The events that led up to this "duel in the dark" were simple enough.
One evening three young men of the town of Marshall were sitting in a
quiet corner of the porch of the village hotel, smoking and discussing
such matters as three educated young men of a Southern village would
naturally find interesting. Their names were King, Sancher, and Rosser.
At a little distance, within easy hearing, but taking no part in the
conversation, sat a fourth. He was a stranger to the others. They
merely knew that on his arrival by the stage-coach that afternoon he had
written in the hotel register the name of Robert Grossmith. He had not
been observed to speak to anyone except the hotel clerk. He seemed,
indeed, singularly fond of his own company--or, as the _personnel_ of
the _Advance_ expressed it, "grossly addicted to evil associations." But
then it should be said in justice to the stranger that the _personnel_
was himself of a too convivial disposition fairly to judge one
differently gifted, and had, moreover, experienced a slight rebuff in an
effort at an "interview."
"I hate any kind of deformity in a woman," said King, "whether natural
or--acquired. I have a theory that any physical defect has its
correlative mental and moral defect."
"I infer, then," said Rosser, gravely, "that a lady lacking the moral
advantage of a nose would find the struggle to become Mrs. King an
arduous enterprise."
"Of course you may put it that way," was the reply; "but, seriously, I
once threw over a most charming girl on learning quite accidentally that
she had suffered amputation of a toe. My conduct was brutal if you like,
but if I had married that girl I should have been miserable for life and
should have made her so."
"Whereas," said Sancher, with a light laugh, "by marrying a gentleman of
more liberal view she escaped with a parted throat."
"Ah, you know to whom I refer. Yes, she married Manton, but I don't know
about his liberality; I'm not sure but he cut her throat because he
discovered that she lacked that excellent thing in woman, the middle toe
of the right foot."
"Look at that chap!" said Rosser in a low voice, his eyes fixed upon the
stranger.
That chap was obviously listening intently to the conversation.
"Damn his impudence!" muttered King--"what ought we to do?"
"That's an easy one," Rosser replied, rising. "Sir," he continued,
addressing the stranger, "I think it would be better if you would remove
your chair to the other end of the veranda. The presence of gentlemen is
evidently an unfamiliar situation to you."
The man sprang to his feet and strode forward with clenched hands, his
face white with rage. All were now standing. Sancher stepped between the
belligerents.
"You are hasty and unjust," he said to Rosser; "this gentleman has done
nothing to deserve such language."
But Rosser would not withdraw a word. By the custom of the country and
the time there could be but one outcome to the quarrel.
"I demand the satisfaction due to a gentleman," said the stranger, who
had become more calm. "I have not an acquaintance in this region.
Perhaps you, sir," bowing to Sancher, "will be kind enough to represent
me in this matter."
Sancher accepted the trust--somewhat reluctantly it must be confessed,
for the man's appearance and manner were not at all to his liking. King,
who during the colloquy had hardly removed his eyes from the stranger's
face and had not spoken a word, consented with a nod to act for Rosser,
and the upshot of it was that, the principals having retired, a meeting
was arranged for the next evening. The nature of the arrangements has
been already disclosed. The duel with knives in a dark room was once a
commoner feature of Southwestern life than it is likely to be again. How
thin a veneering of "chivalry" covered the essential brutality of the
code under which such encounters were possible we shall see.