life.”
Ernestine laughed and drew him to her. “Silly man. I am as certain as I have ever been about anything. Now kiss me, and then we will begin our marvelous future together.”
“Together,” Jeeter Frost breathed in awe.
Chapter 18
The collection of shacks and soddies had no name. Not officially. Everyone called it Crooked Creek because it was on the north bank of Crooked Creek. Who first gave it a name no one knew, although Crooked Creek Sam, as he was called, who owned the saloon, liked to claim credit. No one argued with him because Sam Hoyt could become downright mean when his dander was up.
Sam’s customers knew that if they caused trouble in his place, he was liable to whip a revolver from under the bar and cut loose at the offenders without a by-your-leave. So everyone behaved.
Still, Sam did not like it when, along about ten that night, the four Haslett brothers came into his place and moved to the far end of the bar. They were always quarrelsome, and were constantly spitting tobacco. It wasn’t the spitting he minded; it was the fact that they never used the spittoon.
Sam liked it even less when fifteen minutes later four more men entered and came to the near end of the bar. The short hairs at the nape of his neck prickled. Trouble was brewing, and he might be caught in the middle.
The newcomers were the Larn brothers. They, like the Hasletts, were from the South. They, like the Hasletts, were cantankerous. But the worst of it was, the Larns and the Hasletts hated one another.
Sam decided to show them he would not abide any foolishness by taking his old Colt Dragoon from under the bar and setting it down on the counter loud enough to draw their attention. “I will not abide any shenanigans.”
Abe Haslett, who resembled a beanpole with limbs and a large Adam’s apple, stared at the Dragoon, then said, “No need for threats. We are not here to spill blood. You have my word.”
“And mine,” declared Stern Larn, the oldest of the Larn brood. “We came to palaver about the big shoot.”
“The what?” Sam asked.
Happy Larn, the second oldest, chuckled and said, “We want to end the feud once and for all.”
Crooked Creek Sam was a Northerner. He was the first to admit he found Southerners and Southern ways peculiar. For instance, the Larns were all named after emotions. There was Stern Larn, then Happy Larn, then Cordial, and finally the youngest, Verve Larn. Who in their right mind gave their kids names like that? South Carolinians, apparently.
“That’s right,” Abe said. “Back to home the Hasletts and the Larns have been feudin’ for nigh on a hundred years. Now we aim to settle it.”
Sam regarded the Haslett faction. In addition to Abe, there was Jefferson, Quince, and Josephus. Josephus, not Joseph. All four were string beans. All four had Adam’s apples a turkey buzzard would envy. All four wore shabby homespun and stank to high heaven. And all four could drink everyone else in Kansas under the table. “Explain something to me, if you don’t mind. Why come here to settle your feud? Why not settle it back home?”
Abe Haslett answered, “We left Spiny Ridge pretty near two months ago. Heard about all the money to be made out West. Never figured on meetin’ up with no Larns.”
“We never reckoned on meetin’ up with any Hasletts when we took it into our heads to see some of the country,” Stern Larn said.
“God works in mysterious ways,” Happy Larn said, and laughed.
Crooked Creek Sam had first heard of the brothers when they swapped lead in Dodge City. The marshal had arrested them. Since no one was hurt, and it was their first offense, the judge fined them and let them go. By some quirk of fate, they had drifted to Crooked Creek and taken to frequenting his saloon. Now this. “How do you aim to end the feud?”
“Coffin Varnish,” Abe Haslett said.
“I gave you a bottle but you have barely touched it,” Crooked Creek Sam noted.
“No, not coffin varnish the drink,” Abe said. “Coffin Varnish the town.”
Understanding dawned, and Sam said, “That notice in the Dodge City Times?”
All the Larns and all the Hasletts nodded.
“We read about those other fellers,” Verve Larn said. He had the habit of never being still. He was always twitching, shifting, scratching, rubbing his nose. “That Caine and the one who got his brains blowed out.” He stopped. “Well, Stern read it to us, since he’s the only one of us can read.”
“We figure if they can blow out their brains, we can blow out ours,” Stern Larn said.
Sam needed a drink. After he had poured and his throat was on fire, he coughed and said, “You realize all of you could end up dead?”
The eight looked at him as if he were a few bales short of a wagonload.
“That’s what feudin’ is all about,” Abe Haslett said.
“It’s another word for killin’,” Stern Larn said.
“You can’t talk it out?”
Stern and Abe both started to talk at once; then Abe stopped and gestured at Stern. “After you.”
“Our clans have been feudin’ since Hector was a pup. With all the blood that’s been spilled, talkin’ it out would be an insult to those who have gone to their reward.”
“That it would,” Abe agreed. “Why, our ma would horsewhip us if we dishonored our kin that way.”
Sam gave thanks he had been born in Ohio. “What started this feud of yours?”
“A Larn shot a Haslett over a pig,” Abe said.
Stern shook his head. “No, it was a Haslett shot a Larn, and it was over a chicken.”
“It was a pig.”
“It was a chicken.”
“Pig.”
“Chicken, damn you.”
The Larns glared at the Hasletts and the Hasletts glowered at the Larns. Verve started to sidle his hand toward his hip.
“None of that!” Sam bellowed. “You are here to talk, remember? If you want to wipe each other out, fine and dandy, but you will not do it in my saloon.”
“A truce, remember?” Abe Haslett said.
“A truce, brothers,” Stern stressed for the benefit of his siblings.
Several on both sides echoed, “A truce.”
Sam refilled his glass. He had built his saloon on Crooked Creek instead of in Dodge because he did not like towns and cities with their hustle and bustle. He liked a slow pace of life—the slower the better. He was not all that fond of people, either, Southerners in particular. He had lost an uncle and several cousins in the War between the States, and he had never forgiven the South for fighting a war over something as stupid as states’ rights and slavery, but that was neither here nor there. “Get this talk over with. You are commencing to aggravate me.”
“I don’t like your tone,” Stern Larn said.
“Me neither,” Abe Haslett said.
Sam picked up his revolver. “I don’t give a good damn what you do and do not like. This is my place and I can say and do as I please.”
“Yankees,” Abe spat.
“They are the same everywhere we go,” Stern mentioned.
“Get your talk over with,” Sam repeated. He wished other customers were there. The hicks were less apt to act up if there were other customers.
“Always lookin’ down their noses at us,” Jefferson Haslett said.
“I don’t look down my nose at anyone,” Sam lied. “Haven’t I treated you decent, the times you have been in here?” He was always agreeable, even when he did not want to be. It was good business.
“That you have,” Stern Larn allowed.