It was a close carriage—a hackney—with two men upon the driver’s seat, and three inside. Of these last, one was Captain Florence Kearney, and another Lieutenant Francis Crittenden, both officers of the filibustering band, with titles not two days old. Now on the way neither to Texas nor Mexico, but to the shore of Lake Pontchartrain, where many an affair of honour has been settled by the spilling of much blood. A stranger in New Orleans, and knowing scarce a soul, Kearney had bethought him of the young fellow who had been elected first-lieutenant, and asked him to act as his second. Crittenden, a Kentuckian, being one of those who could not only stand fire, but eat it, if the occasion called, eagerly responded to the appeal; and they were now en route along the Shell Road to meet Carlos Santander and whoever he might have with him.
The third individual inside the carriage belonged to that profession, one of whose members usually makes the third in a duel—the doctor. He was a young man who, in the capacity of surgeon, had attached himself to the band of filibusters.
Besides the mahogany box balanced upon his thigh there was another lying on the spare bit of cushion beside him, opposite to where Crittenden sat. It was of a somewhat different shape; and no one who had ever seen a case of duelling pistols could mistake it for aught else—for it was such.
As it had been arranged that swords were to be the weapons, and a pair of these were seen in a corner of the carriage, what could they be wanting with pistols?
It was Kearney who put this question; now for the first time noticing what seemed to him a superfluous armament. It was asked of Crittenden, to whom the pistols belonged, as might have been learnt by looking at his name engraved on the indented silver plate.
“Well,” answered the Kentuckian, “I’m no great swordsman myself. I usually prefer pistols, and thought it might be as well to bring a pair along. I didn’t much like the look of your antagonist’s friend, and it’s got into my head that before leaving the ground I may have something to say to him on my own account. So, if it come to that, I shall take to the barkers.”
Kearney smiled, but said nothing, feeling satisfied that in case of any treachery, he had the right sort of man for his second.
He might have felt further secure, in a still other supporting party, who rode on the box beside the driver. This was a man carrying a long rifle, that stood with the barrel two feet above his shoulders, and the butt rested between his heavily booted feet.
It was Cris Rock, who had insisted on coming along, as he said, to see that the fight was all “fair and square.” He too had conceived an unfavourable opinion of both the men to be met, from what he had seen of them at the rendezvous; for Santander’s second had also been there. With the usual caution of one accustomed to fighting Indians, he always went armed, usually with his long “pea” rifle.
On reaching a spot of open ground alongside the road, and near the shore of the lake, the carriage stopped. It was the place of the appointed meeting, as arranged by the seconds on the preceding day.