Murder in Dogleg City by Ford Fargo Read Free Book Online Page A

lunch crowd left. No one came
to Samuel’s table. Hardcore gamblers would show up as the day wore
on. They always did. He played solitaire. It helped to keep
handling the cards, even if no one was at the table. The roulette
wheel clicked. The faro dealer’s box flapped out its cards. Samuel
dealt himself another card.
    “ Hey, Samuel! What’s the
chance of me and Howie getting a game going?”
    Samuel recognized Billy Below’s
high-pitched voice. “Welcome gentlemen,” he said without looking
up. “Have a seat.” He then glanced at Billy and his cohort Howie.
Cowboys to the core. Not enough pocket money to play more than
penny ante poker.
    The two cowboys sat down, shit-eating
grins on their faces. “Today’s my lucky day,” Billy said. “I feel
it in my bones.”
    “ One’s bones are often
wrong,” Samuel said, matching their grins. How could a man not
smile with such good-natured cowboys wanting to play his
game?
    For an instant, his eyes went from
Billy’s smiling face to the mirror behind the bar. There stood
Valentine Hébert.
    Hébert wore a tiny smile on his face,
and he carried a wooden case beneath his arm. He nodded a bow in
Samuel’s direction, and started across the saloon toward Samuel’s
table.
    “ Billy. Howie. You’d
better stand up and get away. Do me a favor and move over by the
bar until this is over, will you?
    “ Wha—”
    “ Move!” Samuel’s order cut
the air, and Billy and Howie scraped their chairs back and
scrambled over to the bar. Samuel stood and turned to meet Hébert,
his sword-cane leaning against the table within easy
reach.
    Hébert stopped two paces
from the table. “ Bonjour, Monsieur Beaumont. Or,
should I say, Mister Jones?”
    “ Valentine.” Samuel’s
hands hung naturally by his sides.
    “ I came to challenge you,
Beaumont, Jones, or whoever you are.” Hébert stepped closer and put
the wooden box on the table. “The pistols you and Andre Larouche
used at City Park.”
    He opened the box. The Belgian pistols
looked burnished and well cared-for. “Take your pick,” he said.
“Twenty paces at sundown.”
    “ Why wait,” Samuel said.
“Billy,” he called.
    “ Yeah, Sam.”
    “ Run over to the smithy
and ask Angus to come over here, please.”
    Billy Below read the serious
expression on Samuel’s face, left his beer on the bar, and sped
from the Lucky Break on the run.
    “ Please take a seat,
Valentine. We should do this correctly.” Samuel took his
seat.
    Hébert sat in the chair opposite
Samuel. Neither man spoke.
    Billy Below came pounding back.
“Angus’ll be here’n a jif,” he said.
    “ Thank you, Billy.” Samuel
raised his voice. “Hal, give Billy and Howie another beer on
me.”
    Angus Sweeney strode in, his butternut
kepi low over his eyes. He scanned the room, fastened his gaze on
Samuel, and walked to the table. “What do you need,
Samuel?”
    “ Angus, this is Valentine
Hébert from New Orleans. He has challenged me. Pistols—” he pointed
at the Belgian dueling flintlocks “–at twenty paces. You’re a
southern gentleman and a son of the Crescent City, Angus. Would you
please measure the twenty paces and count down for us?”
    Sweeney nodded. “I can do that fer
y’all. Where?”
    “ Over on the far side of
the livery corral on North Street,” Samuel said. “Pace it off north
and south so no one is bothered by the sun. Oh, and make sure it’s
outside the town limits. No need to get Sam Gardner involved.
”
    “ Okay. Give me a few
minutes.” Sweeney rushed out.
    “ I assume the pistols are
loaded and primed.”
    “ They are,” Hébert
said.
    “ Then let us repair to the
field of honor,” Samuel said. He stood, flicked his Derringer from
its clip and laid it on the table. “After you, Valentine,” he
said.
    The two men, so alike in bearing and
mien, walked out of the Lucky Break. Hébert carried the box of
dueling pistols under his arm. The Lucky Break’s patrons mumbled to
each other. People began to