David Liss - The Whiskey Rebel

“I wouldn’ta thought you could land such a pretty thing, to look at you,” Mueller shouted. “Maybe she wants to sit on my lap. One carpenter’s as good as another, eh?”

Andrew forced a weak smile. “I do love your good cheer, friend.” He cast me a glance, which I understood to mean he wished me to disappear from the drunkard’s sights.

I had been delivering a dish of roasted turkey to the gathering, so I set it down and turned to make my way back to the cooking fire. Mueller, however, reached out and grabbed my wrist.

“Sit on my lap, I said.”

Andrew stepped between us. It was one thing to placate such men when they were merely boorish, but here was something else, and he would not let it pass unchallenged. “You grow too warm,” he said, in a voice firm though not yet challenging.

Mueller let go of me and rose to his feet. “And you forget your place.”

Andrew appeared to all the world placid, but I knew a fire raged inside him. “My place,” he said, in the softest of tones, hardly audible over the music, “is looking to my wife’s honor. You know that. If you must challenge me for doing my duty, I stand ready. It is no more than I did in the war.”

Isaac still fiddled and the singers still sang, but this conflict had attracted no small attention. Mr. Skye, who from his expression indicated he had expected it all along, was standing now at my side. Mr. Dalton and Jericho Richmond were there too, and I saw from the former’s face that he wished to save Andrew this fight. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, but Mr. Richmond whispered something in his ear, and so Mr. Dalton held his tongue.

Mueller gazed upon the onlookers and then at Andrew. There was a pause, and then Mueller lurched forward and wrapped his arms around Andrew-but not in attack. There was a gasp among the onlookers, and several took steps back. Mr. Dalton and I both stepped forward, but there was nothing to do. Mueller had embraced Andrew in a hug.

“You are in the right, friend Maycott. I beg your pardon.” I thought at first he sobbed, but no. He let go at once and smiled through the foliage of his filthy beard, and he clapped a hand upon Andrew’s shoulder. Once more he said, “Friend Maycott,” as though they had been through many adventures together, and no more needed to be expressed.

I did not care for it, however. A man like Mueller might a quarter hour from now decide he had been humiliated and come upon Andrew without warning. I had not been dwelling on this thought for more than a moment before Mr. Dalton appeared at my side.

“You’re not easy, are you, missus?” he said.

“No,” I agreed. “That man is barbaric. I think he is hardly sane. He could be about murder before Andrew had a chance to defend himself. Can he not be cast out?”

Mr. Dalton shook his head. “That’s not what you want, Mrs. Maycott. It’s best he be got rid of, but you don’t want him making you and yours the object of his anger.”

“Then who?” I asked, though I believed I already knew the answer.

“I’ll tend it. We’ve got a new carpenter now, and a better one. I’ll ease your husband’s way.” He said nothing else for a moment, only shifted away from me and toward Mr. Richmond, with whom he began a private conversation, keeping one eye the entire time upon his target. After a moment, Mueller looked over and Dalton pointed to him and said something to Mr. Richmond, who responded with a hearty laugh.

That was the bait, and it was quickly taken. Mueller was at once upon his feet. He strode four or five steps over to the two men and kicked dirt upon the younger one. “You have something to say to me, Richmond?”

Both men met his gaze, but it was Dalton who spoke. “Sit back down, Mueller. Maybe this time you can leave the frolic without a fight.”

“What if I don’t? I ain’t lost one yet.”

“You haven’t fought me yet, have you?” Dalton said, his Irish inflection exaggerated.

“Not yet, and maybe not tonight. ’Tis your good wife I heard laughing at me.” He flicked his hand contemptuously at Mr. Richmond.

Dalton took a step forward. “What say you?”

Mueller laughed. He raised his mug to drink, but it missed his mouth entirely and sloshed down his thick neck, soaking his hunting shirt. “I guess Miss Richmond’s afraid to fight. The Irisher, I don’t doubt, is the man of the house. I reckon every morning-”

This was as far as the speech progressed, for Dalton, who’d had in his mouth a thick wad of tobacco, spat it into Mueller’s face. Remarkably, he missed the beard near entire, and the shot landed true in the ruffian’s eye.

I watched in stunned silence, clutching Andrew’s hand. These men were about to engage in brutal, bloody, maybe deadly combat, but I could not regret it. Better Mueller should fight Mr. Dalton upon these terms than fight Andrew. Even so, I had the uncomfortable feeling I had done something if not precisely wrong then at least improper. Dalton made the choice to put himself at risk, but I could not shake the feeling that he did so for me, not for Andrew, and that I had somehow, without meaning to, convinced him to act.

Mueller stood still, his face red in the light of the fire, the wet of Dalton ’s tobacco shimmering on his forehead. The crowd stepped forward. One mass of hands pulled at Mueller, the other Mr. Dalton. In my innocence, I believed that the people wished to stay the hand of violence, but that was not the western way. It soon became clear that there were rules to be obeyed. In an instant, the fiddler was done playing, and the singing and dancing had come to an end. Here was the real entertainment of the evening.

Andrew was soon at my right side, Mr. Skye remaining at the other. One of Mr. Dalton’s men, the unnaturally tall fellow, Isaac, stepped into the ring of onlookers, circling some fifteen feet across.

“What’s it to be, boys?” he called.

Dalton did not hesitate. “Eyes.”

Something dark, very much like fear, crossed Mueller’s face, still slick from the tobacco. He might have resented the insult, but apparently did not mind the substance enough to wipe it away. Now he squinted narrowly and gritted his teeth. “Aye,” he said. “Eyes.”

This all sounded confusing to me, which Mr. Skye observed. “Surely you’ve wondered why so many men here are missing an eye,” he said. “’Tis a common challenge. They fight until one man takes the other’s.”

“But that’s monstrous!” I had been pleased that Dalton had been so willing to fight Mueller, but I had not wanted this. If Mr. Dalton were to lose an eye, I would be responsible.

“’Tis the West. But fear not. Dalton ’s never yet lost, as you can see from his face. And he’s been yearning for an excuse to shut Mueller’s mouth for two years now.”

“It appears that Mr. Mueller has clearly never lost this challenge either,” said Andrew.

“He don’t often take it. He can’t afford to lose an eye in his trade, which you’ll no doubt understand. And, at the risk of revealing a partiality, he’s never fought Dalton before, and Dalton, you might have observed, is angry. He don’t take too kind to remarks about Richmond.”

I looked over at Jericho Richmond, who stood on the sidelines, arms folded, watching without agitation. Indeed, there was a little smirk upon his lips, satisfied and a bit impatient, as though the outcome of the contest was already decided.

The two men were released. Dalton at once leaped into the air like a panther and landed hard upon Mueller. The two crashed upon the ground, and I heard something crack, though I could not say if it was twig or bone. The crowd of Westerners grunted their approval. A few men cheered, and one little boy laughed like a shrill madman, but none moved closer. The circle remained still and solid, as if this were some sacred place of Druid worship.