remember correctly, but I don’t believe this room is big enough for us to take ten paces each.”
“A point well taken, Mister Beard.” Longarm looked into the crowd, selecting at random from a sea—well, a good-sized pond then—of faces he’d never seen before.
Almost a sea of strangers, that is. The Austin Capitals’ equipment boy was standing at the fringe of the onlookers. who, Longarm noticed, seemed even more numerous than they had been when this insanity commenced. Apparently the word was spreading and the gallery of spectators growing. Longarm hoped there were people still interested in the ball game afterward, although how could a mere baseball game compare with excellent drama— ahem—like this here.
“You,” he said, pointing to a man of medium height and build. “Would you be so kind, sir, as to pace off the length of the room starting from that wall and crossing to that one?”
“Shit, yeah, why not?”
The man, a farmer judging by his clothes and by the baked and wrinkled skin at the back of his neck, took the request seriously. He positioned himself with his back firm against one wall and extended his left foot first, reaching out quite far with it and sonorously counting, “One,” in a loud voice.
“Fourteen,” he announced to one and all as he reached the far wall.
“Fourteen,” Longarm repeated. “Seven paces each. But then it would be awkward if we were standing tight to the wall, don’t you think? Would you agree to five paces each, Mister Beard?”
“I would, Mister Long. Five paces it will be. Is that all right with you, Morris?”
“Jesus, Will, are you sure you …”
“Don’t provoke me, Morris. I intend to be here after the duel. Mister Long will not.”
“You will, of course, allow me t’ take a hand in my own defense before you reach that conclusion,” Longarm injected.
“Your pardon, sir. I meant to imply no less.” Beard bent over into a sort of a bow.
Jeez, Longarm thought, the idiot was really getting into the spirit of this French duel bullshit. Beard was acting stiff and formal and downright courtly all of a sudden.
“Right there for the starting point?” Longarm suggested, motioning toward a spot that looked like it was midway across the room.
“Perfect,” Beard assured him.
“Back to back and guns in the holsters, is that it then?” Longarm asked. “Or d’you want to have the guns already in hand when we turn an’ fire?”
“Oh, in the holsters, I should think. Don’t you?”
“Much more sporting that way,” Longarm agreed.
Beard smiled. “That’s it then. It couldn’t be better. And I have to thank you again, Mister Long. You honor me by standing with your back to mine. I know everyone will remember that part and talk about it for years to come. My biographers will write about it, too. I shall insist on that.”
“Are we ready, Mister Beard? Aren’t we supposed to share a cup before the combat?”
“Are we?”
“I think so.”
“Morris. Would you please?”
The bartender complied with fresh mugs of beer. Beard quaffed his practically at a gulp. Longarm barely sipped at his. Around them the crowd pushed and shifted, closing in tighter and tighter to the lane left open for gunfire until it was almost a certainty that a bullet the slightest degree off target would do damage to the cheering section as well as to the combatants.
“Ready, Mister Long,” Beard announced when his mug was empty.
“Ready, Mister Beard,” Longarm assured him.
“Morris?”
“If you’re sure-“
“Morris, please.”
“All right then. Gentlemen, take your places.”
Beard immediately turned around, presenting his back stiff and taut, his spine ramrod straight and his jaw firm.
Longarm nodded and moved up close behind him.
“I will count to five, gentlemen,” Morris said in a voice loud enough for everyone in the place to hear. “You will take one pace forward with each number I count. When you hear me say five, but not a moment before, you are free to turn, draw and fire your pistols. If you are ready then …
Chapter 36
“Are you ready, Mister Beard?”
“I… I … yes, I am.”
“Are you ready, Mister Long?”
Instead of answering Longarm swung around, his Colt already in hand, and used the flat of the gun’s butt to whack the beejabbers out of Beard, hitting him—hard—just above the nape of his neck.
