The Headless Horseman: A Strange Tale of Texas

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. “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. “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 Twenty.

An Unsafe Position

On receiving the alcoholic douche, Calhoun had clutched his six-shooter, 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.”