"Ring!"
Three or four dark figures could be seen standing by the shorn trunk on
which swung the tavern bell. The command instantly set them in motion;
and, along with the oscillation of their arms--dimly seen through the
darkness--could be heard the sonorous tones of a bell. That bell, whose
sounds had been hitherto heard only as symbols of joy--calling men
together to partake of that which perpetuates life--was now listened to
as a summons of death!
The "ringing in" was of short duration. The bell had made less than a
score of vibrations, when the men engaged at the rope saw that their
services were no longer required. The disappearance of the duellists,
who had rushed inside the saloon, the quick, sharp cracking of pistols;
the shivering of broken glass, admonished the ringers that theirs was
but a superfluous noise; and, dropping the rope, they stood like the
rest of the crowd, listening to the conflict inside.
No eyes--save those of the combatants themselves--were witnesses to that
strange duel.
At the first dong of the bell both combatants had re-entered the room.
Neither made an attempt to skulk outside. To have done so would have
been a ruin to reputation. 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 second shots were also fired simultaneously, but at random, the
smoke hindering the aim.
Then came a single shot, quickly followed by another, and succeeded by
an interval of quiet.
Previous to this the combatants had been heard rushing about through the
room. This noise was no longer being made.
Instead there was profound silence. Had they killed one another? Were
both dead? No! Once more the double detonation announced that both
still lived. The suspension had been caused as they stood peering
through the smoke in the endeavour to distinguish one another. Neither
spoke or stirred in fear of betraying his position.
Again there was a period of tranquillity similar to the former, but more
prolonged.
It ended by another exchange of shots, almost instantly succeeded by the
falling of two heavy bodies upon the floor.
There was the sound of sprawling--the overturning of chairs--then a
single shot--the eleventh--and this was the last that was fired!
The spectators outside saw only a cloud of sulphurous smoke oozing out
of both doors, and dimming the light of the camphine lamps. This, with
an occasional flash of brighter effulgence, close followed by a crack,
was all that occurred to give satisfaction to the eye.
But the ear--that was gratified by a greater variety. There were heard
shots--after the bell had become silent, other sounds: the sharp
shivering of broken glass, the duller 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 whose insensate passions were the cause
of all this commotion! 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 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 a pistol report 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!"
By this the crowd had become convinced that the fight was approaching
its termination. Some of the more fearless, looking in, beheld a
strange scene. They saw two men lying prostrate on the plank floor;
both with bloodstained habiliments, both evidently disabled; the white
sand around them reddened with their gore, tracked with tortuous trails,
where they had crawled closer to get a last shot at each other--one of
them, in scarlet scarf and slashed velvet trousers, slightly surmounting
the other, and holding a pistol to his head that threatened to deprive
him of life.
Such was the tableau that presented itself to the spectators, as the
sulphurous smoke, drifted out by the current between the two doors, gave
them a chance of distinguishing objects within the saloon.
At the same instant was heard a different voice from the one which had
already spoken. It was Calhoun's--no longer in roistering bravado, but
in low whining accents, almost a whisper. "Enough, damn it! Drop your
shooting-iron--I apologise."