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