Free Blood Duel by David Robbins, Ralph Compton

against bad habits, Mr.—?” Ernestine stopped and waited.
    “Jeeter, ma’am. You can call me Jeeter.” He held out his hand and in doing so turned to face her and the sunlight flashed on the pearl handles of a revolver at his hip.
    “I trust you were not aware I do not permit guns anywhere near my school,” Ernestine said sternly.
    “No, ma’am, I wasn’t.”
    “Guns are the devil’s playthings. Remove it and go put it in your saddlebags and we can continue our conversation, Mr. Jeeter,” Ernestine directed. “That is your horse, I take it, by the pump?”
    “Yes, ma’am, it is, and no, ma’am, I can’t. And Jeeter is my first name, not my last, so you don’t need the Mr.”
    Ernestine did not know quite what to make of him.He was polite, and had friendly eyes, but he seemed scared of her, and his English was atrocious. “I do not understand. Why can’t you take off your pistol?”
    The mousy man sighed and said almost sadly, “My last name is Frost, ma’am. I am Jeeter Frost.”
    Ernestine had the impression he thought the name should mean something to her. “Mr. Frost, then. I ask again, why can’t you take off your pistol?”
    “I like being alive and I have me a heap of enemies who would like me feeding worms.”
    “I am afraid I do not quite fathom what you are getting at, Mr. Frost,” Ernestine said.
    “You have never heard of me, then?”
    “Should I?”
    “Folks talk about me some. I guess because they have nothing better to talk about. Or maybe it’s me being partway somebody. Not that I ever meant to be. Throw a little lead and suddenly you are.”
    “Excuse me?” Ernestine was beginning to think he was one of those eccentric characters who hung about Dodge, like the man who wore a rabbit coat and carried a carrot everywhere.
    “I’ve dabbled in gore, ma’am. Once you do, you are branded for life. I’ve never hired out my trigger finger, you understand. I haven’t gone that far. But I can’t seem to get away from it.”
    “You are speaking in riddles, Mr. Frost,” Ernestine chided. “Speak plainly if you want me to understand.”
    “I kill people, ma’am.”
    “You?” Ernestine smiled. The notion of this timid mouse of a man harming anyone was preposterous.
    “The man-killer from Missouri, they call me, eventhough I’m not from Missouri. But that’s why you need to keep my visit to yourself. I killed the Blight brothers and folks are liable to make a fuss over it.”
    Ernestine began to think he was serious. She had not read the newspaper the day before, but she seemed to recall hearing mention of a shooting. “What does a man like you want with me?” she asked. Images washed over her, of him pulling his gun and having his way with her, and she grew uncomfortably warm.
    “I want for you to teach me to read.”

Chapter 8
    Chester and Winifred were in their rocking chairs under the overhang in front of the saloon. They rocked and drank and gazed at the dusty haze to the south. It was the middle of the afternoon. Seamus Glickman had left the afternoon before, anxious to get back to Dodge before dark.
    “So much for your brainstorm,” Win said. “All that trouble you had Anderson go to building those coffins and Placido painting those signs on the livery, and for what?”
    “It was Adolphina’s idea, not mine,” Chester responded after first glancing at the general store to ensure that she could not possibly hear him.
    “They should have come by now, if they are coming at all. The story was bound to be in yesterday’s newspaper.”
    “The shootings, yes,” Chester said. “But not the rest of it. Glickman promised to spread the word, but something like that takes time. Today’s paper will likely have it.”
    “Those bodies will start to stink by tomorrow,” Win remarked.
    “We can stand a few days of stink if we have to,”Chester said. “Why do you think I had them put in the livery?”
    “I wouldn’t let you keep them in the saloon.”
    “Yes,