The time occupied in the business was brief. Gallagher well knew the routine, and I saw that the other was not entirely unacquainted with it. In five minutes, everything was arranged—place, weapons, and distance.
I nodded; Gallagher made a sweeping salaam; the aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and withdrew.
I shall not trouble you with my reflections previous to the duel, nor yet with many details of the affair itself. Accounts of these deadly encounters are common enough in books, and their sameness will serve as my excuse for not describing one.
Ours differed only from the ordinary kind in the weapon used. We fought with rifles, instead of swords or pistols. It was my choice—as the challenged party, I had the right—but it was equally agreeable to my adversary, who was as well skilled in the use of the rifle as I. I chose this weapon because it was the deadliest.
The time arranged was an hour before sunset. I had urged this early meeting in fear of interruption; the place, a spot of level ground near the edge of the little pond where I had met Haj-Ewa; the distance, ten paces.
We met—took our places, back to back—waited for the ominous signal, “one, two, three,”—received it—faced rapidly round—and fired at each other.
I heard the “hist” of the leaden pellet as it passed my ear, but felt no stroke.
The smoke puffed upward. I saw my antagonist upon the ground: he was not dead; he was writhing and groaning.
The seconds, and several spectators who were present, ran up to him, but I kept my ground.