Томас Майн Рид: Всадник без головы / The Headless Horseman

All saw that the quarrel was a serious one. The affair must end in a fight. No power on earth could prevent it from coming to that conclusion.

On receiving the alcoholic douche, Calhoun had clutched his six-shooter, [26]and drawn it from its holster. He only waited to get the whisky out of his eyes before advancing upon his enemy.

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.

“Hold!” commanded the major in a loud authoritative tone, interposing the long blade of his his sabre between the disputants.

“Hold your fire – I command you both. Drop your muzzles; or by the Almighty [27]I’ll take the arm off the first of you that touches trigger!”

“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.”

“I’m not the man to stand in the way of the honest adjustment of a quarrel,” answered the major. “You shall be quite at liberty – you and your antagonist – to kill one another, if it pleases 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. Wait till the rest of us can withdraw to a safe distance.”

Calhoun stood, with sullen brow, gritting his teeth; 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 apologises 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 isn’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!”

“Stay!” cried the major. “There should be some system about this. If they are to fight, let it be fair for both sides. Neither of you can object?”

“I shan’t object to anything that’s fair,” said the Irishman.

It was decided that Cassius Calhoun and Maurice Gerald would go outside along with everybody and then enter again – one at each door.

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. It was to be given by ringing the tavern bell.

A loud voice was heard calling out the simple monosyllable—

“Ring!”

At the first dong of the bell both duellists had re-entered the room. 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 spectators outside saw only a cloud of smoke oozing out of both doors, and dimming the light of the lamps. There were heard shots – after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp shivering of broken glass, the 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. 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 [28]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 it 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!”

At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had already spoken. It was Calhoun’s – in low whining accents, almost a whisper. “Enough, damn it! Drop your shooting-iron – I apologise.”

1) What were the officers talking about in the bar-room?

2) How did the conflict begin?

3) Did anybody try to prevent a duel?

4) Where did the duel take place?

5) How did it end?

After the duel Maurice was compelled to stay within doors. The injuries he had received, though not so severe as those of his antagonist, nevertheless made it necessary for him to keep to his chamber – a small, and scantily furnished bedroom in the hotel.

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. He was confined to his couch by wounds, that, if not skilfully treated, might lead to death.

He could no longer claim this credit in Texas; and the thought harrowed his heart to its very core. To figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement – above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he suspected of being his rival in her affections was too much to be endured with equanimity.

He had no idea of enduring it. If he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced reflecting upon this very subject.

In the solitude of his chamber he set about maturing his plans. Maurice, the mustanger, must die! He did not purpose doing the deed himself. His late defeat had rendered him fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary. He wanted an accomplice – an arm to strike for him. Where was he to find it?

Unluckily he knew the very man. There was a Mexican at the time living in the village – like Maurice himself – a mustanger; but one of those with whom the young Irishman had shown a disinclination to associate. It was Miguel Diaz – known by the nickname “El Coyote.”

Calhoun remembered having met him in the bar-room of the hotel. He remembered that he had been one of those who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, Calhoun had drawn the deduction, that the Mexican was no friend to Maurice the mustanger.

The Mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young mustanger. He did not declare the exact cause of it; but Calhoun could guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it was the same as that by which he was himself actuated – the same to which may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from Troy to Texas – a woman!

The Mexican did not give the name; and Calhoun, as he listened to his explanations, only hoped in his heart that the woman who had slighted him might have won the heart of his rival.

Louise was standing upon the edge of the azotea [29]that fronted towards the east. Her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor near.