Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid. Майн Рид

an Irishman, major, this mustanger; and if he be what I have some reason to suspect – ”

      “Whatever he be,” interrupted the major, casting a side glance towards the door, “he’s there to answer for himself; and as he’s a sufficiently plain-spoken fellow, you may learn from him all about the matter that seems to be of so much interest to you.”

      “I don’t think you will,” muttered Sloman, as Hancock and two or three others turned towards the new-comer, with the design of carrying out the major’s suggestion.

      Silently advancing across the sanded floor, the mustanger had taken his stand at an unoccupied space in front of the counter.

      “A glass of whisky and water, if you please?” was the modest request with which to saluted the landlord.

      “Visky und vachter!” echoed the latter, without any show of eagerness to wait upon his new guest. “Ya, woe, visky und vachter! It ish two picayunsh the glass.”

      “I was not inquiring the price,” replied the mustanger, “I asked to be served with a glass of whisky and water. Have you got any?”

      “Yesh – yesh,” responded the German, rendered obsequious by the sharp rejoinder. “Plenty – plenty of visky und vachter. Here it ish.”

      While his simple potation was being served out to him, Maurice received nods of recognition from the officers, returning them with a free, but modest air. Most of them knew him personally, on account of his business relations with the Fort.

      They were on the eve of interrogating him – as the major had suggested – when the entrance of still another individual caused them to suspend their design.

      The new-comer was Cassius Calhoun. In his presence it would scarce have been delicacy to investigate the subject any further.

      Advancing with his customary swagger towards the mixed group of military men and civilians, Calhoun saluted them as one who had spent the day in their company, and had been absent only for a short interval. If not absolutely intoxicated, it could be seen that the ex-officer of volunteers was under the influence of drink. The unsteady sparkle of his eyes, the unnatural pallor upon his forehead – still further clouded by two or three tossed tresses that fell over it – with the somewhat grotesque set of his forage cap – told that he had been taking one beyond the limits of wisdom.

      “Come, gentlemen!” cried he, addressing himself to the major’s party, at the same time stepping up to the counter; “let’s hit the waggon a crack, or old Dunder-und-blitzen behind the bar will say we’re wasting his lights. Drinks all round. What say you?”

      “Agreed – agreed!” replied several voices.

      “You, major?”

      “With pleasure, Captain Calhoun.”

      According to universal custom, the intended imbibers fell into line along the counter, each calling out the name of the drink most to his liking at the moment.

      Of these were ordered almost as many kinds as there were individuals in the party; Calhoun himself shouting out – “Brown sherry for me;” and immediately adding – “with a dash of bitters.”

      “Prandy und pitters, you calls for, Mishter Calhoun?” said the landlord, as he leant obsequiously across the counter towards the reputed partner of an extensive estate.

      “Certainly, you stupid Dutchman! I said brown sherry, didn’t I?”

      “All rights, mein herr; all rights! Prandy und pitters – prandy und pitters,” repeated the German Boniface, as he hastened to place the decanter before his ill-mannered guest.

      With the large accession of the major’s party, to several others already in the act of imbibing, the whole front of the long counter became occupied – with scarce an inch to spare.

      Apparently by accident – though it may have been design on the part of Calhoun – he was the outermost man on the extreme right of those who had responded to his invitation.

      This brought him in juxtaposition with Maurice Gerald, who alone – as regarded boon companionship – was quietly drinking his whisky and water, and smoking a cigar he had just lighted.

      The two were back to back – neither having taken any notice of the other.

      “A toast!” cried Calhoun, taking his glass from the counter.

      “Let us have it!” responded several voices.

      “America for the Americans, and confusion to all foreign interlopers – especially the damned Irish!”

      On delivering the obnoxious sentiment, he staggered back a pace; which brought his body in contact with that of the mustanger – at the moment standing with the glass raised to his lips.

      The collision caused the spilling of a portion of the whisky and water; which fell over the mustanger’s breast.

      Was it an accident? No one believed it was – even for a moment. Accompanied by such a sentiment the act could only have been an affront intended and premeditated.

      All present expected to see the insulted man spring instantly upon his insulter. They were disappointed, as well as surprised, at the manner in which the mustanger seemed to take it. There were some who even fancied he was about to submit to it.

      “If he does,” whispered Hancock in Sloman’s ear, “he ought to be kicked out of the room.”

      “Don’t you be alarmed about that,” responded the infantry officer, in the same sotto voce[169]. “You’ll find it different. I’m not given to betting, as you know; but I’d lay a month’s pay upon it the mustanger don’t back out; and another, that Mr Cassius Calhoun will find him an ugly customer to deal with, although just now he seems more concerned about his fine shirt, than the insult put upon him. Odd devil he is!”

      While this whispering was being carried on, the man to whom it related was still standing by the bar – to use a hackneyed phrase, “the observed of all observers.”

      Having deposited his glass upon the counter, he had drawn a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and was wiping from his embroidered shirt bosom the defilement of the spilt whisky.

      There was an imperturbable coolness about the action, scarce compatible with the idea of cowardice; and those who had doubted him perceived that they had made a mistake, and that there was something to come. In silence they awaited the development.

      They had not long to wait. The whole affair – speculations and whisperings included – did not occupy twenty seconds of time; and then did the action proceed, or the speech which was likely to usher it in.

      “I am an Irishman,” said the mustanger, as he returned his handkerchief to the place from which he had taken it.

      Simple as the rejoinder may have appeared, and long delayed as it had been, there was no one present who mistook its meaning. If the hunter of wild horses had tweaked the nose of Cassius Calhoun, it would not have added emphasis to that acceptance of his challenge. Its simplicity but proclaimed the serious determination of the acceptor.

      “You?” scornfully retorted Calhoun, turning round, and standing with his arms akimbo[170]. “You?” he continued, with his eye measuring the mustanger from head to foot, “you an Irishman? Great God, sir, I should never have thought so! I should have taken you for a Mexican, judging by your rig, and the elaborate stitching of your shirt.”

      “I can’t perceive how my rig should concern you, Mr Cassius Calhoun; and as you’ve done my shirt no service by spilling half my liquor upon it, I shall take the liberty of unstarching yours in a similar fashion.”

      So saying, the mustanger

169

sotto voce – in a low voice (Italian)

170

with his arms akimbo – with hands on the hips and elbows outwards