“My point exactly,” Beard said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nobody has heard about me. I’ve killed eight men in standup fights, fair as fair can be, and no-damn-body has ever heard of me. I mean, it isn’t fair, is it? Some fool in Dodge City kills two, three men and he’s famous. Why? Because there are big city newspapermen who come to Dodge to write about stuff, and there’s a local newspaper of their own that writes stories and sells them to the big papers back east and in Kansas City and the like. But here? Dammit, I could shoot down half the men in this jerkwater bar and there wouldn’t be anybody ever hear about it outside this county. Might not pay attention in the county seat even if our good for nothing sheriff was busy getting laid that day. So what is a man to do, I ask you? It will take something big to be heard about here.” Beard smiled. “And here you are. Famous. Well, more or less. Most famous lawman that ever stopped in Sorrel Branch, I can tell you that. You’re a godsend, Long. I swear you are.”
“Mister Beard, I’m always happy to accommodate a man, but dying for the sake of your reputation seems a mite more than is reasonable to ask. I hope it’ll be all right with you if I demur.”
“I wouldn’t expect less, Longarm. Be a shallow victory indeed if you wasn’t to fight back, now wouldn’t it.”
“Shallow indeed, Mister Beard. Uh, how d’you want t’ go about this? Formal rules of the duel, maybe?”
Beard grinned. “And give you a choice of weapons, Mister Long? I think not. You see, I do know more than a little about you, and I suspect you would try to do something silly, like tell me you want to fight with sharpened tongue depressors or ass’s jawbones or something like that. something that would mock and make light of my triumph and my honor.”
“I got to admit, Mister Beard, I always been fond o’ the idea of a fight with the jawbones of some asses. I mean, it ain’t reasonable that this don’t happen all the time. You know? Asses an’ assholes bein’ so thick on the ground an’ all.”
“Don’t try to make light of this, Mister Long. I do sincerely intend to kill you in fair and open combat. Please understand that.”
“Oh, I do, Mister Beard. I surely do.” Longarm pushed the situation just a bit by reaching—with his left hand, however—for his mug and taking a swallow of the tepid beer, his eyes locked on Beard above the rim of the glass.
“As for the rules, I propose that Morris here count backward from, say, ten. On the word Go we draw and fire. Nothing could be fairer than that, I daresay.”
“He goes ten, nine, an’ so on down t’ one and then says Go?” Longarm asked.
“That’s right. Would that be all right with you?”
“What if I’d like him t’ count from twelve instead o’ ten? Or from four. Would four be good for you?”
“Goddammit, Long, you’re starting to piss me off now. You aren’t taking this at all seriously.”
“Sorry.” Longarm shrugged, drank another sip and put the mug down again. “I’ll try an’ get in the spirit o’ things.”
“Thank you.”
“Looka-here,” Longarm said. “If we’re going t’ do this we really oughta do it right. Honorable and aboveboard. You know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure that I do,” Beard admitted.
“No funny business with choice of weapons, mind. I mean, we both are carrying our own favorites. Be kinda dumb to take up anything else. But except for that, well, there’s something extra special honorable an’ right about a proper duel. Especially the part where the two men stand back to back an’ pace off a distance between them. Takes a perfectly honorable man t’ turn his back on a fellow who’s declared to kill him. Don’t you agree?”
“I do, Mister Long. By God, I do. Thank you for understanding.”
“I won’t say it’s my pleasure, Mister Beard, but I do understand.”
“You would do that, then? You would stand with me back to back and pace off the distance while Morris counts our steps?”
“That I would, Mister Beard.”
“Nobody could ever say a fight like that wasn’t fair, could they?”
“No man alive could make a false claim like that, Mister Beard. The victor would be above reproach.”
“I like it, Mister Long. Morris, you will count the paces for us. At the last number then we turn and fire at will. Is that the way you see it, Mister Long?”
“It is, Mister Beard.”
Beard frowned and looked from one end of the bar to the other. “Ten is the traditional number of paces if I remember correctly, but I don’t believe this room is big enough for us to take ten paces each.”
“A point well taken, Mister Beard.” Longarm looked into the crowd, selecting at random from a sea—well, a good-sized pond then—of faces he’d never seen before.
Almost a sea of strangers, that is. The Austin Capitals’ equipment boy was standing at the fringe of the onlookers. who, Longarm noticed, seemed even more numerous than they had been when this insanity commenced. Apparently the word was spreading and the gallery of spectators growing. Longarm hoped there were people still interested in the ball game afterward, although how could a mere baseball game compare with excellent drama—ahem—like this here.
“You,” he said, pointing to a man of medium height and build. “Would you be so kind, sir, as to pace off the length of the room starting from that wall and crossing to that one?”
“Shit, yeah, why not?”
The man, a farmer judging by his clothes and by the baked and wrinkled skin at the back of his neck, took the request seriously. He positioned himself with his back firm against one wall and extended his left foot first, reaching out quite far with it and sonorously counting, “One,” in a loud voice.
“Fourteen,” he announced to one and all as he reached the far wall.
“Fourteen,” Longarm repeated. “Seven paces each. But then it would be awkward if we were standing tight to the wall, don’t you think? Would you agree to five paces each, Mister Beard?”
“I would, Mister Long. Five paces it will be. Is that all right with you, Morris?”
“Jesus, Will, are you sure you …”
“Don’t provoke me, Morris. I intend to be here after the duel. Mister Long will not.”
“You will, of course, allow me t’ take a hand in my own defense before you reach that conclusion,” Longarm injected.
“Your pardon, sir. I meant to imply no less.” Beard bent over into a sort of a bow.
Jeez, Longarm thought, the idiot was really getting into the spirit of this French duel bullshit. Beard was acting stiff and formal and downright courtly all of a sudden.
“Right there for the starting point?” Longarm suggested, motioning toward a spot that looked like it was midway across the room.
“Perfect,” Beard assured him.
“Back to back and guns in the holsters, is that it then?” Longarm asked. “Or d’you want to have the guns already in hand when we turn an’ fire?”
“Oh, in the holsters, I should think. Don’t you?”
“Much more sporting that way,” Longarm agreed.
Beard smiled. “That’s it then. It couldn’t be better. And I have to thank you again, Mister Long. You honor me by standing with your back to mine. I know everyone will remember that part and talk about it for years to come. My biographers will write about it, too. I shall insist on that.”
“Are we ready, Mister Beard? Aren’t we supposed to share a cup before the combat?”
“Are we?”
“I think so.”
“Morris. Would you please?”
The bartender complied with fresh mugs of beer. Beard quaffed his practically at a gulp. Longarm barely sipped at his. Around them the crowd pushed and shifted, closing in tighter and tighter to the lane left open for gunfire until it was almost a certainty that a bullet the slightest degree off target would do damage to the cheering section as well as to the combatants.