The sign outside, swinging from the trunk of a post-oak, that had been pollarded some ten feet above the ground, exhibited on both sides the likeness of a well known military celebrity — the hero of that quarter of the globe — General Zachariah Taylor. It did not need looking at the lettering beneath to ascertain the name of the hotel. Under the patronage of such a portrait it could only be called “Rough and Ready.”
There was a touch of the apropos about this designation. Outside things appeared rough enough; while inside, especially if you entered by the “saloon,” there was a readiness to meet you half way, with a mint julep, a sherry cobbler, a gin sling, or any other mixed drink known to trans-Mississippian tipplers — provided always that you were ready with the picayunes to pay for them.
The saloon in question would not call for description, had you ever travelled in the Southern, or South-Western, States of America. If so, no Lethean draught could ever efface from your memory the “bar-room” of the hotel or tavern in which you have had the unhappiness to sojourn. The counter extending longitudinally by the side; the shelved wall behind, with its rows of decanters and bottles, containing liquors, of not only all the colours of the prism, but every possible combination of them; the elegant young fellow, standing or sidling between counter and shelves, ycleped “clerk” — don’t call him a “barkeeper,” or you may get a decanter in your teeth — this elegant young gentleman, in blouse of blue cottonade, or white linen coat, or maybe in his shirt sleeves — the latter of finest linen and lace — ruffled, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty — this elegant young gentleman, who, in mixing you a sherry cobbler, can look you straight in the face, talk to you the politics of the day, while the ice, and the wine, and the water, are passing from glass to glass, like an iris sparkling behind his shoulders, or an aureole surrounding his perfumed head! Traveller through the Southern States of America you; cannot fail to remember him?
If so, my words will recall him, along with his surroundings — the saloon in which he is the presiding administrator, with its shelves and coloured decanters; its counter; its floor sprinkled with white sand, at times littered with cigar stumps, and the brown asterisks produced by expectoration — its odour of mint, absinthe, and lemon-peel, in which luxuriate the common black fly, the blue-bottle, and the sharp-tongued mosquito. All these must be sharply outlined on the retina of your memory.
The hotel, or tavern, “Rough and Ready,” though differing but little from other Texan houses of entertainment, had some points in particular. Its proprietor, instead of being a speculative Yankee, was a German — in this part of the world, as elsewhere, found to be the best purveyors of food. He kept his own bar; so that on entering the saloon, instead of the elegant young gentleman with ruffled shirt and odorous chevelure, your “liquor” was mixed for you by a staid Teuton, who looked as sober as if he never tasted — notwithstanding the temptation of wholesale price — the delicious drinks served out to his customers. Oberdoffer was the name he had imported with him from his fatherland; transformed by his Texan customers into “Old Duffer.”
There was one other peculiarity about the bar-room of the “Rough and Ready,” though it scarce deserved to be so designated; since it was not uncommon elsewhere. As already stated, the building was shaped like a capital T; the saloon representing the head of the letter. The counter extended along one side, that contiguous to the shank; while at each end was a door that opened outward into the public square of the incipient city.
This arrangement had been designed to promote the circulation of the air — a matter of primary importance in an atmosphere where the thermometer for half the year stands at 90 degrees in the shade.
The hotels of Texas or the South-Western States — I may say every part of the American Union — serve the double purpose of exchange and club-house. Indeed, it is owing to the cheap accommodation thus afforded — often of the most convenient kind — that the latter can scarce be said to exist.
Even in the larger cities of the Atlantic states the “club” is by no means a necessity. The moderate charges of the hotels, along with their excellent cuisine and elegant accommodations, circumscribe the prosperity of this institution; which in America is, and ever must be, an unhealthy exotic.
The remark is still more true of the Southern and South-western cities; where the “saloon” and “bar-room” are the chief places of resort and rendezvous.
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. 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,
