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If Id walked out of Sweenys Saloon when Len did, we couldve avoided the whole mess. Then again, if I had...Clear Creek wouldve missed their only duel. The whole thing started when the Englishman walked in and Len was the only one of us that noticed him. Our Saturday night poker game was in full swing. I had one Ace buried and one showing in a five-card stud game. Doc Hoffman prepared to deal our fourth card and glanced at each of us before he began.
Doc was a German immigrant that served through the Civil War in the 54th Schwarze Jagers. He was a carpenter by trade, had a small furniture store and made caskets as a sideline. Of course this made him the towns undertaker and that line of work broadened into setting bones, making crutches and patching people up. His wife, Emma, ran the towns boarding house and our Saturday night game was the only vice she would let Doc enjoy.
Sweenys wasnt the only saloon in Clear Creek. There were others, some bigger, some cleaner, but Sweeny tolerated our taking up a table for hours on busy Saturday nights. You see, Josh Lansing held the mortgage on his place and that gave us the edge.
Josh Lansings fourth card was a five...of no help and he folded. He was the owner of the only bank in forty miles and held paper on many local businesses, nearby mine properties and cattle ranches. He was an average player and gave his marker when he had a loosing streak, particularly to those of us that owed money to his bank...but he wouldnt take a marker from any of us!
Len Murphys fourth card gave him two deuces showing and he scowled at the Englishman and his clerk as they approached the bar. Len was a rancher that came to town for supplies every Saturday and stayed for our game. He was a skillful bluffer and shrewd player. The Englishman made several trips to Lens ranch to make purchase offers and had become a nuisance.
Alex DeVille was dealt a deuce, got a dirty look from Len and folded. A Southerner and former Confederate officer, Alex owned a livery stable and the stage line to Silverton, our Mesa County seat. Doc folded on his fourth card and that left just Len and me in the game. His fifth card was a Queen and mine was a Jack. He bet his deuces, I called...and he had the last deuce in the hole. Damn! Three of a kind.
So, Clinton Phillips loses another one. Sometimes I wonder how I ever ended up in Clear Creek. I was a Virginian and raised proper. Went to Virginia Military Academy just to please the family...then joined the Yankees just to spite them. Spent the war as a Union officer in the Kansas and Missouri sector because they wouldnt trust a Southerner like me in the Shenandoah Valley. After the war I came to Colorado and settled in Clear Creek when the mining was at its height. In time I owned the only assay office and shares in some defunct mines. When the ore business slowed down I opened a saddle and harness shop.
"Loser buys," I grumbled and went to the bar to get another round of drinks.
When I turned back to our table the Englishman was standing behind my chair asking to play since there was a seat available. Len rose from the table in disgust and stalked out of Sweenys. His dislike of the Englishman stuck out like a bulls horns.
Alex, ever the gentleman, offered him Lens seat. I was busy distributing drinks as we were introduced and offered to go back and get him one. The Englishman launched into a lecture against drinking when playing cards or shooting...claimed it impaired concentration. We explained our house rules and he assured us of his familiarity with the game. His name was Gregory Thurston-Hale but he was already "The Englishman" to everyone in town so that would have to be his handle with us.
The Englishman and his clerk stayed at Emma Hoffmans boarding house while
buying ranch property for a British investment group. His game was to find a broke rancher, offer to buy the spread and then keep the former owner on as a tenant manager.
If that didnt work, his group would try to buy up the mortgage and then foreclose at the first opportunity...something Josh would never do.
We continued to play five-card stud and after a few hands the Englishman began to lose regularly. We could read him like a book. When he had a good hand hed keep looking at his hole card as if for reassurance. If his cards were poor hed nervously rearrange those showing. He would never, never bluff...often folding on three cards while preaching that a bluff was not sporting.
His overbearing manner and complaints against our frontier customs wore on us as the deal came back to Doc. We bet our way through the first four cards and things looked good for the Englishman. He had a pair of eights showing, Ace high, and everyone folded but me. I had a three in the hole with a deuce, four and six up.
When Doc flipped out our last cards the Englishman got a queen. My card was a five! I filled my straight! The Englishman had, at the most, three eights. I knew I had him, but he was doing so poorly that mercy compelled me to check and he followed. He proudly turned over what I suspected, three eights. Then I flipped over my hole card and revealed an inside straight.
"You had nothing until the last card," the Englishman challenged, "you were just bluffing again...trying to make me fold!"
"Sure, thats the way the games played. You stayed all the way, and I got lucky," I said as I began to rake in the pot.
The Englishman shoved back his chair and shouted, "Sir, you are no sportsman!"
Shocked, I replied, "That may be true, but Im not a fool either."
The Englishman clawed his coat back with his right hand and reached for an inner pocket, snarling, "You cant insult me, you clod!"
I knew I was a goner. His hand would come out with a pistol and I was unarmed. Sweenys was quiet as a tomb. Everyone was staring at us. His hand came out of his pocket and instead of the pistol I expected, he had a pair of pigskin gloves...and he whacked me across the face with them.
"I demand a duel," he shouted. With that he stalked out of Sweenys, Cranston following meekly behind.
None of us could move. Nothing like this ever happened in Clear Creek before. Fights and shootings, sure...but never a duel. After a tense moment Sweenys erupted in babble as the Englishmans tantrum was dramatized and re-enacted by the more tipsy patrons.
"Clint, what do you think of that?" Josh asked. "You think he means it? You think he means a real duel?"
Alex cautioned, "Be careful...he sounds like some kind of hot-head whos won a few duels and uses his reputation as a hammer every time he meets someone that wont roll over."
There was little sleep for me that night. Where the hell did that Englishman think he was, anyway? I was challenged to a duel in front of my friends and by morning the whole town would know about it. If I were a ranch hand or a miner I could just stay away for a month or two until it blew over...but Im a local businessman. Refusing to deal with the Englishman would cause problems. Westerners dont do business with cowards and Im too old to start over again someplace else.
Dueling declined since the war. Oh, I was familiar with the custom, having been raised among the hot-bloods of Virginia. Later there were the various challenges between my fellow officers, forbidden by military edict, but a constant occurrence where tempers triumphed over common sense. I finally fell into a troubled sleep and when the sun poured in through the shutters I awoke with the seed of a solution. Coffee! Strong black coffee is what I needed to flesh out the devious plan that was trying to push its way through my foggy mind.
A quick shave and a brisk walk to Wongs chophouse solved the coffee problem.
Not being a Christian, Wong had no qualms about being open on Sunday and did a good breakfast business with those that caroused too much on Saturday night. No sooner was I seated than Digby Arthur, our one-armed town marshal, walked over to my table.
"Whats this I hear? The Englishman catch you cheating and call you on it?" he asked as he sat across from me.
"Nothing to it, Digby. It will never come to anything," I assured him.
"You know I dont want no trouble in town, Clint. If you got to fight him...dont do it here."
"Digby, it wont come to that. You have my word on it."
"Good, but Im gonna warn that Englishman too, and the runt that works for him."
I excused myself and left for Sweenys where I expected to find Josh and Alex enjoying their Sunday morning hangover potion. I peeled them away from the bar and got Sweeny to let us use his back room for privacy. My evolving plan would need some helpers. I swore both of them to secrecy and described what I needed. Alex would be my Second. I knew he had experience with dueling and he was a good negotiator. This afternoon Alex would call on Cranston, the Englishmans Second, accept the challenge and explain the conditions. The time, location and choice of weapons were mine, as the one challenged.
Alex would tell Cranston that Id fought in duels before and sworn that Id never kill another man just for the Code of Honor. Money and the excitement of a wager were the only things that would bring me to the encounter. Thus I would bet $500 that Id kill him. He must bet the same that hed kill me. Josh Lansing, the town banker, would hold the stakes and award the wager to the winner. The duel was to take place at dawn on Wednesday in Len Murphys upper corral.
Alex warned me that all other details or contacts were the responsibility of the Seconds and that I should keep my nose out of any further arrangements except the weapons to be used. He was already anticipating his role and I suspected he would glory in it...reliving his youth, so to speak.
"Where are you getting the $500?" Josh asked, always concerned with my meager resources.
"Im gonna take $500 of your poker markers that Ive collected and put em up as my bet."
"You cant do that! Markers aint negotiable. What if the Englishman wont take my I.O.U.s?"
"Dont tell him about it. Anyway, your markers are good as gold...thats what you always tell us," I joked.
"O.K. Ill hold my own markers as your bet and Alex should tell Cranston to have their money posted with me by noon Monday. Now, whats the rest of the plan?"
"I cant tell any more about it. Everything depends on secrecy, but you can help by mentioning the details of the bet around town...and brag up what a good duelist I was in the old days."
My next stop was the church that Doc and Emma attended. I waited near a shed behind the main building knowing that Doc, dying for a smoke, would sneak there right after the service...leaving Emma and the other ladies to fawn over the preacher. He showed up just as expected and I explained his part in the plan. I asked him to call on the Englishman to take measurements for a casket. He should ask questions about what style, lining and brass ornamentation the Englishman would like...and ask for a deposit.
Then I asked Doc to have Emma ask the Englishman if she could show his room to prospective boarders, since it would soon be vacant. Finally I asked Doc to approach the preacher and suggest that the Englishman was concerned about his possible funeral. Perhaps the preacher could also inquire about the Englishmans faith and what type of service he desired.
Next I called on Dwight Laughlin, our local gunsmith who asked me, "What do you need, Clint? Ready to trade up for a better rifle before you and Len Murphy go elk hunting again?"
"Thats what I had in mind, but now Ive got another problem. Got to hunt me an Englishman first."
"I heard about how your poker game ended last night," Dwight chuckled. "I guess everyone in towns heard about it."
"Thats why Im here. Do you have any dueling pistols in your stock of old guns?"
"No. Whod trade in something like that?"
"You never know. Ive got to come up with something...maybe a look-alike. I know its a Sunday, but could we look through your shop?"
Dwight unlocked the door and the odor of gun oil, solvent and linseed rubbed stocks was almost as sweet as the leather and dye smell of my own shop. Dwight pulled several drawers open and pointed to the revolvers. "I took most of these in as trades and they were good enough to keep for sale. Theres Colts, Smith & Wessons and a few Remingtons, but no dueling pistols."
"Let me look anyway. I need to come up with something thatll pass for one at a distance and I also need a wooden pistol case."
"From what I hear, The Englishman dont like to be called a fool, plus he dont like the way you bluffed him...so now youve got to come up with the weapons of choice...right?"
"Thats my problem. Say, whats under that bag of cartridges?"
Dwight reached in and pulled up an 1871 Army Model Remington single-shot pistol and a canvass sack full of its .50 caliber cartridges. "I got it from an Army officer that was traveling west to a new post. His horse gave out and Alex wouldnt take it as part trade on a sorrel the officer wanted. So I got into the deal and took the pistol. The soldier never said where he got it...I never asked...but he had enough ammunition to start a war!" Dwight explained.
I examined the pistol and decided it would pass for a dueler from a distance so I started the traditional gambit, "How much?"
"Its worth at least $10"
"Whatll you take in cash, right now?"
"How about $7 and Ill throw in the shells."
"Ill give $5."
"Ive got more than $7 in it," was Dwights parry.
"Heres what Ill do...Ill buy the shells for $3. Youll never sell that caliber to anyone else. Then Ill rent the pistol for a week at $2. I wont have any use for it after Wednesday, and when I return it, you can have any shells that are left."
"Its a deal, Clint, but watch out the next time I need a harness rig...I might try to just rent it from you," Dwight joked.
"Now, I need a wooden pistol box. One thatll pass for the kind that was used for dueling pistols."
"How about this rosewood presentation box?" Dwight suggested. "Man that bought the Colt didnt want the box."
"I think itll work, even if the Remington wont fit exactly. Can I borrow it or do I have to rent?"
"Be my guest, Im all bargained out. But what are you going to do? You cant have a duel with just one pistol...unless you take turns."
"I cant tell you, but when its all over I think youll get a laugh out of it...and I may have enough money to buy a new rifle. Im tired of Len kidding me about my old Ballard."
We talked hunting for a while then I took everything back to my own shop. I could count on Dwight not to mention our little deal. The Remington was in new condition. They were in service only a short time before the army replaced them with revolvers. The officer must have filched it from surplus armory supplies at his last post.
I hid it in a cabinet and started out to find the last element in my plan, Ernesto Vasquez.
Last year I hired the young man to work in my shop. Ernesto was an apprentice saddle maker and I found him to be both bright and dependable. He was burning trash in his fathers back yard when I found him.
"Ernesto, how would you like to earn a little extra cash?" I asked after we exchanged the usual pleasantries.
"You have more work in your shop?"
"No, but there is a special task that needs doing. Itll take you about three hours on Monday and Tuesday. Its a secret job and Ill pay $10. If anyone finds out what you are doing for me, youll be paid nothing!"
Ernestos eyes widened and he asked, "Is it a thing that will break the law, Senior Clint?"
"No. I promise that what you will do is not a bad thing. You wont get in any trouble, but the job must be kept secret."
"You may rely on me," Ernesto replied, "I am at your service. What must I do?"
My instructions to Ernesto were detailed. He was to buy several hundred feet of brown twine and then visit the Hernandez farm and buy as many head-sized melons as he could carry in his burro cart. This was all to be done early Monday and by eleven oclock everything was to be unloaded in the dry arroyo near Len Murphys horse corral. The burro and cart were to be hidden in the nearby aspen grove. Ernesto was to hide in the arroyo and wait for me. I gave him cash to cover his purchases and he returned to his chores.
It had been a busy Sunday, but now I had all my ducks in a row. If everything went as planned we would be rid of the Englishman and Id be $500 richer. Monday would be a trying day so I holed up in my room, ate some elk jerky and stale fruitcake left over from Christmas and then rolled up in my blankets.
A good breakfast at Wongs got me started and then I bundled all my dueling equipment in saddlebags and went to Alexs stable. He helped me saddle an old gelding and we tied the pistol case behind the cantle where it might attract attention. Then Alex gave me a long-sleeve white silk shirt. It wasnt my style but he insisted this was the traditional dueling attire.
My next stop was Josh Lansings bank where I tied the horse to a hitching rail where a passer-by would likely notice the pistol case. When I entered his office my first question was, "Has the Englishman put up his money yet?"
"You bet," Josh replied as he swiveled around from his desk. "He was waiting at the door when we opened and hes plenty mad! Hes mouthing it all over town that unless you apologize, youll be dead on Wednesday morning and hell be $500 richer."
"You need to look neutral in this, Josh. All you have to do now is be at Lens corral at dawn Wednesday with our wagers." I gave him my part...his own markers in the amount of $500.
Content that the money part of the scheme was in good hands, I set out for Lens corral. The road between Clear Creek and Silverton came down a grade and passed the corral at a distance of about a hundred yards. Everyone traveling the road had a clear view of the corral but couldnt see into the overhang of the arroyo. Thats where I found Ernesto, well hidden with the supplies Id requested.
There was a loading chute with a flat top rail next to the corral. We tied lengths of twine to melon stems and set them on the rail. The strings ran back into Ernestos hiding place. He was to watch me aim and shoot at a melon. The instant I fired he was to jerk down a melon. There would be no misses. When all the melons were off the rail Id replace them...Ernesto was to remain hidden.
At noon my game began with the passing of the stage from Silverton. I stood twenty paces away, assumed the stance of a duelist and fired. A melon flew off the rail and burst on the ground. Taking time to simulate loading a muzzle-loader I fired twice more while the stage was in sight. Each time a wagon or horseman came down the road I repeated the performance. I was sure theyd have a tale to tell when they got to town...a white shirted duelist, cool and steady as he shot at the head-size melons...never missing. The Englishman was sure to hear of this!
At three oclock we stopped. Ernesto would meet me on Tuesday and wed repeat the performance. When I returned the horse Alex was bubbling with news. Those whod passed the corral that afternoon were spreading the story of the deadeye duelist at practice. Sweeny, caught up in the spirit of the event, was giving odds on me at his establishment. The Englishman, when he learned about the odds, became enraged and retreated to his room where Doc and Emma tried their ploys on him. The preacher was scheduled for Tuesday.
Exhausted from the days shooting I retired to my shop to clean the Remington. Id fired about thirty rounds and there were at least that many left in the bag. Just as I was about to retire Alex knocked at the door. It was plain that he was enjoying himself immensely with the course of events.
"Guess who I just talked to?" he chuckled. "Cranston wanted another meeting of Seconds. Claimed practice before a dual wasnt proper. I told him the Englishman should practice too, if he felt it would help him live through the event. Then Cranston complained theyd left his dueling pistols in Denver and inquired if youd consider making an apology so the matter could be forgotten."
"I hope you didnt go for that!"
"Of course not. We have him off balance now and hes getting desperate to avoid the duel. I told him that Doc would act as official surgeon since there was no real doctor in town...but since Doc is also our undertaker, it would be a sensible arrangement. That did it," Alex chortled, "Cranston turned pale and slunk away."
I repeated my act the next afternoon and it went pretty much the same except that I actually began to hit the melons! A buggy stopped on the road about the time we were ready to quit. It was Cranston. Hed driven out to scout the opposition. Well, hed come at exactly the right time. I busted three melons that exploded in a shower of seeds and pulp. Cranston whipped up his buggy in a cloud of dust and disappeared toward Clear Creek.
Ernesto remarked that we were about out of melons. He suggested that with all the seeds that now mixed with corral manure, Len would have a fine crop of melons next year...and was Senior Clint going to charge him for it? We had a good laugh over that and called it a day. I thought Id spring the melon crop on Len during our next poker game.
Back in town, Alex reported that the preacher visited the Englishman as planned. Emma heard loud shouting from his room and the preacher left in a hurry mumbling something about burying the Englishman face down if he had anything to say about it.
The betting was so heavy at Sweenys that hed erected an odds board behind the bar.
That night Doc, Len, Josh, Alex and I met in Sweenys back room and made arrangements to drive two of Alexs buggies to the Field of Honor at dawn the next day and Doc would drive his hearse just for the added effect it would have on the Englishman. Alex volunteered to bring a pair of matched Colts to the event, just in case my elaborate plan failed and I had to perform.
Joshs loud knock woke me from a sound sleep at three oclock the next morning. I shaved, dressed and drank some of the coffee Josh brought from Wongs. It seems that Wong opened early and was serving a crowd that intended to view the first, and probably the last duel in Mesa County.
We were soon joined by the rest and set off on our affair of honor. Alex took charge at the scene. A folding table was set up and Dwights pistol case was ceremoniously placed on it. Alex put spectators at a safe distance and cautioned on the need for quiet and respectable conduct as was befitting the solemn nature of the event.
Then, as the pre-dawn light expanded our visibility, we saw a solitary buggy turn off the road and into the field. My stomach turned. The Englishman was going through with it...and I truly meant the fool no harm. More than that, any one as pig-headed as him might just survive the event at the expense of my life. But soon we could see the buggy was actually a buckboard being driven by Marshal Digby Arthur. He stopped next to us and scowled down.
"What sort of mischief is this?" he quipped as he spat a stream of tobacco juice past the rump of his horse.
"Whatever were doing, were a long way from Clear Creek. What brings you out here?" Josh asked.
"I just hate to see all you folks loosing sleep over this nonsense. While I was making my late rounds last night I saw the Englishman and his sidekick driving their buggy out of town toward Silverton. It was loaded with their stuff and they was moving fast...probably there by now."
"Then we can proceed," announced Alex. "As the only Second present, and in accord with the Code Duello, I declare the challenger has forfeited and with no excuse apparent, I shall post him as a coward." The crowd complained and shouted for Sweeny to explain how the various bets would be settled.
Josh called out, "Be humble, Clint...think of all the melons that died so you could live!"
Ignoring that jibe, I asked him if he didnt have something for me.
"You mean the wager? Its in this envelope...$500 of the Englishmans cash and the markers you put in as your share."
"You wouldnt want to buy some of those markers back would you?" I asked hopefully.
"Clint, you know how slow things have been, and anyway now youre pretty well fixed."
Laughing and joking we followed the crowd back to Clear Creek and promised to meet again next Saturday night at Sweenys... but unless someone came up with a royal flush nothing would top last weeks game. Alex remarked that Andrew Jackson and Alexander Hamilton were probably rolling over in their graves at my deceptive manipulation of the Code of Honor. I felt the envelope tucked in my pocket and didnt care a bit.
*~*~*~*~*
Copyright © 2002 Allen P. Bristow. All rights reserved.
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