The company, too, is there of a more miscellaneous character. The proud planter does not disdain – for he does not dare – to drink in the same room with the “poor white trash;” often as proud as himself.
There is no peasant in that part of the world – least of all in the state called Texas; and in the saloon of “Rough and Ready” might often be seen assembled representatives of every class and calling to be met with among the settlements.
Perhaps not upon any occasion since “Old Duffer” had hung out the sign of his tavern, was he favoured with a larger company, or served more customers across his counter, than upon that night, after the return of the horse-hunting party to Fort Inge.
With the exception of the ladies, almost every one who had taken part in the expedition seemed to think that a half-hour spent at the “Rough and Ready” was necessary as a “nightcap” before retiring to rest; and as the Dutch clock, quaintly ticking among the coloured decanters, indicated the hour of eleven, one after another – officers of the Fort – planters living near along the river – Sutlers – commissariat contractors – “sportsmen” – and others who might be called nondescripts – came dropping in; each as he entered marching straight up to the counter, calling for his favourite drink, and then falling back to converse with some group already occupying the floor.
One of these groups was conspicuous. It consisted of some eight or ten individuals, half of them in uniform. Among the latter were the three officers already introduced; the captain of infantry, and the two lieutenants – Hancock of the dragoons, and Crossman of the mounted rifles.
Along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in authority, as could be told by the embroidery on his shoulder-strap,that proclaimed him of the rank of major. As he was the only “field officer” at Fort Inge, it is unnecessary to say he was the commandant of the cantonment.
These gentlemen were conversing as freely as if all were subalterns of equal rank – the subject of the discourse being the incidents of the day.
“Now tell us, major!” said Hancock: “you must know. Where did the girl gallop to?”
“How should I know?” answered the officer appealed to. “Ask her cousin, Mr Cassius Calhoun.”
“We have asked him, but without getting any satisfaction. It’s clear he knows no more than we. He only met them on the return – and not very far from the place where we had our bivouac[167]. They were gone a precious long time; and judging by the sweat of their horses they must have had a hard ride of it. They might have been to the Rio Grande, for that matter, and beyond it.”
“Did you notice Calhoun as he came back?” inquired the captain of infantry. “There was a scowl upon his face that betokened some very unpleasant emotion within his mind, I should say.”
“He did look rather unhappy,” replied the major; “but surely, Captain Sloman, you don’t attribute it to – ?”
“Jealousy. I do, and nothing else.”
“What! of Maurice the mustanger? Poh – poh! impossible – at least, very improbable.”
“And why, major?”
“My dear Sloman, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald – ”
“May be a gentleman for aught that is known to the contrary.”
“Pshaw!” scornfully exclaimed Crossman; “a trader in horses! The major is right – the thing’s improbable – impossible.”
“Ah, gentlemen!” pursued the officer of infantry, with a significant shake of the head. “You don’t know Miss Poindexter, so well as I. An eccentric young lady – to say the least of her. You may have already observed that for yourselves.”
“Come, come, Sloman!” said the major, in a bantering way; “you are inclined to be talking scandal, I fear. That would be a scandal. Perhaps you are yourself interested in Miss Poindexter, notwithstanding your pretensions to be considered a Joseph[168]? Now, I could understand your being jealous if it were handsome Hancock here, or Crossman – supposing him to be disengaged. But as for a common mustanger – poh – poh!”
“He’s an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what I have some reason to suspect – ”
“Whatever he be,” interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards the door, “he’s there to answer for himself; and as he’s a sufficiently plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that seems to be of so much interest to you.”
“I don’t think you will,” muttered Sloman, as Hancock and two or three others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the major’s suggestion.
Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.
“A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which to saluted the landlord.
“Visky und vachter!” echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to wait upon his new guest. “Ya, woe, visky und vachter! It ish two picayunsh the glass.”
“I was not inquiring the price,” replied the mustanger, “I asked to be served with a glass of whisky and water. Have you got any?”
“Yesh – yesh,” responded the German, rendered obsequious by the sharp rejoinder. “Plenty – plenty of visky und vachter. Here it ish.”
While his simple potation was being served out to him, Maurice received nods of recognition from the officers, returning them with a free, but modest air. Most of them knew him personally, on account of his business relations with the Fort.
They were on the eve of interrogating him – as the major had suggested – when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design.
The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun. In his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.
Advancing with his customary swagger towards the mixed group of military men and civilians, Calhoun saluted them as one who had spent the day in their company, and had been absent only for a short interval. If not absolutely intoxicated, it could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink. The unsteady sparkle of his eyes, the unnatural pallor upon his forehead – still further clouded by two or three tossed tresses that fell over it – with the somewhat grotesque set of his forage cap – told that he had been taking one beyond the limits of wisdom.
“Come, gentlemen!” cried he, addressing himself to the major’s party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; “let’s hit the waggon a crack, or old Dunder-und-blitzen behind the bar will say we’re wasting his lights. Drinks all round. What say you?”
“Agreed – agreed!” replied several voices.
“You, major?”
“With pleasure, Captain Calhoun.”
According to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his liking at the moment.
Of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in the party; Calhoun himself shouting out – “Brown sherry for me;” and immediately adding – “with a dash of bitters.”
“Prandy und pitters, you calls for, Mishter Calhoun?” said the landlord, as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner of an extensive estate.
“Certainly, you stupid Dutchman! I said brown sherry, didn’t I?”
“All rights, mein herr; all rights! Prandy und pitters – prandy und pitters,” repeated the German Boniface, as he hastened to place the decanter before his ill-mannered guest.
With the large accession of the major’s party, to several others already in the act of imbibing, the whole front of the long counter became occupied – with scarce an inch to spare.
Apparently by accident – though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun – he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.
This brought him in juxtaposition with Maurice Gerald, who alone – as regarded boon companionship – was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.
The two were back to back – neither having taken any notice of the other.
“A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter.
“Let us have it!” responded several voices.
“America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”
On delivering the obnoxious sentiment, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger – at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips.
The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.
Was it an accident? No one believed it was – even for a moment. Accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront intended and premeditated.
All present expected to see the insulted man spring instantly upon his insulter. They were disappointed, as well as surprised, at the manner in which the mustanger seemed to take it. There were some who even fancied he was about to submit to it.
“If he does,” whispered Hancock in Sloman’s ear, “he ought to be kicked out of the room.”
“Don’t you be alarmed about that,” responded the infantry officer, in the same sotto voce[169]. “You’ll find it different. I’m not given to betting, as you know; but I’d lay a month’s pay upon it the mustanger don’t back out; and another, that Mr Cassius Calhoun will find him an ugly customer to deal with, although just now he seems more concerned about his fine shirt, than the insult put upon him. Odd devil he is!”
While this whispering was being carried on, the man to whom it related was still standing by the bar – to use a hackneyed phrase, “the observed of all observers.”
Having deposited his glass upon the counter, he had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his embroidered shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.
There was an imperturbable coolness about the action, scarce compatible with the idea of cowardice; and those who had doubted him perceived that they had made a mistake, and that there was something to come. In silence they awaited the development.
They had not long to wait. The whole affair – speculations and whisperings included – did not occupy twenty seconds of time; and then did the action proceed, or the speech which was likely to usher it in.
“I am an Irishman,” said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.
Simple as the rejoinder may have appeared, and long delayed as it had been, there was no one present who mistook its meaning. If the hunter of wild horses had tweaked the nose of Cassius Calhoun, it would not have added emphasis to that acceptance of his challenge. Its simplicity but proclaimed the serious determination of the acceptor.
“You?” scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round, and standing with his arms akimbo[170]. “You?” he continued, with his eye measuring the mustanger from head to foot, “you an Irishman? Great God, sir, I should never have thought so! I should have taken you for a Mexican, judging by your rig, and the elaborate stitching of your shirt.”
“I can’t perceive how my rig should concern you, Mr Cassius Calhoun; and as you’ve done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon it, I shall take the liberty of unstarching yours in a similar fashion.”
So saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before the ex-captain of volunteers could duck his head, or get out of the way, the remains of the mixed Monongahela were “swilled” into his face, sending him off into a fit of alternate sneezing and coughing that appeared to afford satisfaction to more than a majority of the bystanders.
The murmur of approbation was soon suppressed. The circumstances were not such as to call for speech; and the exclamations that accompanied the act were succeeded by a hush of silence. All saw that the quarrel could not be otherwise than a serious one. The affair must end in a fight. No power on earth could prevent it from coming to that conclusion.
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
There is no peasant in that part of the world – least of all in the state called Texas; and in the saloon of “Rough and Ready” might often be seen assembled representatives of every class and calling to be met with among the settlements.
Perhaps not upon any occasion since “Old Duffer” had hung out the sign of his tavern, was he favoured with a larger company, or served more customers across his counter, than upon that night, after the return of the horse-hunting party to Fort Inge.
With the exception of the ladies, almost every one who had taken part in the expedition seemed to think that a half-hour spent at the “Rough and Ready” was necessary as a “nightcap” before retiring to rest; and as the Dutch clock, quaintly ticking among the coloured decanters, indicated the hour of eleven, one after another – officers of the Fort – planters living near along the river – Sutlers – commissariat contractors – “sportsmen” – and others who might be called nondescripts – came dropping in; each as he entered marching straight up to the counter, calling for his favourite drink, and then falling back to converse with some group already occupying the floor.
One of these groups was conspicuous. It consisted of some eight or ten individuals, half of them in uniform. Among the latter were the three officers already introduced; the captain of infantry, and the two lieutenants – Hancock of the dragoons, and Crossman of the mounted rifles.
Along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in authority, as could be told by the embroidery on his shoulder-strap,that proclaimed him of the rank of major. As he was the only “field officer” at Fort Inge, it is unnecessary to say he was the commandant of the cantonment.
These gentlemen were conversing as freely as if all were subalterns of equal rank – the subject of the discourse being the incidents of the day.
“Now tell us, major!” said Hancock: “you must know. Where did the girl gallop to?”
“How should I know?” answered the officer appealed to. “Ask her cousin, Mr Cassius Calhoun.”
“We have asked him, but without getting any satisfaction. It’s clear he knows no more than we. He only met them on the return – and not very far from the place where we had our bivouac[167]. They were gone a precious long time; and judging by the sweat of their horses they must have had a hard ride of it. They might have been to the Rio Grande, for that matter, and beyond it.”
“Did you notice Calhoun as he came back?” inquired the captain of infantry. “There was a scowl upon his face that betokened some very unpleasant emotion within his mind, I should say.”
“He did look rather unhappy,” replied the major; “but surely, Captain Sloman, you don’t attribute it to – ?”
“Jealousy. I do, and nothing else.”
“What! of Maurice the mustanger? Poh – poh! impossible – at least, very improbable.”
“And why, major?”
“My dear Sloman, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald – ”
“May be a gentleman for aught that is known to the contrary.”
“Pshaw!” scornfully exclaimed Crossman; “a trader in horses! The major is right – the thing’s improbable – impossible.”
“Ah, gentlemen!” pursued the officer of infantry, with a significant shake of the head. “You don’t know Miss Poindexter, so well as I. An eccentric young lady – to say the least of her. You may have already observed that for yourselves.”
“Come, come, Sloman!” said the major, in a bantering way; “you are inclined to be talking scandal, I fear. That would be a scandal. Perhaps you are yourself interested in Miss Poindexter, notwithstanding your pretensions to be considered a Joseph[168]? Now, I could understand your being jealous if it were handsome Hancock here, or Crossman – supposing him to be disengaged. But as for a common mustanger – poh – poh!”
“He’s an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what I have some reason to suspect – ”
“Whatever he be,” interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards the door, “he’s there to answer for himself; and as he’s a sufficiently plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that seems to be of so much interest to you.”
“I don’t think you will,” muttered Sloman, as Hancock and two or three others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the major’s suggestion.
Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.
“A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which to saluted the landlord.
“Visky und vachter!” echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to wait upon his new guest. “Ya, woe, visky und vachter! It ish two picayunsh the glass.”
“I was not inquiring the price,” replied the mustanger, “I asked to be served with a glass of whisky and water. Have you got any?”
“Yesh – yesh,” responded the German, rendered obsequious by the sharp rejoinder. “Plenty – plenty of visky und vachter. Here it ish.”
While his simple potation was being served out to him, Maurice received nods of recognition from the officers, returning them with a free, but modest air. Most of them knew him personally, on account of his business relations with the Fort.
They were on the eve of interrogating him – as the major had suggested – when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design.
The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun. In his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.
Advancing with his customary swagger towards the mixed group of military men and civilians, Calhoun saluted them as one who had spent the day in their company, and had been absent only for a short interval. If not absolutely intoxicated, it could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink. The unsteady sparkle of his eyes, the unnatural pallor upon his forehead – still further clouded by two or three tossed tresses that fell over it – with the somewhat grotesque set of his forage cap – told that he had been taking one beyond the limits of wisdom.
“Come, gentlemen!” cried he, addressing himself to the major’s party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; “let’s hit the waggon a crack, or old Dunder-und-blitzen behind the bar will say we’re wasting his lights. Drinks all round. What say you?”
“Agreed – agreed!” replied several voices.
“You, major?”
“With pleasure, Captain Calhoun.”
According to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his liking at the moment.
Of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in the party; Calhoun himself shouting out – “Brown sherry for me;” and immediately adding – “with a dash of bitters.”
“Prandy und pitters, you calls for, Mishter Calhoun?” said the landlord, as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner of an extensive estate.
“Certainly, you stupid Dutchman! I said brown sherry, didn’t I?”
“All rights, mein herr; all rights! Prandy und pitters – prandy und pitters,” repeated the German Boniface, as he hastened to place the decanter before his ill-mannered guest.
With the large accession of the major’s party, to several others already in the act of imbibing, the whole front of the long counter became occupied – with scarce an inch to spare.
Apparently by accident – though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun – he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.
This brought him in juxtaposition with Maurice Gerald, who alone – as regarded boon companionship – was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.
The two were back to back – neither having taken any notice of the other.
“A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter.
“Let us have it!” responded several voices.
“America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”
On delivering the obnoxious sentiment, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger – at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips.
The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.
Was it an accident? No one believed it was – even for a moment. Accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront intended and premeditated.
All present expected to see the insulted man spring instantly upon his insulter. They were disappointed, as well as surprised, at the manner in which the mustanger seemed to take it. There were some who even fancied he was about to submit to it.
“If he does,” whispered Hancock in Sloman’s ear, “he ought to be kicked out of the room.”
“Don’t you be alarmed about that,” responded the infantry officer, in the same sotto voce[169]. “You’ll find it different. I’m not given to betting, as you know; but I’d lay a month’s pay upon it the mustanger don’t back out; and another, that Mr Cassius Calhoun will find him an ugly customer to deal with, although just now he seems more concerned about his fine shirt, than the insult put upon him. Odd devil he is!”
While this whispering was being carried on, the man to whom it related was still standing by the bar – to use a hackneyed phrase, “the observed of all observers.”
Having deposited his glass upon the counter, he had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his embroidered shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.
There was an imperturbable coolness about the action, scarce compatible with the idea of cowardice; and those who had doubted him perceived that they had made a mistake, and that there was something to come. In silence they awaited the development.
They had not long to wait. The whole affair – speculations and whisperings included – did not occupy twenty seconds of time; and then did the action proceed, or the speech which was likely to usher it in.
“I am an Irishman,” said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.
Simple as the rejoinder may have appeared, and long delayed as it had been, there was no one present who mistook its meaning. If the hunter of wild horses had tweaked the nose of Cassius Calhoun, it would not have added emphasis to that acceptance of his challenge. Its simplicity but proclaimed the serious determination of the acceptor.
“You?” scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round, and standing with his arms akimbo[170]. “You?” he continued, with his eye measuring the mustanger from head to foot, “you an Irishman? Great God, sir, I should never have thought so! I should have taken you for a Mexican, judging by your rig, and the elaborate stitching of your shirt.”
“I can’t perceive how my rig should concern you, Mr Cassius Calhoun; and as you’ve done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon it, I shall take the liberty of unstarching yours in a similar fashion.”
So saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before the ex-captain of volunteers could duck his head, or get out of the way, the remains of the mixed Monongahela were “swilled” into his face, sending him off into a fit of alternate sneezing and coughing that appeared to afford satisfaction to more than a majority of the bystanders.
The murmur of approbation was soon suppressed. The circumstances were not such as to call for speech; and the exclamations that accompanied the act were succeeded by a hush of silence. All saw that the quarrel could not be otherwise than a serious one. The affair must end in a fight. No power on earth could prevent it from coming to that conclusion.
Chapter 20
An Unsafe Position
On receiving the alcoholic douche, Calhoun had clutched his six-shooter[171], and drawn it from its holster. He only waited to get the whisky out of his eyes before advancing upon his adversary.
The mustanger, anticipating this action, had armed himself with a similar weapon, and stood ready to return the fire of his antagonist – shot for shot.
The more timid of the spectators had already commenced making their escape out of doors tumbling over one another, in their haste to get out of harm’s way.
A few stayed in the saloon from sheer irresolution; a few others, of cooler courage, from choice; or, perhaps, actuated by a more astute instinct, which told them that in attempting to escape they might get a bullet in the back.
There was an interval – some six seconds – of silence, during which a pin might have been heard falling upon the floor. It was but the interlude that often occurs between resolution and action; when the mind has completed its task, and the body has yet to begin.
It might have been more brief with other actors on the scene. Two ordinary men would have blazed away at once, and without reflection. But the two now confronting each other were not of the common kind. Both had seen street fighting before – had taken part in it – and knew the disadvantage of an idle shot. Each was determined to take sure aim on the other. It was this that prolonged the interval of inaction.
To those outside, who dared not even look through the doors, the suspense was almost painful. The cracking of the pistols, which they expected every moment to hear, would have been a relief. It was almost a disappointment when, instead, they heard the voice of the major – who was among the few who had stayed inside – raised in a loud authoritative tone.
“Hold!” commanded he, in the accent of one accustomed to be obeyed, at the same time whisking his sabre out of its scabbard, and interposing its long blade between the disputants.
“Hold your fire – I command you both. Drop your muzzles; or by the Almighty I’ll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger! Hold, I say!”
“Why?” shouted Calhoun, purple with angry passion. “Why, Major Ringwood? After an insult like that, and from a low fellow – ”
“You were the first to offer it, Captain Calhoun.”
“Damn me if I care! I shall be the last to let it pass unpunished. Stand out of the way, major. The quarrel is not yours – you have no right to interfere!”
“Indeed! Ha! ha! Sloman! Hancock! Crossman! hear that? I have no right to interfere! Hark ye, Mr Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteers! Know you where you are, sir? Don’t fancy yourself in the state of Mississippi – among your slave-whipping chivalry. This, sir, is a military post – under military law – my humble self its present administrator. I therefore command you to return your six-shooter to the holster from which you have taken it. This instant too, or you shall go to the guard-house, like the humblest soldier in the cantonment!”
“Indeed!” sneeringly replied the Mississippian. “What a fine country you intend Texas to become! I suppose a man mustn’t fight, however much aggrieved, without first obtaining a licence from Major Ringwood? Is that to be the law of the land?”
“Not a bit of it,” retorted the major. “I’m not the man – never was – to stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel. You shall be quite at liberty – you and your antagonist – to kill one another, if it so please you. But not just now. You must perceive, Mr Calhoun, that your sport endangers the lives of other people, who have not the slightest interest in it. I’ve no idea of being bored by a bullet not intended for me. Wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe distance; and you may crack away to your heart’s content. Now, sir, will that be agreeable to you?”
Had the major been a man of ordinary character his commands might have been disregarded. But to his official weight, as chief officer of the post, was added a certain reverence due to seniority in age – along with respect for one who was himself known to wield a weapon with dangerous skill, and who allowed no trilling with his authority.
His sabre had not been unsheathed by way of empty gesticulation. The disputants knew it; and by simultaneous consent lowered the muzzles of their pistols – still holding them in hand.
Calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth, like a beast of prey momentarily withheld from making attack upon its victim; while the mustanger appeared to take things as coolly as if neither angry, nor an Irishman.
“I suppose you are determined upon fighting?” said the major, knowing that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel.
“I have no particular wish for it,” modestly responded Maurice. “If Mr Calhoun will apologise for what he has said, and also what he has done – ”
“He ought to do it: he began the quarrel!” suggested several of the bystanders.
“Never!” scornfully responded the ex-captain. “Cash Calhoun ain’t accustomed to that sort of thing. Apologise indeed! And to a masquerading monkey like that!”
“Enough!” cried the young Irishman, for the first time showing serious anger; “I gave him a chance for his life. He refuses to accept it: and now, by the Mother of God, we don’t both leave this room alive! Major! I insist that you and your friends withdraw. I can stand his insolence no longer!”
“Ha – ha – ha!” responded the Southerner, with a yell of derisive laughter; “a chance for my life! Clear out, all of ye – clear out; and let me at him!”
“Stay!” cried the major, hesitating to turn his back upon the duellist. “It’s not quite safe. You may fancy to begin your game of touch-trigger a second too soon. We must get out of doors before you do. Besides, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to those around him, “there should be some system about this. If they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. Let them be armed alike; and go at it on the square!”
“By all means!” chorused the half-score of spectators, turning their eyes towards the disputants, to see if they accepted the proposal.
“Neither of you can object?” continued the major, interrogatively.
“I sha’n’t object to anything that’s fair,” assented the Irishman – “devil a bit!”
“I shall fight with the weapon I hold in my hand,” doggedly declared Calhoun.
“Agreed! the very weapon for me!” was the rejoinder of his adversary.
“I see you both carry Colt’s six-shooter Number 2,” said the major, scanning the pistols held in hand. “So far all right! you’re armed exactly alike.”
“Have they any other weapons?” inquired young Hancock, suspecting that under the cover of his coat the ex-captain had a knife.
“I have none,” answered the mustanger, with a frankness that left no doubt as to his speaking the truth.
All eyes were turned upon Calhoun, who appeared to hesitate about making a reply. He saw he must declare himself.
“Of course,” he said, “I have my toothpick as well. You don’t want me to give up that? A man ought to be allowed to use whatever weapon he has got.”
“But, Captain Calhoun,” pursued Hancock, “your adversary has no knife. If you are not afraid to meet him on equal terms you should surrender yours.”
“Certainly he should!” cried several of the bystanders. “He must! he must!”
“Come, Mr Calhoun!” said the major, in a soothing tone. “Six shots ought to satisfy any reasonable man; without having recourse to the steel. Before you finish firing, one or the other of you – ”
“Damn the knife!” interrupted Calhoun, unbuttoning his coat. Then drawing forth the proscribed weapon, and flinging it to the farthest corner of the saloon, he added, in a tone of bravado, intended to encowardice his adversary. “I sha’n’t want it for such a spangled jay-bird as that. I’ll fetch him out of his boots at the first shot.”
“Time enough to talk when you’ve done something to justify it. Cry boo to a goose; but don’t fancy your big words are going to frighten me, Mr Calhoun! Quick, gentlemen! I’m impatient to put an end to his boasting and blasphemy!”
“Hound!” frantically hissed out the chivalric Southerner. “Low dog of an Irish dam! I’ll send you howling to your kennel! I’ll – ”
“Shame, Captain Calhoun!” interrupted the major, seconded by other voices. “This talk is idle, as it is unpolite in the presence of respectable company. Have patience a minute longer; and you may then say what you like. Now, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to the surrounding, “there is only one more preliminary to be arranged. They must engage not to begin firing till we have got out of their way?”
A difficulty here presented itself. How was the engagement to be given? A simple promise would scarce be sufficient in a crisis like that? The combatants – one of them at least – would not be over scrupulous as to the time of pulling trigger.
“There must be a signal,” pursued the major. “Neither should fire till that be given. Can any one suggest what it is to be?”
“I think. I can,” said the quiet Captain Sloman, advancing as he spoke. “Let the gentlemen go outside, along with us. There is – as you perceive – a door at each end of the room. I see no difference between them. Let them enter again – one at each door, with the understanding that neither is to fire before setting foot across the threshold.”
“Capital! the very thing!” replied several voices. “And what for a signal?” demanded the major. “A shot?”
“No. Ring the tavern bell!”
“Nothing could be better – nothing fairer,” conclusively declared the major, making for one of the doors, that led outward into the square.
“Mein Gott, major!” screamed the German Boniface, rushing out from behind his bar; where, up to this time, he had been standing transfixed with fear. “Mein Gott – surely the shentlemens pe not going to shoot their pisthols inside the shaloon: Ach! they’ll preak all my pottles, and my shplendid looking-glashes, an my crystal clock, that hash cost me von – two hundred dollars. They’ll shpill my pesht liquors – ach! Major, it’ll ruin me – mein Gott – it will!”
“Never fear, Oberdoffer!” rejoined the major, pausing to reply. “No doubt you’ll be paid for the damage. At all events, you had better betake yourself to some place of safety. If you stay in your saloon you’ll stand a good chance of getting a bullet through your body, and that would be worse than the preaking of your pottles.”
Without further parley the major parted from the unfortunate landlord, and hurried across the threshold into the street, whither the combatants, who had gone out by separate doors, had already preceded him.
“Old Duffer,” left standing in the middle of his sanded floor, did not remain long in that perilous position. In six seconds after the major’s coat-tail had disappeared through the outer door, an inner one closed upon his own skirts; and the bar-room, with its camphine lamps, its sparkling decanters, and its costly mirrors, was left in untenanted silence – no other sound being heard save the ticking of its crystal clock.
The mustanger, anticipating this action, had armed himself with a similar weapon, and stood ready to return the fire of his antagonist – shot for shot.
The more timid of the spectators had already commenced making their escape out of doors tumbling over one another, in their haste to get out of harm’s way.
A few stayed in the saloon from sheer irresolution; a few others, of cooler courage, from choice; or, perhaps, actuated by a more astute instinct, which told them that in attempting to escape they might get a bullet in the back.
There was an interval – some six seconds – of silence, during which a pin might have been heard falling upon the floor. It was but the interlude that often occurs between resolution and action; when the mind has completed its task, and the body has yet to begin.
It might have been more brief with other actors on the scene. Two ordinary men would have blazed away at once, and without reflection. But the two now confronting each other were not of the common kind. Both had seen street fighting before – had taken part in it – and knew the disadvantage of an idle shot. Each was determined to take sure aim on the other. It was this that prolonged the interval of inaction.
To those outside, who dared not even look through the doors, the suspense was almost painful. The cracking of the pistols, which they expected every moment to hear, would have been a relief. It was almost a disappointment when, instead, they heard the voice of the major – who was among the few who had stayed inside – raised in a loud authoritative tone.
“Hold!” commanded he, in the accent of one accustomed to be obeyed, at the same time whisking his sabre out of its scabbard, and interposing its long blade between the disputants.
“Hold your fire – I command you both. Drop your muzzles; or by the Almighty I’ll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger! Hold, I say!”
“Why?” shouted Calhoun, purple with angry passion. “Why, Major Ringwood? After an insult like that, and from a low fellow – ”
“You were the first to offer it, Captain Calhoun.”
“Damn me if I care! I shall be the last to let it pass unpunished. Stand out of the way, major. The quarrel is not yours – you have no right to interfere!”
“Indeed! Ha! ha! Sloman! Hancock! Crossman! hear that? I have no right to interfere! Hark ye, Mr Cassius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteers! Know you where you are, sir? Don’t fancy yourself in the state of Mississippi – among your slave-whipping chivalry. This, sir, is a military post – under military law – my humble self its present administrator. I therefore command you to return your six-shooter to the holster from which you have taken it. This instant too, or you shall go to the guard-house, like the humblest soldier in the cantonment!”
“Indeed!” sneeringly replied the Mississippian. “What a fine country you intend Texas to become! I suppose a man mustn’t fight, however much aggrieved, without first obtaining a licence from Major Ringwood? Is that to be the law of the land?”
“Not a bit of it,” retorted the major. “I’m not the man – never was – to stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel. You shall be quite at liberty – you and your antagonist – to kill one another, if it so please you. But not just now. You must perceive, Mr Calhoun, that your sport endangers the lives of other people, who have not the slightest interest in it. I’ve no idea of being bored by a bullet not intended for me. Wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe distance; and you may crack away to your heart’s content. Now, sir, will that be agreeable to you?”
Had the major been a man of ordinary character his commands might have been disregarded. But to his official weight, as chief officer of the post, was added a certain reverence due to seniority in age – along with respect for one who was himself known to wield a weapon with dangerous skill, and who allowed no trilling with his authority.
His sabre had not been unsheathed by way of empty gesticulation. The disputants knew it; and by simultaneous consent lowered the muzzles of their pistols – still holding them in hand.
Calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth, like a beast of prey momentarily withheld from making attack upon its victim; while the mustanger appeared to take things as coolly as if neither angry, nor an Irishman.
“I suppose you are determined upon fighting?” said the major, knowing that, there was not much chance of adjusting the quarrel.
“I have no particular wish for it,” modestly responded Maurice. “If Mr Calhoun will apologise for what he has said, and also what he has done – ”
“He ought to do it: he began the quarrel!” suggested several of the bystanders.
“Never!” scornfully responded the ex-captain. “Cash Calhoun ain’t accustomed to that sort of thing. Apologise indeed! And to a masquerading monkey like that!”
“Enough!” cried the young Irishman, for the first time showing serious anger; “I gave him a chance for his life. He refuses to accept it: and now, by the Mother of God, we don’t both leave this room alive! Major! I insist that you and your friends withdraw. I can stand his insolence no longer!”
“Ha – ha – ha!” responded the Southerner, with a yell of derisive laughter; “a chance for my life! Clear out, all of ye – clear out; and let me at him!”
“Stay!” cried the major, hesitating to turn his back upon the duellist. “It’s not quite safe. You may fancy to begin your game of touch-trigger a second too soon. We must get out of doors before you do. Besides, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to those around him, “there should be some system about this. If they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. Let them be armed alike; and go at it on the square!”
“By all means!” chorused the half-score of spectators, turning their eyes towards the disputants, to see if they accepted the proposal.
“Neither of you can object?” continued the major, interrogatively.
“I sha’n’t object to anything that’s fair,” assented the Irishman – “devil a bit!”
“I shall fight with the weapon I hold in my hand,” doggedly declared Calhoun.
“Agreed! the very weapon for me!” was the rejoinder of his adversary.
“I see you both carry Colt’s six-shooter Number 2,” said the major, scanning the pistols held in hand. “So far all right! you’re armed exactly alike.”
“Have they any other weapons?” inquired young Hancock, suspecting that under the cover of his coat the ex-captain had a knife.
“I have none,” answered the mustanger, with a frankness that left no doubt as to his speaking the truth.
All eyes were turned upon Calhoun, who appeared to hesitate about making a reply. He saw he must declare himself.
“Of course,” he said, “I have my toothpick as well. You don’t want me to give up that? A man ought to be allowed to use whatever weapon he has got.”
“But, Captain Calhoun,” pursued Hancock, “your adversary has no knife. If you are not afraid to meet him on equal terms you should surrender yours.”
“Certainly he should!” cried several of the bystanders. “He must! he must!”
“Come, Mr Calhoun!” said the major, in a soothing tone. “Six shots ought to satisfy any reasonable man; without having recourse to the steel. Before you finish firing, one or the other of you – ”
“Damn the knife!” interrupted Calhoun, unbuttoning his coat. Then drawing forth the proscribed weapon, and flinging it to the farthest corner of the saloon, he added, in a tone of bravado, intended to encowardice his adversary. “I sha’n’t want it for such a spangled jay-bird as that. I’ll fetch him out of his boots at the first shot.”
“Time enough to talk when you’ve done something to justify it. Cry boo to a goose; but don’t fancy your big words are going to frighten me, Mr Calhoun! Quick, gentlemen! I’m impatient to put an end to his boasting and blasphemy!”
“Hound!” frantically hissed out the chivalric Southerner. “Low dog of an Irish dam! I’ll send you howling to your kennel! I’ll – ”
“Shame, Captain Calhoun!” interrupted the major, seconded by other voices. “This talk is idle, as it is unpolite in the presence of respectable company. Have patience a minute longer; and you may then say what you like. Now, gentlemen!” he continued, addressing himself to the surrounding, “there is only one more preliminary to be arranged. They must engage not to begin firing till we have got out of their way?”
A difficulty here presented itself. How was the engagement to be given? A simple promise would scarce be sufficient in a crisis like that? The combatants – one of them at least – would not be over scrupulous as to the time of pulling trigger.
“There must be a signal,” pursued the major. “Neither should fire till that be given. Can any one suggest what it is to be?”
“I think. I can,” said the quiet Captain Sloman, advancing as he spoke. “Let the gentlemen go outside, along with us. There is – as you perceive – a door at each end of the room. I see no difference between them. Let them enter again – one at each door, with the understanding that neither is to fire before setting foot across the threshold.”
“Capital! the very thing!” replied several voices. “And what for a signal?” demanded the major. “A shot?”
“No. Ring the tavern bell!”
“Nothing could be better – nothing fairer,” conclusively declared the major, making for one of the doors, that led outward into the square.
“Mein Gott, major!” screamed the German Boniface, rushing out from behind his bar; where, up to this time, he had been standing transfixed with fear. “Mein Gott – surely the shentlemens pe not going to shoot their pisthols inside the shaloon: Ach! they’ll preak all my pottles, and my shplendid looking-glashes, an my crystal clock, that hash cost me von – two hundred dollars. They’ll shpill my pesht liquors – ach! Major, it’ll ruin me – mein Gott – it will!”
“Never fear, Oberdoffer!” rejoined the major, pausing to reply. “No doubt you’ll be paid for the damage. At all events, you had better betake yourself to some place of safety. If you stay in your saloon you’ll stand a good chance of getting a bullet through your body, and that would be worse than the preaking of your pottles.”
Without further parley the major parted from the unfortunate landlord, and hurried across the threshold into the street, whither the combatants, who had gone out by separate doors, had already preceded him.
“Old Duffer,” left standing in the middle of his sanded floor, did not remain long in that perilous position. In six seconds after the major’s coat-tail had disappeared through the outer door, an inner one closed upon his own skirts; and the bar-room, with its camphine lamps, its sparkling decanters, and its costly mirrors, was left in untenanted silence – no other sound being heard save the ticking of its crystal clock.
Chapter 21
A Duel within Doors
Once outside, the major took no further part in the affair. As the commanding officer of the post, it would have been out of place for him to have given encouragement to a fight – even by his interfering to see that it should be a fair one. This, however, was attended to by the younger officers; who at once set about arranging the conditions of the duel.
There was not much time consumed. The terms had been expressed already; and it only remained to appoint some one of the party to superintend the ringing of the bell, which was to be the signal for the combat to commence.
This was an easy matter, since it made no difference who might be entrusted with the duty. A child might have sounded the summons for the terrible conflict that was to follow.
A stranger, chancing at that moment to ride into the rude square of which the hotel “Rough and Ready” formed nearly a side, would have been sorely puzzled to comprehend what was coming to pass. The night was rather dark, though there was still light enough to make known the presence of a conglomeration of human beings, assembled in the proximity of the hotel. Most were in military garb: since, in addition to the officers who had lately figured inside the saloon, others, along with such soldiers as were permitted to pass the sentries, had hastened down from the Fort on receiving intelligence that something unusual was going on within the “square.” Women, too, but scantily robed – soldiers’ wives, washerwomen, and “señoritas” of more questionable calling – had found their way into the street, and were endeavouring to extract from those who had forestalled them an explanation of the fracas.
The conversation was carried on in low tones. It was known that the commandant of the post was present, as well as others in authority; and this checked any propensity there might have been for noisy demonstration.
The crowd, thus promiscuously collected, was not in close proximity with the hotel; but standing well out in the open ground, about a dozen yards from the building. Towards it, however, the eyes of all were directed, with that steady stare which tells of the attention being fixed on some engrossing spectacle. They were watching the movements of two men, whose positions were apart – one at each end of the heavy blockhouse, known to be the bar-room of the hotel; and where, as already stated, there was a door.
Though separated by the interposition of two thick log walls, and mutually invisible, these men were manoeuvring as if actuated by a common impulse. They stood contiguous to the entrance doors, at opposite ends of the bar-room, through both of which glared the light of the camphine lamps – falling in broad divergent bands upon the rough gravel outside. Neither was in front of the contiguous entrance; but a little to one side, just clear of the light. Neither was in an upright attitude, but crouching – not as if from fear, but like a runner about to make a start, and straining upon the spring.
Both were looking inwards – into the saloon, where no sound could be heard save the ticking of a clock. Their attitudes told of their readiness to enter it, and that they were only restrained by waiting for some preconcerted signal.
That their purpose was a serious one could be deduced from several circumstances. Both were in their shirt sleeves, hatless, and stripped of every rag that might form an impediment to action; while on their faces was the stamp of stern determination – alike legible in the attitudes they had assumed.
But there was no fine reflection needed to discover their design. The stranger, chancing to come into the square, could have seen at a glance that it was deadly. The pistols in their hands, cocked and tightly clutched; the nervous energy of their attitudes; the silence of the crowd of spectators; and the concentrated interest with which the two men were regarded, proclaimed more emphatically than words, that there was danger in what they were doing – in short, that they were engaged in some sort of a strife, with death for its probable consummation!
So it was at that moment when the crisis had come. The duellists stood, each with eye intent upon the door, by which he was to make entrance – perhaps into eternity! They only waited for a signal to cross the threshold; and engage in a combat that must terminate the existence of one or the other – perhaps both.
Were they listening for that fatal formulary: – One – two – fire?
No. Another signal had been agreed upon; and it was given.
A stentorian voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable —
“Ring!”
Three or four dark figures could be seen standing by the shorn trunk on which swung the tavern bell. The command instantly set them in motion; and, along with the oscillation of their arms – dimly seen through the darkness – could be heard the sonorous tones of a bell. That bell, whose sounds had been hitherto heard only as symbols of joy – calling men together to partake of that which perpetuates life – was now listened to as a summons of death!
The “ringing in” was of short duration. The bell had made less than a score of vibrations, when the men engaged at the rope saw that their services were no longer required. The disappearance of the duellists, who had rushed inside the saloon, the quick, sharp cracking of pistols; the shivering of broken glass, admonished the ringers that theirs was but a superfluous noise; and, dropping the rope, they stood like the rest of the crowd, listening to the conflict inside.
No eyes – save those of the combatants themselves – were witnesses to that strange duel.
At the first dong of the bell both combatants had re-entered the room. Neither made an attempt to skulk outside. To have done so would have been a ruin to reputation. A hundred eyes were upon them; and the spectators understood the conditions of the duel – that neither was to fire before crossing the threshold.
Once inside, the conflict commenced, the first shots filling the room with smoke. Both kept their feet, though both were wounded – their blood spurting out over the sanded floor.
The second shots were also fired simultaneously, but at random, the smoke hindering the aim.
Then came a single shot, quickly followed by another, and succeeded by an interval of quiet.
Previous to this the combatants had been heard rushing about through the room. This noise was no longer being made.
Instead there was profound silence. Had they killed one another? Were both dead? No! Once more the double detonation announced that both still lived. The suspension had been caused as they stood peering through the smoke in the endeavour to distinguish one another. Neither spoke or stirred in fear of betraying his position.
Again there was a period of tranquillity similar to the former, but more prolonged.
It ended by another exchange of shots, almost instantly succeeded by the falling of two heavy bodies upon the floor.
There was the sound of sprawling – the overturning of chairs – then a single shot – the eleventh – and this was the last that was fired!
The spectators outside saw only a cloud of sulphurous smoke oozing out of both doors, and dimming the light of the camphine lamps. This, with an occasional flash of brighter effulgence, close followed by a crack, was all that occurred to give satisfaction to the eye.
But the ear – that was gratified by a greater variety. There were heard shots – after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp shivering of broken glass, the duller crash of falling furniture, rudely overturned in earnest struggle – the trampling of feet upon the boarded floor – at intervals the clear ringing crack of the revolvers; but neither of the voices of the men whose insensate passions were the cause of all this commotion! The crowd in the street heard the confused noises, and noted the intervals of silence, without being exactly able to interpret them. The reports of the pistols were all they had to proclaim the progress of the duel. Eleven had been counted; and in breathless silence they were listening for the twelfth.
Instead of a pistol report their ears were gratified by the sound of a voice, recognised as that of the mustanger.
“My pistol is at your head! I have one shot left – an apology, or you die!”
By this the crowd had become convinced that the fight was approaching its termination. Some of the more fearless, looking in, beheld a strange scene. They saw two men lying prostrate on the plank floor; both with bloodstained habiliments, both evidently disabled; the white sand around them reddened with their gore, tracked with tortuous trails, where they had crawled closer to get a last shot at each other – one of them, in scarlet scarf and slashed velvet trousers, slightly surmounting the other, and holding a pistol to his head that threatened to deprive him of life.
Such was the tableau that presented itself to the spectators, as the sulphurous smoke, drifted out by the current between the two doors, gave them a chance of distinguishing objects within the saloon.
At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had already spoken. It was Calhoun’s – no longer in roistering bravado, but in low whining accents, almost a whisper. “Enough, damn it! Drop your shooting-iron – I apologise.”
There was not much time consumed. The terms had been expressed already; and it only remained to appoint some one of the party to superintend the ringing of the bell, which was to be the signal for the combat to commence.
This was an easy matter, since it made no difference who might be entrusted with the duty. A child might have sounded the summons for the terrible conflict that was to follow.
A stranger, chancing at that moment to ride into the rude square of which the hotel “Rough and Ready” formed nearly a side, would have been sorely puzzled to comprehend what was coming to pass. The night was rather dark, though there was still light enough to make known the presence of a conglomeration of human beings, assembled in the proximity of the hotel. Most were in military garb: since, in addition to the officers who had lately figured inside the saloon, others, along with such soldiers as were permitted to pass the sentries, had hastened down from the Fort on receiving intelligence that something unusual was going on within the “square.” Women, too, but scantily robed – soldiers’ wives, washerwomen, and “señoritas” of more questionable calling – had found their way into the street, and were endeavouring to extract from those who had forestalled them an explanation of the fracas.
The conversation was carried on in low tones. It was known that the commandant of the post was present, as well as others in authority; and this checked any propensity there might have been for noisy demonstration.
The crowd, thus promiscuously collected, was not in close proximity with the hotel; but standing well out in the open ground, about a dozen yards from the building. Towards it, however, the eyes of all were directed, with that steady stare which tells of the attention being fixed on some engrossing spectacle. They were watching the movements of two men, whose positions were apart – one at each end of the heavy blockhouse, known to be the bar-room of the hotel; and where, as already stated, there was a door.
Though separated by the interposition of two thick log walls, and mutually invisible, these men were manoeuvring as if actuated by a common impulse. They stood contiguous to the entrance doors, at opposite ends of the bar-room, through both of which glared the light of the camphine lamps – falling in broad divergent bands upon the rough gravel outside. Neither was in front of the contiguous entrance; but a little to one side, just clear of the light. Neither was in an upright attitude, but crouching – not as if from fear, but like a runner about to make a start, and straining upon the spring.
Both were looking inwards – into the saloon, where no sound could be heard save the ticking of a clock. Their attitudes told of their readiness to enter it, and that they were only restrained by waiting for some preconcerted signal.
That their purpose was a serious one could be deduced from several circumstances. Both were in their shirt sleeves, hatless, and stripped of every rag that might form an impediment to action; while on their faces was the stamp of stern determination – alike legible in the attitudes they had assumed.
But there was no fine reflection needed to discover their design. The stranger, chancing to come into the square, could have seen at a glance that it was deadly. The pistols in their hands, cocked and tightly clutched; the nervous energy of their attitudes; the silence of the crowd of spectators; and the concentrated interest with which the two men were regarded, proclaimed more emphatically than words, that there was danger in what they were doing – in short, that they were engaged in some sort of a strife, with death for its probable consummation!
So it was at that moment when the crisis had come. The duellists stood, each with eye intent upon the door, by which he was to make entrance – perhaps into eternity! They only waited for a signal to cross the threshold; and engage in a combat that must terminate the existence of one or the other – perhaps both.
Were they listening for that fatal formulary: – One – two – fire?
No. Another signal had been agreed upon; and it was given.
A stentorian voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable —
“Ring!”
Three or four dark figures could be seen standing by the shorn trunk on which swung the tavern bell. The command instantly set them in motion; and, along with the oscillation of their arms – dimly seen through the darkness – could be heard the sonorous tones of a bell. That bell, whose sounds had been hitherto heard only as symbols of joy – calling men together to partake of that which perpetuates life – was now listened to as a summons of death!
The “ringing in” was of short duration. The bell had made less than a score of vibrations, when the men engaged at the rope saw that their services were no longer required. The disappearance of the duellists, who had rushed inside the saloon, the quick, sharp cracking of pistols; the shivering of broken glass, admonished the ringers that theirs was but a superfluous noise; and, dropping the rope, they stood like the rest of the crowd, listening to the conflict inside.
No eyes – save those of the combatants themselves – were witnesses to that strange duel.
At the first dong of the bell both combatants had re-entered the room. Neither made an attempt to skulk outside. To have done so would have been a ruin to reputation. A hundred eyes were upon them; and the spectators understood the conditions of the duel – that neither was to fire before crossing the threshold.
Once inside, the conflict commenced, the first shots filling the room with smoke. Both kept their feet, though both were wounded – their blood spurting out over the sanded floor.
The second shots were also fired simultaneously, but at random, the smoke hindering the aim.
Then came a single shot, quickly followed by another, and succeeded by an interval of quiet.
Previous to this the combatants had been heard rushing about through the room. This noise was no longer being made.
Instead there was profound silence. Had they killed one another? Were both dead? No! Once more the double detonation announced that both still lived. The suspension had been caused as they stood peering through the smoke in the endeavour to distinguish one another. Neither spoke or stirred in fear of betraying his position.
Again there was a period of tranquillity similar to the former, but more prolonged.
It ended by another exchange of shots, almost instantly succeeded by the falling of two heavy bodies upon the floor.
There was the sound of sprawling – the overturning of chairs – then a single shot – the eleventh – and this was the last that was fired!
The spectators outside saw only a cloud of sulphurous smoke oozing out of both doors, and dimming the light of the camphine lamps. This, with an occasional flash of brighter effulgence, close followed by a crack, was all that occurred to give satisfaction to the eye.
But the ear – that was gratified by a greater variety. There were heard shots – after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp shivering of broken glass, the duller crash of falling furniture, rudely overturned in earnest struggle – the trampling of feet upon the boarded floor – at intervals the clear ringing crack of the revolvers; but neither of the voices of the men whose insensate passions were the cause of all this commotion! The crowd in the street heard the confused noises, and noted the intervals of silence, without being exactly able to interpret them. The reports of the pistols were all they had to proclaim the progress of the duel. Eleven had been counted; and in breathless silence they were listening for the twelfth.
Instead of a pistol report their ears were gratified by the sound of a voice, recognised as that of the mustanger.
“My pistol is at your head! I have one shot left – an apology, or you die!”
By this the crowd had become convinced that the fight was approaching its termination. Some of the more fearless, looking in, beheld a strange scene. They saw two men lying prostrate on the plank floor; both with bloodstained habiliments, both evidently disabled; the white sand around them reddened with their gore, tracked with tortuous trails, where they had crawled closer to get a last shot at each other – one of them, in scarlet scarf and slashed velvet trousers, slightly surmounting the other, and holding a pistol to his head that threatened to deprive him of life.
Such was the tableau that presented itself to the spectators, as the sulphurous smoke, drifted out by the current between the two doors, gave them a chance of distinguishing objects within the saloon.
At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had already spoken. It was Calhoun’s – no longer in roistering bravado, but in low whining accents, almost a whisper. “Enough, damn it! Drop your shooting-iron – I apologise.”
Chapter 22
An Unknown Donor
In Texas a duel is not even a nine days’ wonder. It oftener ceases to be talked about by the end of the third day; and, at the expiration of a week, is no longer thought of, except by the principals themselves, or their immediate friends and relatives.
This is so, even when the parties are well known, and of respectable standing in society. When the duellists are of humble position – or, as is often the case, strangers in the place – a single day may suffice to doom their achievement to oblivion; to dwell only in the memory of the combatant who has survived it – oftener one than both – and perhaps some ill-starred spectator, who has been bored by a bullet, or received the slash of a knife, not designed for him.
More than once have I been witness to a “street fight” – improvised upon the pavement – where some innocuous citizen, sauntering carelessly along, has become the victim – even unto death – of this irregular method of seeking “satisfaction.”
I have never heard of any punishment awarded, or damages demanded, in such cases. They are regarded as belonging to the “chapter of accidents!”
Though Cassius Calhoun and Maurice Gerald were both comparatively strangers in the settlement – the latter being only seen on occasional visits to the Fort – the affair between them caused something more than the usual interest; and was talked about for the full period of the nine days, the character of the former as a noted bully, and that of the latter as a man of singular habitudes, gave to their duello a certain sort of distinction; and the merits and demerits of the two men were freely discussed for days after the affair had taken place nowhere with more earnestness than upon the spot where they had shed each other’s blood – in the bar-room of the hotel.
The conqueror had gained credit and friends. There were few who favoured his adversary; and not a few who were gratified at the result for, short as had been the time since Calhoun’s arrival, there was more than one saloon lounger who had felt the smart of his insolence. For this it was presumed the young Irishman had administered a cure; and there was almost universal satisfaction at the result.
How the ex-captain carried his discomfiture no one could tell. He was no longer to be seen swaggering in the saloon of the “Rough and Ready;” though the cause of his absence was well understood. It was not chagrin, but his couch; to which he was confined by wounds, that, if not skilfully treated, might consign him to his coffin.
Maurice was in like manner compelled to stay within doors. The injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, were nevertheless of such a character as to make it necessary for him to keep to his chamber – a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in “Old Duffer’s” hotel; where, notwithstanding the éclat derived from his conquest, he was somewhat scurvily treated.
In the hour of his triumph, he had fainted from loss of blood. He could not be taken elsewhere; though, in the shabby apartment to which he had been consigned, he might have thought of the luxurious care that surrounded the couch of his wounded antagonist. Fortunately Phelim was by his side, or he might have been still worse attended to.
“Be Saint Pathrick! it’s a shame,” half soliloquised this faithful follower. “A burnin’ shame to squeeze a gintleman into a hole like this, not bigger than a pig-stoy! A gintleman like you, Masther Maurice. An’ thin such aytin’ and drinkin’. Och! a well fid Oirish pig wud turn up its nose at such traytment. An’ fwhat div yez think I’ve heerd Owld Duffer talkin’ about below?”
“I hav’n’t the slightest idea, my dear Phelim; nor do I care straw to know what you’ve heard Mr Oberdoffer saying below; but if you don’t want him to hear what you are saying above, you’ll moderate your voice a little. Remember, ma bohil[172], that the partitions in this place are only lath and plaster.”
“Divil take the partitions; and divil burn them, av he loikes. Av yez don’t care fur fwhat’s sed, I don’t care far fwhat’s heeurd – not the snappin’ av me fingers. The Dutchman can’t trate us any worse than he’s been doin’ already. For all that, Masther Maurice, I thought it bist to lit you know.”
“Let me know then. What is it he has been saying?”
“Will, thin; I heerd him tellin’ wan av his croneys that besoides the mate an the dhrink, an the washin’, an lodgin’, he intinded to make you pay for the bottles, and glasses, an other things, that was broke on the night av the shindy.”
“Me pay?”
“Yis, yerself, Masther Maurice; an not a pinny charged to the Yankee. Now I call that downright rascally mane; an nobody but a dhirty Dutchman wud iver hiv thought av it. Av there be anythin’ to pay, the man that’s bate should be made to showldor the damage, an that wasn’t a discindant av the owld Geralds av Ballyballagh. Hoo – hooch! wudn’t I loike to shake a shaylaylah about Duffer’s head for the matther of two minutes? Wudn’t I?”
“What reason did he give for saying that I should pay? Did you hear him state any?”
“I did, masther – the dhirtiest av all raisuns. He sid that you were the bird in the hand; an he wud kape ye till yez sittled the score.”
“He’ll find himself slightly mistaken about that; and would perhaps do better by presenting his bill to the bird in the bush. I shall be willing to pay for half the damage done; but no more. You may tell him so, if he speak to you about it. And, in troth, Phelim, I don’t know how I am to do even that. There must have been a good many breakages. I remember a great deal of jingling while we were at it. If I don’t mistake there was a smashed mirror, or clock dial, or something of the kind.”
“A big lookin’-glass, masther; an a crystal somethin’, that was set over the clock. They say two hunderd dollars. I don’t belave they were worth wan half av the money.”
“Even so, it is a serious matter to me – just at this crisis. I fear, Phelim, you will have to make a journey to the Alamo, and fetch away some of the household gods we have hidden there. To get clear of this scrape I shall have to sacrifice my spurs, my silver cup, and perhaps my gun!”
“Don’t say that, masther! How are we to live, if the gun goes?”
“As we best can, ma bohil. On horseflesh, I suppose: and the lazo will supply that.”
“Be Japers! it wudn’t be much worse than the mate Owld Duffer sits afore us. It gives me the bellyache ivery time I ate it.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber door; which was done without knocking. A slatternly servant – whose sex it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices – appeared in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the termination of a long sinewy arm.
“Fwhat is it, Gertrude?” asked Phelim, who, from some previous information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of the intruder.
“A shentlemans prot this.”
“A gentleman! Who, Gertrude?”
“Not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans.”
“Brought by a gentleman. Who can he be? See what it in, Phelim.”
Phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the basket. It was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies – both of the confectionery and the kitchen. There was no note accompanying the present – not even a direction – but the trim and elegant style in which it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady.
Maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as Phelim supposed, to take note of its value. Little was he thinking of this, while searching for the “invoice.”
There proved to be none – not a scrap of paper – not so much as a card!
The generosity of the supply – well-timed as it was – bespoke the donor to be some person in affluent circumstances. Who could it be?
As Maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor. Could it be Louise Poindexter?
In spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might; and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet beatitude.
As he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there remained only a vague unsubstantial hope.
“A gintleman lift it,” spoke the Connemara man, in semi-soliloquy. “A gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, I say! Who div yez think he was, masther?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the officers of the Port; though I could hardly expect one of them to think of me in this fashion.”
“Nayther yez need. It wasn’t wan av them. No officer, or gintleman ayther, phut them things in the basket.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Pwhy div I think it! Och, masther! is it yerself to ask the quistyun? Isn’t there the smell av swate fingers about it? Jist look at the nate way them papers is tied up. That purty kreel was niver packed by the hand av a man. It was done by a wuman; and I’ll warrant a raal lady at that.”
“Nonsense, Phelim! I know no lady who should take so much interest in me.”
“Aw, murdher! What a thumpin’ big fib! I know won that shud. It wud be black ungratytude av she didn’t – afther what yez did for her. Didn’t yez save her life into the bargain?”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“Now, don’t be desateful, masther. Yez know that I mane the purty crayther that come to the hut ridin’ Spotty that you presinted her, widout resavin’ a dollar for the mare. If it wasn’t her that sint ye this hamper, thin Phaylim Onale is the biggest numskull that was iver born about Ballyballagh. Be the Vargin, masther, speakin’ of the owld place phuts me in mind of its paple. Pwhat wud the blue-eyed colleen say, if she knew yez were in such danger heeur?”
This is so, even when the parties are well known, and of respectable standing in society. When the duellists are of humble position – or, as is often the case, strangers in the place – a single day may suffice to doom their achievement to oblivion; to dwell only in the memory of the combatant who has survived it – oftener one than both – and perhaps some ill-starred spectator, who has been bored by a bullet, or received the slash of a knife, not designed for him.
More than once have I been witness to a “street fight” – improvised upon the pavement – where some innocuous citizen, sauntering carelessly along, has become the victim – even unto death – of this irregular method of seeking “satisfaction.”
I have never heard of any punishment awarded, or damages demanded, in such cases. They are regarded as belonging to the “chapter of accidents!”
Though Cassius Calhoun and Maurice Gerald were both comparatively strangers in the settlement – the latter being only seen on occasional visits to the Fort – the affair between them caused something more than the usual interest; and was talked about for the full period of the nine days, the character of the former as a noted bully, and that of the latter as a man of singular habitudes, gave to their duello a certain sort of distinction; and the merits and demerits of the two men were freely discussed for days after the affair had taken place nowhere with more earnestness than upon the spot where they had shed each other’s blood – in the bar-room of the hotel.
The conqueror had gained credit and friends. There were few who favoured his adversary; and not a few who were gratified at the result for, short as had been the time since Calhoun’s arrival, there was more than one saloon lounger who had felt the smart of his insolence. For this it was presumed the young Irishman had administered a cure; and there was almost universal satisfaction at the result.
How the ex-captain carried his discomfiture no one could tell. He was no longer to be seen swaggering in the saloon of the “Rough and Ready;” though the cause of his absence was well understood. It was not chagrin, but his couch; to which he was confined by wounds, that, if not skilfully treated, might consign him to his coffin.
Maurice was in like manner compelled to stay within doors. The injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, were nevertheless of such a character as to make it necessary for him to keep to his chamber – a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in “Old Duffer’s” hotel; where, notwithstanding the éclat derived from his conquest, he was somewhat scurvily treated.
In the hour of his triumph, he had fainted from loss of blood. He could not be taken elsewhere; though, in the shabby apartment to which he had been consigned, he might have thought of the luxurious care that surrounded the couch of his wounded antagonist. Fortunately Phelim was by his side, or he might have been still worse attended to.
“Be Saint Pathrick! it’s a shame,” half soliloquised this faithful follower. “A burnin’ shame to squeeze a gintleman into a hole like this, not bigger than a pig-stoy! A gintleman like you, Masther Maurice. An’ thin such aytin’ and drinkin’. Och! a well fid Oirish pig wud turn up its nose at such traytment. An’ fwhat div yez think I’ve heerd Owld Duffer talkin’ about below?”
“I hav’n’t the slightest idea, my dear Phelim; nor do I care straw to know what you’ve heard Mr Oberdoffer saying below; but if you don’t want him to hear what you are saying above, you’ll moderate your voice a little. Remember, ma bohil[172], that the partitions in this place are only lath and plaster.”
“Divil take the partitions; and divil burn them, av he loikes. Av yez don’t care fur fwhat’s sed, I don’t care far fwhat’s heeurd – not the snappin’ av me fingers. The Dutchman can’t trate us any worse than he’s been doin’ already. For all that, Masther Maurice, I thought it bist to lit you know.”
“Let me know then. What is it he has been saying?”
“Will, thin; I heerd him tellin’ wan av his croneys that besoides the mate an the dhrink, an the washin’, an lodgin’, he intinded to make you pay for the bottles, and glasses, an other things, that was broke on the night av the shindy.”
“Me pay?”
“Yis, yerself, Masther Maurice; an not a pinny charged to the Yankee. Now I call that downright rascally mane; an nobody but a dhirty Dutchman wud iver hiv thought av it. Av there be anythin’ to pay, the man that’s bate should be made to showldor the damage, an that wasn’t a discindant av the owld Geralds av Ballyballagh. Hoo – hooch! wudn’t I loike to shake a shaylaylah about Duffer’s head for the matther of two minutes? Wudn’t I?”
“What reason did he give for saying that I should pay? Did you hear him state any?”
“I did, masther – the dhirtiest av all raisuns. He sid that you were the bird in the hand; an he wud kape ye till yez sittled the score.”
“He’ll find himself slightly mistaken about that; and would perhaps do better by presenting his bill to the bird in the bush. I shall be willing to pay for half the damage done; but no more. You may tell him so, if he speak to you about it. And, in troth, Phelim, I don’t know how I am to do even that. There must have been a good many breakages. I remember a great deal of jingling while we were at it. If I don’t mistake there was a smashed mirror, or clock dial, or something of the kind.”
“A big lookin’-glass, masther; an a crystal somethin’, that was set over the clock. They say two hunderd dollars. I don’t belave they were worth wan half av the money.”
“Even so, it is a serious matter to me – just at this crisis. I fear, Phelim, you will have to make a journey to the Alamo, and fetch away some of the household gods we have hidden there. To get clear of this scrape I shall have to sacrifice my spurs, my silver cup, and perhaps my gun!”
“Don’t say that, masther! How are we to live, if the gun goes?”
“As we best can, ma bohil. On horseflesh, I suppose: and the lazo will supply that.”
“Be Japers! it wudn’t be much worse than the mate Owld Duffer sits afore us. It gives me the bellyache ivery time I ate it.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber door; which was done without knocking. A slatternly servant – whose sex it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices – appeared in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the termination of a long sinewy arm.
“Fwhat is it, Gertrude?” asked Phelim, who, from some previous information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of the intruder.
“A shentlemans prot this.”
“A gentleman! Who, Gertrude?”
“Not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans.”
“Brought by a gentleman. Who can he be? See what it in, Phelim.”
Phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the basket. It was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies – both of the confectionery and the kitchen. There was no note accompanying the present – not even a direction – but the trim and elegant style in which it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady.
Maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as Phelim supposed, to take note of its value. Little was he thinking of this, while searching for the “invoice.”
There proved to be none – not a scrap of paper – not so much as a card!
The generosity of the supply – well-timed as it was – bespoke the donor to be some person in affluent circumstances. Who could it be?
As Maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor. Could it be Louise Poindexter?
In spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might; and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet beatitude.
As he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there remained only a vague unsubstantial hope.
“A gintleman lift it,” spoke the Connemara man, in semi-soliloquy. “A gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, I say! Who div yez think he was, masther?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the officers of the Port; though I could hardly expect one of them to think of me in this fashion.”
“Nayther yez need. It wasn’t wan av them. No officer, or gintleman ayther, phut them things in the basket.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Pwhy div I think it! Och, masther! is it yerself to ask the quistyun? Isn’t there the smell av swate fingers about it? Jist look at the nate way them papers is tied up. That purty kreel was niver packed by the hand av a man. It was done by a wuman; and I’ll warrant a raal lady at that.”
“Nonsense, Phelim! I know no lady who should take so much interest in me.”
“Aw, murdher! What a thumpin’ big fib! I know won that shud. It wud be black ungratytude av she didn’t – afther what yez did for her. Didn’t yez save her life into the bargain?”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“Now, don’t be desateful, masther. Yez know that I mane the purty crayther that come to the hut ridin’ Spotty that you presinted her, widout resavin’ a dollar for the mare. If it wasn’t her that sint ye this hamper, thin Phaylim Onale is the biggest numskull that was iver born about Ballyballagh. Be the Vargin, masther, speakin’ of the owld place phuts me in mind of its paple. Pwhat wud the blue-eyed colleen say, if she knew yez were in such danger heeur?”