align="center">Chapter Six
In the incipient city springing up under the protection of Fort Inge, the “hotel” was the most conspicuous building.
The hotel, or tavern, “Rough and Ready,” though differing but little from other Texan houses of entertainment, had some points in particular. Its proprietor was a German – in this part of the world, as elsewhere, found to be the best purveyors of food. 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 was not uncommon elsewhere. The building was shaped like a capital T; the bar-room representing the head of the letter. The counter extended along one side; while at each end was a door that opened outward into the public square of the city.
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”[23] before retiring to rest.
One of the groups assembled in the bar-room consisted of some eight or ten individuals, half of them in uniform. Among the latter were the three officers: the captain of infantry, and the two lieutenants.
Along with these was an officer older than any of them, also higher in authority. He was the commandant of the cantonment.
These gentlemen were conversing about the incidents of the day.
“Now tell us, major!” said lieutenant 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”
“Did you notice Calhoun as he came back?” inquired the captain of infantry.
“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? impossible – at least, very improbable.”
“And why, major?”
“My dear Sloman, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald—”
“May be a gentleman—”
“A trader in horses!” scornfully exclaimed Crossman; “the major is right – the thing’s impossible.”
“He’s an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he is what I have some reason to suspect—”
“Whatever he is,” interrupted the major, looking at the door, “he’s there to answer for himself.”
Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.
“A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which he saluted the landlord.
The officers were about to interrogate the mustanger – as the major had suggested – when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design.
The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun. In his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.
It could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink.
“Come, gentlemen!” cried he, addressing himself to the major’s party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; “Drinks all round. What say you?”
“Agreed – agreed!” replied several voices.
“You, major?”
“With pleasure, Captain Calhoun.”
The whole front of the long counter became occupied – with scarce an inch to spare.
Apparently by accident – though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun – he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.
This brought him in juxtaposition[24] with Maurice Gerald, who alone was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.
The two were back to back – neither having taken any notice of the other.
“A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter. “America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”
On delivering the toast, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger – at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips. The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.
No one believed it was an accident – even for a moment.
Having deposited his glass upon the counter, the mustanger had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.
In silence everybody awaited the development.
“I am an Irishman,” said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.
“You?” scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round. “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.”
“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[25] yours in a similar fashion.”
So saying, the mustanger took up his glass; and, before Calhoun could get out of the way, the remains of the whisky 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.
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
nightcap – стаканчик спиртного на ночь
juxtaposition – непосредственное соседство
unstarch (a shirt) – смыть крахмал (с рубашки)
six-shooter – шестизарядный револьвер
