In the embryo city springing up under the protection of Fort Inge, the
"hotel" was the most conspicuous building. This is but the normal
condition of every Texan town--whether new or founded forty years ago;
and none are older, except the sparse cities of Hispano-Mexican origin--
where the _presidio_ and convent took precedence, now surpassed by, and
in some instances transformed into, the "tavern."
The Fort Inge establishment, though the largest building in the place,
was, nevertheless, neither very grand nor imposing. Its exterior had
but little pretence to architectural style. It was a structure of hewn
logs, having for ground-plan the letter T according to the grotesque
alphabet--the shank being used for eating and sleeping rooms, while the
head was a single apartment entirely devoted to drinking--smoking and
_expectorating_ included. This last was the bar-room, or "saloon."
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, Louise Poindexter is a lady, and Maurice Gerald--"
"May be a gentleman for aught that is known to the contrary."
"Pshaw!" scornfully exclaimed Crossman; "a trader in horses! The major
is right--the thing's improbable--impossible."
"Ah, gentlemen!" pursued the officer of infantry, with a significant
shake of the head. "You don't know Miss Poindexter, so well as I. An
eccentric young lady--to say the least of her. You may have already
observed that for yourselves."
"Come, come, Sloman!" said the major, in a bantering way; "you are
inclined to be talking scandal, I fear. That would be a scandal.
Perhaps you are yourself interested in Miss Poindexter, notwithstanding
your pretensions to be considered a Joseph? Now, I could understand
your being jealous if it were handsome Hancock here, or Crossman--
supposing him to be disengaged. But as for a common mustanger--poh--
poh!"
"He's an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what I have some
reason to suspect--"
"Whatever he be," interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards
the door, "he's there to answer for himself; and as he's a sufficiently
plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that
seems to be of so much interest to you."
"I don't think you will," muttered Sloman, as Hancock and two or three
others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the
major's suggestion.
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 to saluted the landlord.
"Visky und vachter!" echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to
wait upon his new guest. "Ya, woe, visky und vachter! It ish two
picayunsh the glass."
"I was not inquiring the price," replied the mustanger, "I asked to be
served with a glass of whisky and water. Have you got any?"
"Yesh--yesh," responded the German, rendered obsequious by the sharp
rejoinder. "Plenty--plenty of visky und vachter. Here it ish."
While his simple potation was being served out to him, Maurice received
nods of recognition from the officers, returning them with a free, but
modest air. Most of them knew him personally, on account of his
business relations with the Fort.
They were on the eve of interrogating him--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.
Advancing with his customary swagger towards the mixed group of military
men and civilians, Calhoun saluted them as one who had spent the day in
their company, and had been absent only for a short interval. If not
absolutely intoxicated, it could be seen that the ex-officer of
volunteers was under the influence of drink. The unsteady sparkle of
his eyes, the unnatural pallor upon his forehead--still further clouded
by two or three tossed tresses that fell over it--with the somewhat
grotesque set of his forage cap--told that he had been taking one beyond
the limits of wisdom.
"Come, gentlemen!" cried he, addressing himself to the major's party, at
the same time stepping up to the counter; "let's hit the waggon a crack,
or old Dunder-und-blitzen behind the bar will say we're wasting his
lights. Drinks all round. What say you?"
"Agreed--agreed!" replied several voices.
"You, major?"
"With pleasure, Captain Calhoun."
According to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line
along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his
liking at the moment.
Of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in
the party; Calhoun himself shouting out--"Brown sherry for me;" and
immediately adding--"with a dash of bitters."
"Prandy und pitters, you calls for, Mishter Calhoun?" said the landlord,
as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner
of an extensive estate.
"Certainly, you stupid Dutchman! I said brown sherry, didn't I?"
"All rights, mein herr; all rights! Prandy und pitters--prandy und
pitters," repeated the German Boniface, as he hastened to place the
decanter before his ill-mannered guest.
With the large accession of the major's party, to several others already
in the act of imbibing, 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 with Maurice Gerald, who alone--as
regarded boon companionship--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.
"Let us have it!" responded several voices.
"America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers--
especially the damned Irish!"
On delivering the obnoxious sentiment, 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.
Was it an accident? No one believed it was--even for a moment.
Accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront
intended and premeditated.
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.