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.”
Chapter Twenty Two.
An Unknown Donor.
In Texas a duel is not even a nine days’ wonder. It oftener ceases to be talked about by the end of the third day; and, at the expiration of a week, is no longer thought of, except by the principals themselves, or their immediate friends and relatives.
This is so, even when the parties are well known, and of respectable standing in society. When the duellists are of humble position—or, as is often the case, strangers in the place—a single day may suffice to doom their achievement to oblivion; to dwell only in the memory of the combatant who has survived it—oftener one than both—and perhaps some ill-starred spectator, who has been bored by a bullet, or received the slash of a knife, not designed for him.
More than once have I been witness to a “street fight”—improvised upon the pavement—where some innocuous citizen, sauntering carelessly along, has become the victim—even unto death—of this irregular method of seeking “satisfaction.”
I have never heard of any punishment awarded, or damages demanded, in such cases. They are regarded as belonging to the “chapter of accidents!”