The Home Journal

A TEXAN DUEL.

Put down that knife, or the consequence be upon your own head. Put it down, I say," and the hand of the speaker slowly and deliberately raised a revolver.

It was a very anxious moment for the lookers on. One of the combatants was a brawny ruffian upon whose face was stamped all the evil passions of the human race. Black haired, black bearded, black eyed and strong enough was he to have felled an ox with a single blow of his fist. The other was a pale, slender, intellectual young man, boy almost, with light hair and complexion and blue eyes.

The scene was in the little town of Washington, on the Brazos River in Texas, and the time midnight.

"Do you know who yer are talkin to, boy?" was the coarse and uneducated answer of Luke Bouton, than whom no gambler in the vicinity was more detested or feared.

A man to whom (and not without reason) was imputed every crime even that of murder; who was an unerring shot with the pistol and rifle, and unmatched in skill with that strictly Border weapon--the bowie knife. A shock of silence in that locality was his reputation as a duellist for the long grass of the Texas prairies was whitened oft with the bones of those who had fallen by his hand. Where he came from no one knew, and he was particularly reticent about his former life. Still it was whispered by lack, for no one was foolhardy enough to say it to his face--that he was one of the very few who escaped from the terrible justice of "Natchez under the hill," where the outraged citizens awoke in their wrath and took speedy vengeance in their own hands. Be that as it may, he had already earned a name sufficiently bad to need no addition even where the great majority of crimes were looked upon lightly--making Texas in its infancy the paradise of scoundrels.

Of the other, his boy antagonist, even less was known. It was but two days since his arrival, and he had come on horseback and alone. Of his business he had nothing to say, but his suave manner and quiet, gentlemanly deportment had already made him friends among the better portion of the sparse population.

Very much to their surprise, therefore, was it that they had seen him enter into a contest at cards with the professional gambler Bouton, confident that he would either be cheated or bullied out of his money, in case he should be successful, which was almost beyond the range of possibility.

But for two hours the game had been progressing, the gambler getting more angry at every deal, and the youth keeping perfectly cool, and now and then taunting words as if his object was still further to provoke him. If it was his purpose to do so, he was more than successful, for Bouton had suddenly sprung to his feet and drawn his heavy knife with oaths upon his lips and murder flashing from his eyes.

"Put down that knife," again repeated the young man, Mark Whiteman, as he had given all to understand was his name. "Put it down. No one but a coward and a cheat would attempt to use such fatal argument in a simple game of chance."

"Er cheat! Coward!" thundered Bouton, with all his wrath aroused. "By heaven, I'll make yer eat yer words."

"For fear you do not fully understand, I will repeat them."

"Yer dare not!" was hissed from the more than tightly compressed lips.

"Coward or girl!" and his knife flashed more wildly around.

In vain the others interfered. They cared little for the professional and brutal gambler, but they did for young Whiteman, and could not but be surprised at the almost sublimity of his coolness and bravery, even though he was courting his own death.

Something in the manner of the young man, too, appeared to deeply impress his antagonist, who had never before restrained his hand from swift vengeance. The delicate frame trembled not; the sweet, almost girlish expression upon the mobile lips remained unchanged; the cheeks were unblanched, and the mild, blue eyes never swerved from their steady gaze upon the fiery black ones. It appeared as if the serpent and the bird had changed places and the fierce charmer became the charmed.

"Pshaw!" at length continued Luke Bouton, "I am a fool to take any notice of er boy who I could crush between my thumb and fingers. Take yer money, ef yer such er sneak; go back among the women, and never dare to show yer face among men again."

"I care nothing for the money," was still the calm response. "It is nothing to me."

"What do yer want, then?"

"To prove that you are a coward at heart."

"No man ever lived that dared ter say such er thing."

"Simply because you murdered them, Luke Bouton."

"Murdered? But, no, I'll not fight er boy."

"Because you dare not. But you shall have no excuse," and Mark Whiteman spat full in the face of the blood-stained gambler.

In an instant all was confusion. Bouton sprang forward with his knife raised and would have cut down his insulter with a blow. But others did the same. They realized that blood must be shed, but they insisted on "fair play." Even in the horrible code of Texas dueling they demanded that the rules of honor (?) should be strictly adhered to.

"If you must fight," said an old Ranger, "and I see no way to avoid it now, it shall be all open and above board. It's your choice, Bouton. Pick your weapon and stand up and fight it out like men."

"Pistols then--ten paces--word!" was the gruff answer.

"Are you satisfied?" was asked of Whiteman.

"Yes--perfectly. Let him take his revolver--I have mine. We will commence firing at the word and continue to advance and do so until one or both falls."

A few steps from the house brought them to a spot where the green grass and bright flowers had more than once been stained in such encounters. The men were placed--the weapons prepared and the fatal word was about to be given when Whiteman called the Ranger (who was acting as his second) and taking his hand within his own, whispered:

"You appear to be a kind and true-hearted man, and I wish to ask a favor of you."

"Speak on. Anything I can do shall be done. Just say the word and I'll take your place."

"No, not that. But if I should chance to fall, promise that you will see me buried as I am. Do not let my dress be disturbed in the least. Roll me up in a blanket and let no one pry around me after I am dead. Will you promise me that?"

"It is a strange thing but I'll do it."

"Then I'm ready."

"Yes, I'll do it," repeated the Ranger, as he slowly retreated, muttering to himself, "and if you do fall I'll send a bullet through the skull of him that killed you, and may the good Lord forgive me if it is a murder."

"Now, Luke Bouton," continued Mr. Whiteman, "I am ready. Yet one word," and he stepped to his side, and handed him a miniature. "If you die, look at this."

"I'll do it now," and with trembling fingers he undid the clasp--then let it drop from his hands as if it had been a serpent, exclaiming, "No, I'll not fight you. Take him away some one--take him away for God's sake."

"Not fight, then you will die like a dog," and Whiteman raised his weapon and motioned for the word to be given.

It was some time however, before his request was complied with. The sinewy frame of the gambler trembled like a dry leaf in the autumn wind; all the color had left his face; his lips were like ashes; his pistol was pointed muzzle downwards, and shook in his hands. At length he succeeded by a mighty effort, in calming himself. He braced his nerves--glared wildly around and with all the calmness of despair, stood upon his guard.

"Are you ready? Both ready?" was asked.

"Yes," came simultaneously from two pair of lips.

"One--two--three--fire!"

The report of the pistols cut the last word in twain. The seconds rushed forward and lifted the men up again, for both had fallen. One, however, would never breathe more. Luke Bouton had fought his last duel--had gone to his final account with his heart bullet-cleft. Whiteman too, was dangerously wounded. With his breath bubbling forth through blood, he called the Ranger to him and asked him for the miniature. It was given him--the fair face of a young woman. He covered it with bloody fingers--whispered, "Bury it with me," and he too had ceased to live.

With tearful eyes that form was prepared for the grave, the Ranger insisting that his promise to the dead should be fulfilled to the letter. But all saw sufficient to satisfy them that he who called himself Whiteman was a young woman. And years later they found a clue to the mystery. It was a wife who had then revenged the murder of her husband--murdered for saving her from dishonor. From a bloody grave in the chapparal, she had gone to join him she had loved so well, in the land that lies beyond the dark river.

Was her last act one of sin? It is not for us to judge such a thing. We know nothing of the maddened heart and insane brain--nothing of the long days and longer nights of suffering--nothing of how we would have acted under such circumstances. Better leave judgment to Him who can read both the mind and heart, and whose will directed the avenging bullet. None other is without sin, and who will dare to cast the first stone?