The Best American Mystery Stories 2020

David Dean The Duelist

from Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine

With jackets removed and cravats undone, the two men faced each other in the sweltering heat of the new morning. The older man was tall and robust-looking, with curls and a large mustache, the younger of average height and delicate frame. Like a fiery eye, the distant sun rose above the sandbar they stood upon, revealing a desolate waste of scrub oak, sassafras trees, and driftwood, a shifting island that lay just beyond the reach of Mississippi law.

Having no excuse to remove their own outer clothing, the small gathering of spectators sweated and chafed. Most were also afflicted with hangovers, or remained actively drunk, which only added to their discomfort. One gentleman, whose straw hat had blown off crossing the Big Muddy, had passed out from the sun beating down on his bald pate. Now he lay, pale as a corpse, beneath the meager shade of a tenacious palmetto.

Myron Gill, his own dented top hat firmly settled on his large skull, predicted, “He’ll have company soon enough,” nodding at the unfortunate bald man. “Only he shan’t be breathing.” Tall and cadaverous, Myron’s somber appearance belied his curious and gregarious nature.

Standing to his left, the small, portly stranger he addressed replied, “You wager it will be that boy?”

Even at the distance they stood, it was plain to see the pistol in the younger man’s hand tremble from time to time.

“He has only minutes left on this earth, I fear,” Myron declared, taking a moment to study his fellow spectator. Though he had crossed the river with all the other drunks, loafers, and gamblers from the tavern, Myron had not seen him before this morning. Small and neat, he had a certain fussiness of appearance, his cravat a frothy, if somewhat soiled, work of art, his clothing expensive. Myron’s keen eye noted a slight fraying of the cuffs and lapels gone shiny with wear. This was a man who had seen better times. Beneath the shadow of the stranger’s once-white plantation hat, Myron discerned he was dark-complexioned and brown-eyed, his black hair worn long, its oily locks cascading to his small, rounded shoulders.

“You are both satisfied with your weapons and that they have been properly primed and charged?” asked the referee loudly enough for the spectators to hear. He was a former senator, now retired to private life.

Nodding his head, the bigger man answered, “Yes, yes... Let’s proceed — ​this heat is ghastly.”

“Yes,” the smaller agreed, glancing up at his challenger, his fair hair hanging in damp strings along his pale cheeks. “I’m satisfied.”

“There is still time to rescind the challenge,” the referee reminded the big man. “Mr. Forrester has made it clear on several occasions that he never meant to give offense. You both may withdraw from this with honor. You’ve only to say the word, Captain Noddy.”

“He should’ve considered that before making his slanderous claims. May we continue?”

With a sympathetic glance at Forrester, the referee called out, “If there is nothing more to be said, then... gentlemen, turn and await my count.”

At this command the spectators went silent, the hot wind riffling through the dry leaves the only sound.

“Perhaps he will only wound the boy,” the man with the frayed cuffs ventured in a whisper. “Surely he is a sporting man?”

“He is not,” Myron assured him. “The boy will die.”

Turning their backs to one another, the duelists raised their pistols and took a measured step with each number called out. Upon the number ten being reached, there was a pause in the count.

The portly man with the frayed cuffs glanced at his fellow spectators. None appeared to be breathing.

“Turn and aim!” the retired senator commanded.

Pivoting smartly, the duelists lowered their pieces.

“Fire!”

At this crucial moment the weapon of the unfortunate Forrester once more shook in his grasp, sending the bullet that followed far wide of his opponent.

“Dear God,” he managed to gasp before Captain Noddy’s answering shot entered his skull through his left eye. Collapsing onto the hot sands, his limbs twitched convulsively for several moments before falling still.

The doctor who had been standing by knelt down in a perfunctory examination, though it was obvious to all that life was extinct.

“Dead...” the doctor confirmed with an exasperated gesture, adding, “What else?” Stalking off toward one of the beached rowboats that had transported them all, he cried, “I don’t know why I’m here; the undertaker should attend these damned things, not me.”

“As I said,” Myron murmured.

“Yes... you did... you did indeed,” the portly man agreed. Taking a pinch of snuff, he regarded the slender, pitiful corpse of Forrester and opined, “Why, I don’t think he was much more than eighteen.”

He offered the silver snuff case to Myron.

Shaking his head, Myron replied, “We’d best be off. This is a thirsty crew, and they won’t hold the boats a moment longer than they must.”

Turning toward the waiting vessels, the portly man remarked, “By God, Noddy is a fearsome marksman — ​that shot went exactly where he aimed it.” Shaking his head, he added, “He could have spared that boy just as easily.”

Minutes later they were rowing hard against the current for Natchez.

Sharing a table at one of the many gambling dens that lay at the foot of the Natchez bluffs, Myron remarked to his new companion, “Here’s to another day’s living,” raising his glass on high.

“Yes, another day,” the portly man rejoined. “It’s never certain, is it?”

“We’ve seen clear evidence of that this morning.”

“Another...?” The portly man signaled the young boy running from table to table.

“You’ve been damned generous... mister... mister... Good heavens, have I forgot your name already?”

“Not at all, we’ve yet to exchange them. My name is LeClair... Darius LeClair, newly arrived from Mobile.” He flipped the boy a coin and was rewarded with two more bourbons.

“A pleasure, Mr. LeClair.”

“Please call me Darius; I’m not one to stand on ceremony.”

“Darius... yes... a pleasure! I am Myron Gill, long a resident of this fine city.”

“We are well met, sir, as I’ve never set foot here until last night, arriving by late coach. It was my good fortune to fall in with you this morning.”

Setting his now half-empty glass next to his dented top hat, Myron mopped his formidable brow. “How then, might I ask, did you come to be amongst the dueling party?”

Smiling broadly, Darius answered, “Having come in for a nightcap, I found the saloon abuzz with nothing but talk of your Captain Horatio Noddy and his latest duel! The tales of his prowess described him as a modern Achilles — ​deadly and indestructible. When I saw a party was gathering to witness this Homeric figure’s latest exploits, I simply joined them. Hence our fortuitous meeting this morning!”

“And were you satisfied with your hero?” Myron asked.

“Oh yes... quite satisfied. Truly he is a terrible opponent. Why anyone would agree to face him, I can’t imagine. It would seem his reputation alone would preclude any sensible man from doing so.”

“One would think so...” Myron began, distracted as a small party of men entered the saloon to hails and huzzahs. “You conjure the devil and he appears,” he exclaimed in a whisper.

“Why, it is the man himself,” Darius concurred.

Despite the crowded circumstances, a table was vacated for the hero and his entourage. Darius recognized the duelist’s second, as well as several hangers-on from the sandbar.

Returning to his previous topic, Darius asked, “Why then do they do it, Myron?”

“Face him... Noddy... do you mean?”

“Exactly.”

Myron took another pull from his whiskey glass. “Most were young fools from the country — ​like our fellow Forrester. They come into Natchez to negotiate loans, or arrange the sale of their cotton, et cetera... Being young, they usually find their way to ‘The Bottoms,’ as we have so colorfully named this delightful district of gambling dens, saloons, and whorehouses, to indulge their vices, as young men will.”

Setting his now empty glass down onto the sticky tabletop, Myron leaned toward the smaller Darius and spoke in a confidential tone. “I suspect that that is why you are here, my new friend, to relieve some of these callow lads of their excess cash. Do I recognize a fellow gambler in you, sir?”

Smiling back, Darius answered, “You do, indeed, sir. Games of chance have been my stock in trade for many years.” Running his hands down his shabby lapels, he added, “As you have perhaps inferred from my appearance, my luck has abandoned me of late, necessitating the need for me to remove myself from my beloved Mobile — ​hence my arrival in this Athens of the South.”

“The truth be told,” Myron responded with a sheepish grin, “I am not a native myself, but a son of Memphis, where, like you, I found my circumstances somewhat straitened by a series of poor decisions. But I have made my home here for many years now and feel confident to be your guide and adviser... and my first, and most urgent, advice to you would be to avoid that man at all cost.” He tilted his head carefully in Captain Noddy’s direction, adding, “At peril of your life.”

“How have so many run afoul of this fearsome man?” Darius persisted.

“You may well ask — ​Noddy seems to wait for them like some great spider in his web. This latest affaire d’honneur resulted from the young bumpkin making the unfortunate claim that New Orleans was a more robust city than Natchez. It fell upon the sensitive ears of our captain as a slur upon the character of our upstanding citizens. He likened it to being accused of some form of communal slothfulness. The others whom he called out committed similar unforgivable, and fatal, remarks.”

“And how many lives has our Captain Noddy deprived their owners of as of this latest duel?”

“I reckon our Mr. Forrester to have been number twelve.”

“Number twelve...” Darius repeated, staring across the smoky, busy tavern at Noddy’s jubilant table — ​several women of questionable character had joined his party, the laughter grown louder.

Waving the bar boy over, Darius tossed a few coins onto his platter and gave him some instructions. Within moments their whiskeys had been replenished, while a fresh round arrived at Captain Noddy’s table.

As the two gamblers watched, Myron in puzzlement, Darius with a pleasant smile, the bar boy was quizzed as to the origins of the fresh drinks. With a grimy finger he indicated the correct table. Darius raised his glass as the captain and his followers turned to take in their benefactors. Seeing the scrutiny they had come under, Myron hastened to raise his own glass, spilling some down his sleeve.

The captain’s handsome face creased ever so slightly in acknowledgment. If he actually smiled, it was concealed beneath his mustache.

As he was turning away once more, Darius called out, “A good and thorough killing today, Captain Noddy; that young whelp stood no chance! You surpassed him completely!”

The hubbub at the captain’s table softened somewhat at this, and Noddy studied his new, and enthusiastic, supporter carefully for several moments before returning his attentions to the young women at hand.

“Don’t say another—” Myron began hoarsely.

“Why, it was as if that young man had never fired a pistol before today, so outclassed was he!” Darius called over. “A memorable action, sir... memorable indeed!”

Noddy’s table had now gone silent, while the rest of the tavern’s occupants grew quieter by degrees, according to their level of inebriation.

“Have you listened to nothing I’ve said?” Myron whispered urgently. “Remember what you witnessed this morning!”

Pivoting his chair around to face Darius, Captain Noddy’s dark eyes came to rest on the squat, pudgy man who seemed determined to gain his attention. “What did you mean by ‘no chance’?” he asked across a tavern gone so quiet that his voice was audible to all.

Appearing flustered at the attention, Darius sputtered, “Oh... yes... that. I... I just meant that confronted with your superior marksmanship and experience... who would have any chance?” Darius chuckled, then went quiet himself.

“You’re sure of that?” Noddy smiled just a little.

“Oh yes... of course,” Darius agreed, speaking now to Noddy’s back as he was dismissed once more, and over the growing sound of laughter running through the crowded room.

“With such unseasoned and raw candidates to cull from,” he continued unexpectedly, “it must be a little like shooting fish in a barrel for someone like you, a man of your nerve and skill. That’s all I meant.” This time the room went silent before Darius finished speaking.

Noddy rose from his chair, his hand on the butt of a pistol snugged within the sash he wore round his narrow waist. “Do you mean to draw me out?” he asked. “Take care that I don’t answer that call, or you may find yourself joining those boys you seem so concerned about!” Noddy cut a handsome figure, being tall and broad-shouldered, his clothes well cut, his tall black boots shining beneath the lamplight.

Like an aging and chastened schoolboy, Darius appeared to be studying something on the dirty floorboards. “Well... that is to my point,” he resumed in a small voice. “Those boys, as you yourself just referred to them, were just that — ​hardly a fit challenge for a man of your stature. The last... Forrester, I believe was his name... could hardly hold on to his gun, he was so struck with terror — ​as he rightly should’ve been, having incurred your ire, Captain.”

There was a titter of laughter from a dark, distant corner of the room, but Noddy silenced it with a glance.

“But are such opponents worthy of you, sir?” Darius went on. “I suggest not. I say you deserve better than a steady stream of country bumpkins to take practice upon.”

“And are you suggesting that you might provide such a challenge?” Noddy asked.

Darius appeared lost in thought.

“I’m speaking to you, you little toad!”

Looking up at the enraged duelist, Darius replied in a shaky voice, “I never meant to offend you, Captain, in fact, my intentions were—”

“Then, by God, you shall,” Noddy spat, cutting short Darius’s reply. “My second will call upon you tomorrow... if you can still be found at that time.”

A long pause followed this pronouncement.

“I pray I can muster the courage to remain, Captain,” Darius answered at last, rising to cross the smoky room with uncertain tread. He offered his soft, tremulous hand to his opponent. “Darius LeClair, sir, of the Natchez Queen Hotel... at your service, I fear.”

Noddy disdained taking it, and Darius added, “It is my understanding that I will be your thirteenth challenge, Captain Noddy. If, after considering the significance of that number, you should wish to withdraw, I wouldn’t object, I assure you.”

“You wouldn’t...” Noddy sputtered in fury. “The day after tomorrow I will kill you, sir, as soon as the sun rises.” Snatching up his coat from the back of his chair, he stormed out the door.

“Oh dear Lord,” Darius said aloud to the silent room, “that went badly.”

The tavern erupted with laughter.

By the next day the talk of Natchez was all about the duel; rumors were rife throughout the town, and the local newspaper had even managed to include a completely fabricated version of the challenge. The breathless article described the noble Captain Noddy defending the virtue of his young and innocent fiancée, who in reality did not exist, from the outrageous importuning of a graceless foreigner (a description perhaps inspired by Darius LeClair’s rather exotic name and swarthy appearance). It was hinted that Darius had killed a person of quality in France and been forced to flee the guillotine.

Embellishments and wishful thinking by the citizenry quickly followed, transforming the pudgy and unimposing Darius into a mysterious duelist newly arrived from the Continent. Within hours it was said that he had slain everyone from German princes to Italian counts and had come to the New World in order to find a challenge worthy of his deadly talents. For the first time in a decade, there was open discussion of a less than certain outcome for Captain Noddy. The stranger’s much-bandied words had the ring of truth to them — ​who could deny, now that the subject had been broached, that Noddy’s victims had all been young, feckless “bumpkins,” as the European combatant had pointed out?

But even as this line of thought gained traction, more sober citizens reminded one and all of Noddy’s undeniable and demonstrated marksmanship. Seeing the wisdom in this view, all but the most degraded of gamblers resisted making book against the hometown favorite. It took only a moment’s reflection to envision the usual outcome to the fight ahead and foresee that a list of those betting against Noddy might also become a calling card for future challenges.

“Has his second called upon you?” Myron asked his new and suddenly famous companion. He stood in the doorway of Room 4 of the Natchez Queen Hotel, feeding the brim of his hat through his hands and feeling somehow responsible for the peril Darius faced.

“Oh yes,” Darius replied. “I must say he was very formal and respectful about it all. He even gave me Noddy’s calling card! Strange, isn’t it — ​we assert our determination to kill one another, then present calling cards.”

Myron stared at the bouquets festooning the small, shabby room. “My God,” he whispered in awe, “you are a luminary!”

“None of the attached cards are signed.” Darius laughed. “They wish me well while remaining safely anonymous.”

Shutting the door behind him, Myron observed, “They wish to go on living — ​who can blame them?” Drawing closer, he added, “You still have until tomorrow, Darius. For God’s sake, slip away tonight after dark! Believe me, in a week’s time the whole sordid affair will be forgotten.”

Sitting on the edge of his narrow bed, Darius indicated the only chair in the room for Myron. Pouring them each a whiskey from his flask, he said, “You see no chance for me?”

“Of course not — ​you’re a gambler, not a duelist — ​you don’t have the look of a killer about you at all,” Myron answered, downing his drink.

“You don’t believe the stories about me that have been circulating about town?”

“What...? Of course not, you told me yourself that you’re just here for the gaming.”

“Yes, that is what I said,” Darius confirmed.

Myron held out his glass for a refill, noting the steady hand that poured it. His mouth opened, then shut once more, then opened again. “Are you telling me that wasn’t true?”

Darius looked back at him, saying nothing, his face unreadable.

“You...” Myron began, then tried again. “You can’t be... you don’t even carry a gun. How can you...” He stopped midsentence as Darius withdrew a slim mahogany case from his valise, opening it to reveal a pair of gleaming and expensive dueling pistols chased in silver. Myron leaned closer to read the engraved escutcheons on the grips.

“Perhaps I wasn’t altogether truthful,” Darius answered, snapping the case shut and returning it to his valise before Myron could make out the inscription.

“You...” Myron sputtered, taking in the expensive pistols, the implication of their possession, “...you... you’re a ringer, by God!”

“Not so loud, if you please. The walls here are rather thin, I fear.”

Myron began to laugh. “I never would’ve thought...”

“No,” Darius replied, “of course not.” Pouring them another round from his flask, he added, “There is something you could do for me, Myron.”

“Yes,” the bewildered gambler answered, catching Darius’s tone and becoming serious. “What would that be?”

“That you place whatever money you can afford on me, and if you don’t mind, place my wager as well.” He stuffed a wad of bills into Myron’s front coat pocket.

“We could make a deal of money,” Myron replied, rubbing his long hands together like a fly. “A great deal, indeed!” Then, in a more worried tone, “Providing I can find a bookie to take our bets. That may prove a challenge.”

“There’s always someone to take your money,” Darius assured him. “Perhaps if you whispered into the ear of a particularly hungry oddsmaker of what you’ve learned here...” He left the rest unsaid. “Now... if you don’t mind, I have to ready myself for the Midsummer Ball this evening.”

“You’ve been invited to the ball?” Myron stammered. “I’ve lived here for years now and never managed to snag an invitation. You are a wonder, sir!”

Laughing, Darius replied, “It seems that this year no ball will be complete without its mysterious European assassin.”

Taking a brush from the dresser, he proceeded to clean the dust from the only coat he owned.

Watching the young ladies of Natchez glide through their graceful, complicated steps reminded Darius of how long it had been since he last attended such a genteel gathering.

Sipping from a crystal cup of rum punch, he reflected on those long-ago days when his world of privilege had been a thing taken for granted. It had only asked of him that he take his place each day; that he follow the prescribed steps, much like the young women he was watching. He had found himself unable to do so. There was inside him a difference. He could not think why it should be so, but neither could he resist its power. In time, despite his best efforts to disguise it, he was exposed and cast out.

Noticing some of the young ladies throwing glances at him as they spun round the ballroom, Darius raised his glass and smiled. Several tittered and whispered to their female friends as they swirled round the room. He was well aware that women did not find him attractive.

Darius observed the feminine spectacle before him like carnations of various colors drifting and spinning in the current of an invisible river. Though beautiful to behold, they failed to stir in him any passion. Rather, it was their male escorts that occasionally caught his eye and aroused his feelings — ​young men who, in his eyes, were every bit as beautiful as the women they squired round the dance floor... and far more forbidden.

A hubbub at the entrance to the ballroom put an end to Darius’s reverie. Heads began to turn as the tall figure of Captain Horatio Noddy arrived for the dance. His handsome visage with its dark curls and mustache rose above the crowd.

Making his way through his admirers and well-wishers, Noddy stiffened upon seeing Darius. Taking up a cup of punch, he said, “I’m surprised to see you here, LeClair... if that really is your name.” His entourage formed a semicircle behind their man, their ears pricked.

“I surprise myself sometimes.” Darius smiled.

“Obviously the standards have been lowered to allow for foreign trash.”

Noddy glanced to his followers for a reaction and was rewarded with sniggers from the young fops. He smiled then as well.

“It occurs to me, Captain,” Darius replied, “that my invitation here betokens something altogether different from a lowering of standards. Rather it reveals a division in the ranks of your adoring public, sir — ​that there are some... perhaps many... who long to see your fall on the morrow.”

Noddy’s mouth fell open in disbelief at the brazenness of Darius’s response.

“You goddamned rascal,” he managed after a moment, thrusting a hand into his waistcoat.

Placing a restraining hand over Noddy’s own, his second warned, “Captain... don’t... Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

“A hidden Derringer!” Darius exclaimed, a little louder than was necessary. “I’m surprised at you, Captain Noddy, that you should feel the need to go about secretly armed amongst your own people. Do you not feel safe?”

This time the titters arose from the gathering gentlemen and ladies of the ball attracted by the confrontation.

“How dare you, you... you prissy little bastard!” Noddy cried. “Do you call me a coward?”

The great room was now silent, the orchestra having ceased their play, the dancers like statues.

“Oh yes,” Darius answered pleasantly, going all in. “Yes, I most certainly do — ​a damned... cowardly... murderer. I am not one of your farmboy victims, Captain, if in fact you really are a captain. Tomorrow you shall meet your better upon the field of honor... and this time honor will be satisfied — ​your murders atoned for in blood.”

Throwing his drink to the floor to the accompaniment of feminine screams, Noddy lunged for Darius, but his second restrained him once more. “You damned scoundrel!” Noddy screamed at the little gambler. “I don’t have to tolerate this!”

“It seems that you already have,” Darius rejoined, while using his only clean handkerchief to pat the drops of liquor that had spattered his clothing. “However, I am done with you for now.”

Straightening up from his task, he added, “But I will wait on you tomorrow at dawn... make no mistake about that. Now... I suggest you retire before disgracing yourself further.”

Carefully selecting a brimming cup from the table, Darius brought it to his lips without spilling a drop... making sure as he did so that his gloved pinkie was daintily lifted.

This was received by the enraptured crowd with a round of polite applause as Noddy glared at them all.

Excusing himself with a slight bow, Darius walked away to join a game of Black Widow in an adjoining study, and within minutes was playing his hand as if he hadn’t a care in the world; no challenge to his life come dawn.

Sitting so as to face the French doors thrown open to the ballroom, he was gratified to see that Noddy, in defiance, had remained and kept returning to the refreshments table. Each time he stared about as if daring anyone to challenge his right to another drink.

No one did, and after a while the members of his party gathered round him in entreaty. As he staggered and cursed they managed to lead him away into the night and his distant bed.

Rising, Darius bid the other players goodnight and retired to the Natchez Queen Hotel. There, in the darkness of his room, clutching the rosary given to him by his mother upon his confirmation, he prayed as he had not prayed in many, many years.

It was still dark the next morning when Darius was awakened by a tapping at his door. He opened it in his nightshirt to find Myron Gill awaiting him with a cup of chicory coffee and a beignet.

“With the compliments of management,” he murmured while holding out the offerings.

“Breakfast for the condemned man...?” Darius asked with a smile, taking the tray. “Do come in, Myron, and thank you.” Sitting on the edge of his rumpled bed, he took a small bite of the one and a sip of the other. “Wonderful,” he said around a mouthful of pastry.

“I’ve placed the money,” Myron assured him. “The odds against us are rather phenomenal, as you might imagine.”

“I should hope so,” Darius replied.

“Seeing as how you are laying your life on the line for these potential riches, I guess the least I can do is offer to accompany you as your second — ​presuming you don’t have one.” Myron couldn’t mask his apprehension at making such a bold offer, his long, pale face assuming an even more alarming pallor.

“That is kind of you, my new friend,” Darius assured him, “but I think it best you stay out of Noddy’s crosshairs, just in case things go badly.”

Myron nodded a little too readily, then hastened to ask, “But who will act your second?”

“That was arranged with his man yesterday — ​the good captain, knowing me to be a stranger in these parts, has been kind enough to supply one.”

“He what...?” Myron blurted out, his face a mask of consternation. “You’ll be relying on those intent on doing you harm, Darius! They are Noddy’s creatures!” He took a breath, adding in a tone of relief, “At least you are supplied with your own weapon.”

Darius appeared puzzled for a moment, then exclaimed, “Oh... those,” nodding at the valise containing the dueling pistols. “Yes... well... you see, I told Noddy’s second that I would use whatever pistol they had on hand — ​the damn things are so tedious to clean afterward, and one gun is as good as the next, really...” He let the rest of the sentence hang in the air between them.

“I had not taken you for a madman until now,” Myron replied. “I fear my few dollars have been wasted.”

“I do hope that you’re wrong, my friend, as I will pay a significantly higher price than you.”

Brushing crumbs from the front of his nightshirt, Darius added, “I really should get dressed now, Myron. Will you cross over with me this morning?”

“Of course,” Myron replied in a mournful tone. “Though I must say, I don’t like your phrasing.”

Closing the door softly behind him, Myron took a shaky pull from his flask, then went down to the lobby to await his reckless companion.

The sun rose on a tableau not unlike that over which it had risen two days before — ​the combatants stripped of their coats and hatless, a drunken assortment of dandies, gamblers, and barflies in attendance, Myron amongst them. On this occasion, however, he had carefully brushed the beaver fur of his well-worn top hat in deference to his brave, if foolish, friend.

Seeing that companion squared off against the tall, imposing Captain Noddy only served to renew his earlier apprehensions, as his champion appeared so diminished in his presence. The small, pudgy Darius, he thought, had more the appearance of a schoolmaster or scholar than a duelist as he squinted up at his deadly opponent. A dark lock of his greasy hair had fallen across one eye, and as Myron watched, Darius carefully secured the errant strand behind an ear, smoothing it with an almost feminine gesture. Several in the crowd tittered and made crude remarks concerning the manliness of Myron’s new friend.

“Dear Lord...” he muttered.

With the rising of the sun the humidity thickened like gumbo, conjuring a mist from the surrounding river. Tendrils of it drifted across the shifting sandbar like ghosts of the recently slain.

As Myron looked on, the seconds presented Darius and Noddy with their weapons. Darius removed his from its case and held it awkwardly, as if it were too heavy for his grip. Noddy retrieved his own pistol without a glance and grasped it with a confidence born of long familiarity.

“Are your weapons met with your satisfaction?” the retired but much in demand senator called out.

“Yes,” Captain Noddy answered promptly, but with hoarseness.

Darius continued to allow the pistol to dangle in his grasp without answering. After a moment he brought it up to his ear and gave it a little shake, as if he were straining to hear something within.

“Mr. LeClair?” the senator prompted.

“I wasn’t aware the pistol would be brought to me loaded,” Darius commented with a slight smile. “Is that the custom in these parts?”

This remark managed to confound the retired people’s representative into silence, while causing a good deal of discussion amongst the gathered witnesses.

“What are you implying?” Noddy growled. “Do you think I would allow any tampering?”

Still smiling, Darius replied, “Of course not... surely you are above such flummery... and perhaps even incapable of plotting something so insidious as to squib the load of the pistol you were kind enough to supply me.”

The crowd understood that a squib load was a skimping of sufficient gunpowder in order to create a misfire, and the murmur from them rose accordingly.

Noddy, hungover from the previous evening’s ball, seemed to be turning Darius’s words round in his clotted thoughts, attempting to define the insult hidden within.

“What are you saying?” was all he could manage.

“Just that, considering your current unfortunate disposition, perhaps someone concerned for your welfare might have acted on your behalf.”

“How dare you, sir!” both seconds cried in unison, apprehending the charge could be leveled at either of them, they being Noddy partisans. “I will have—”

“Shut up!” their master commanded, and both men went silent. Still wrestling with Darius’s line of reasoning, Noddy glared at the little man. “What do you mean by my ‘unfortunate disposition’?” he enunciated.

“Why, my dear fellow,” Darius began, throwing open his arms, the questionable gun wobbling about in his loose grasp. Several onlookers backed further away from the erratic muzzle of the firearm. “You’re in a state! You’ve behaved heroically in spite of it, for which I commend you, but many of us witnessed you disgorging your previous evening’s meal and refreshments upon arrival this morning. It has happened to the best of us — ​a night of dance and drink... perhaps a few too many, but understandable. Nerves, Captain, nerves! There’s absolutely nothing worse than imbibing too much in order to soothe them. It never works!”

The sun, having risen higher over the sandbar, poured down its hellish heat like a molten god. Myron, and the rest, could see the truth of Darius’s observations in the slight swaying that Noddy displayed, a tremor from time to time in the hand holding the pistol. The referee, the doctor, and the seconds, being closer still, could also discern his bloodshot eyes, the nervous licking of his chapped lips.

“I suggest,” Darius continued, “that given your current condition, you be allowed to withdraw from the field if you so wish... honor intact.”

The murmur from the crowd rose as the enormity of the insinuation sank into their collective consciousness — ​not only was their champion being labeled a drunk, but also a coward! None had ever experienced a duel in which the insults continued right up to the moment of truth. It was incredible and without precedent! A man could, in theory, die for any of the several slurs made by Darius, but in fact could only die once, which seemed unjust to many on the sandbar.

“Dear Lord,” Myron repeated, stunned as well by the audacity of his boon companion.

“Until...” Darius held his free hand up to quieten the chatter, “until, that is, you have returned to yourself, Captain, and are once more a worthy opponent!”

“Your answer, sir,” the senator intoned, as if he were overseeing a congressional debate.

“Goddamn you!” Noddy cried, switching his grip on his pistol and raising it above his head to club Darius. “I cannot bear another moment of this!”

“Stop, sir!” the senator demanded, having produced his own pistol in the proper manner, muzzle pointing at the potential recipient of its ball. “There will be no brawling under my watch!”

Lowering his weapon, Noddy complained, “It’s insufferable... insufferable, I tell you!” He appeared to be near tears.

“Your answer, sir,” the senator repeated.

“No...” Noddy replied, his whole demeanor one of distraction and anxiety, then again, “No.”

Appearing unfazed by his opponent’s disreputable behavior, Darius stated, “Very well, then... if you insist.”

The mob, having hushed during this brief exchange, became instantly reanimated at its conclusion. The duel was on once more.

“However,” Darius intoned, quieting the crowd yet again, “I wonder — ​since you have been good enough to supply me with both a gun and a second — ​whether we might exchange pistols? I only ask in order to satisfy any doubts that might exist following the outcome of this affair.”

“You venomous little troll,” Noddy spat, looking pale and sweat-soaked beneath the climbing sun. “You satanic imp...”

“Captain...” Darius’s second began, then went silent.

Darius’s eyes cut from the captain to the second, then back again.

Noddy’s hand hovered over the proffered weapon and began to tremble.

“Is there a problem?” Darius asked.

Goaded, Noddy seized the pistol while thrusting his own at Darius. “Take it... take the damned thing!”

“Are we finally able to proceed?” the perspiring senator asked, both puzzled and alarmed at the transaction. Had Noddy refused the exchange, then under the circumstances, he would have ordered a close examination of the pistol. But since he did not, he could not do so without impugning the captain’s honor.

“Seconds, step away!” he commanded. “Combatants, cock your pistols and stand back to back, weapons raised. When I begin the count, you will take a step with each number called out. When I cease the count at ten, you will stop and remain stationary until I command you to turn. Afterward I will instruct you both to take aim. Finally I will give the ultimate order to fire! Should either of you do so before that order is given, I will shoot you where you stand. Is all this firmly understood?”

Having assumed their back-to-back positions, both men nodded their comprehension.

“One!” the count began.

As the two men commenced their fateful march, it was evident to all that something was decidedly wrong with the avenger of Natchez. His gait, usually so decisive and measured, had become a hesitant, and increasingly mincing, shuffle. A pall of dread had fallen over him, draining the captain’s handsome features of blood and setting the hand holding the pistol to spasm like a divining rod.

His diminutive opponent, however, appeared to have grown in stature during the runup to the duel — ​the plump and infuriating Darius now infused with a deadly dignity, a certitude that bode ill for the stricken Noddy.

“Ten,” the senator completed the count.

Both men halted.

“Turn!”

Darius did so with smooth alacrity.

Noddy, with slumping shoulders, his booted feet dragging through the sand, followed suit.

“Aim...”

The dejected-looking captain’s arm shot out and locked at the elbow. Darius did likewise.

Before the following and final command could be uttered, the explosion from the captain’s gun sent his ball flying as a corresponding cry of outrage went up from the crowd.

Cognizant of his duty, the senator’s own pistol rose to point at Noddy, and he cocked his piece preparatory to its execution.

“Hold!” a strong voice rang out. “The shot is mine!”

Almost forgotten in the shock of Noddy’s violation, Darius still stood, his pistol still leveled at the now cowering Noddy. Behind Darius a large chunk of bark had been sheared away from a pine tree, leaving a raw white wound.

Wreathed in an acrid cloud of gun smoke, Noddy sank to his knees in the soft sand, letting go the damning pistol and holding up his left hand in front of his face, whether in fear or shame was anyone’s guess.

“Don’t,” he moaned. “Please... don’t.”

“The right is yours, sir,” the senator informed Darius, uncocking his own piece.

“Dear God... have mercy,” Noddy pleaded, tears now streaming down his pale cheeks and soaking his drooping mustache.

Darius lowered his aim in acknowledgment of his opponent’s new and abject posture, continuing to keep him within the crosshairs, a finger movement away from death.

“You have killed twelve young men,” Darius began, a heat present in his voice that had been wholly absent before. “All of them lamb to slaughter, all without experience, aptitude, or friends; each and every one dying for the sole purpose of stoking your vanity. Honor never entered into it — ​you murdered them all.”

Darius took a deep, shuddering breath, then went on. “One of those young men... you damned butcher... was my brother!”

“I didn’t know,” Noddy sobbed. “Mercy... mercy,” he pleaded.

“Shall I show mercy?” Darius called out to the spectators.

“No... Hell, no... Pull the trigger... Shoot!” they shouted back, enraged at their hero.

“It seems your former friends and countrymen wish me to kill you,” Darius advised Noddy.

“Please... please... don’t...”

“And I shall oblige them, you low dog.”

The shot rang out, echoing across the river.

But when the smoke cleared it was plain to all that Darius had thrown wide his shot — ​Noddy still lived.

“Now you know how they felt — ​the terror... the loneliness,” Darius informed the defeated Noddy. “You, I sentence to life. Rise and join your fellow citizens... if they’ll have you.”

Tossing his weapon into the sand in front of his opponent, Darius marched off to the boats, ignoring the congratulations of the thoroughly entertained bystanders. Myron hurried after him, and as they were rowed across the river once more, Darius studied the sluggish current in silence while squeezing his hands together to stop the tremors that had seized them.

Emptying the pockets of both his coat and waistcoat, Myron tossed wads of cash onto the narrow bed of Room 4.

“We’ve made a packet, Darius! By God, we’ve made a packet!” he cried.

“Everyone paid their debts, did they?” Darius asked, pouring them both a whiskey, his hands once more his own.

“They did so with enthusiasm — ​they feared the ire of the Continental duelist!”

“Is that so?” Darius responded with a slight smile, handing a brimming glass to his gambling partner, noting how flushed Myron’s normally pallid cheeks had become. “What a passel of fools.”

Myron raised his glass to Darius and they both took a sip of the liquor. Smacking his lips with relish, Myron asked, “Fools, Darius? What do you mean?”

“I’ve never in my life set foot in Europe,” Darius replied. “Your local newspaperman has a vivid imagination and, thankfully, few scruples — ​I paid him well to conjure up that story.”

Myron’s wide mouth fell open a bit. “You paid him? Why?”

“Nor am I a duelist,” Darius went on, ignoring the question. “Until today I’d never fired a weapon in anger, and I’m certainly no marksman. If I were, Horatio Noddy would be dead this moment instead of sneaking out of town with his tail between his legs.” He refilled their glasses and sat down. “Did you see how wide of the mark my shot went? I couldn’t have hit an elephant at that distance.”

Still standing, the newly charged glass forgotten in his hand, Myron struggled to assimilate his partner’s words. “What... you...” he sputtered, “...but... but... the pistols! What of your fine set of dueling pistols? I saw them!”

“Oh yes...” Darius squirmed a bit in the room’s only chair. “Those. I came into their possession as a result of a poker game in Savannah. Handsome pieces, aren’t they?” Grasping Myron’s wrist, he said, “I do hope you can forgive my deceiving you, my friend. Your good faith... and wagers... went a long way toward enhancing my little fiction.”

Remembering his glass, Myron took a moment to down its contents. “My God,” he said, settling himself onto the edge of Darius’s bed by degrees, “you might have been killed! You risked your life knowing full well that you stood no chance. I just don’t understand.”

“Oh, but I did, Myron... however slim, I stood a chance. That’s our profession, isn’t it? It was only a matter of sizing up my opponent, assessing his weaknesses. From all that I observed and you had told me of Noddy, I could see that his deadly career was based not on courage but careful selection. He trolled for victims, not challenges, selecting only the very young, who, by virtue of their age, were both inexperienced and volatile.

“Further, they had traveled alone and therefore had no seconds on hand. As no one in this virtuous town wished to act against the fearsome Captain Noddy, the only second that could be found for the stranger was one of Noddy’s own entourage, who no doubt regaled him with tales of the captain’s deadly prowess.”

Catching his drift, Myron broke in, “And they squibbed the load of the youngsters’ pistols, just as you insinuated today, insuring the captain’s safety against a lucky shot!”

With a slight shrug, Darius answered, “Well... that’s a possibility, perhaps. However, they did not do so to my pistol this morning. The one I exchanged with Captain Noddy — ​it was fully charged — ​I heard the ball whistle past my ear at a terrifying velocity. Still,” he continued, “it did give the mighty captain pause when I suggested one of his people might have been secretly aiding his triumphs all along by doing so.”

“Yes!” Myron exclaimed. “I saw it in his face! Clearly he dreaded exchanging weapons with you. You devil! You planted yet another terrible seed of doubt there!”

“And, not to put too fine a point upon it,” Darius concluded, “it was Noddy’s thirteenth duel — ​the unlucky number was his, not mine.”

Myron’s expression grew somber. “When all is said and done, Darius, you exhibited terrific courage today, or incomprehensible foolhardiness, I’m not sure which. But at the end of it all, you have achieved some measure of justice for your slain brother — ​Noddy is ruined! His new reputation will follow him like the stench of the grave.”

Darius’s expression softened. “As to that,” he began in a quiet, tired voice, his eyes moistening, “I was not altogether truthful either. You see, the young man I sought to avenge was not, in fact... my brother. Rather, he was someone... a dear friend... that I loved as if he were... well... it’s difficult to explain. Perhaps it will suffice to say that he was dear enough for me to die for. Do you understand?”

Though he found himself nodding in the affirmative, Myron was not entirely sure that he did. “A dear friend...” he murmured in reply.

“Yes,” Darius agreed. “Dear enough for me to risk anything... anything at all.”