Ryan and the others had gotten there early, securing a good viewpoint from one of the higher decks, not far from the calliope, which had been playing a bright melody of old folk tunes throughout the afternoon but had now fallen silent. Just a few wisps of steam trickled from the gold-and-silver pipes.
Mildred had been the least enthusiastic, but had reluctantly agreed to join the others. “Maybe they’ll ask if there’s a doctor on board, and I can volunteer. I always wanted to do that for real. I was once in a theater for an amateur performance of Cymbeline . Halfway through the first act, a man rose from his seat and asked if there was a doctor in the place. Of course, the play stopped dead. I thought it was an emergency and stood, saying I was a doctor. He stared up at me and said, ‘Isn’t this a perfectly rotten production, Doctor?’ Well, I felt such a fool, standing there.”
The duel was extremely well attended. It seemed that virtually all of the passengers were thronged there, though Jak reported that the little old ladies were still playing the slot machines down below.
The small man, who they’d learned was called Diego Kahla, was stripped to shirtsleeves, waiting patiently by the starboard rail. Neither of the fighters bothered with seconds, though a young officer stood nervously between them to observe fair play. The other man, who gossip reported was the bastard son of a notorious baron from Georgia, traveling under the assumed name of John Carradine Gatewood, was chatting to a brace of high-price whores, seeming oblivious to the pressure of the fight.
“Betting’s odds are against the Mex,” J.B. said. “Seems Gatewood’s already chilled better than a dozen men in fights like this. Rules of the boat says the winner gets the loser’s jack-poke. Kahla’s done well at five-card stud this afternoon.”
“You mean to say that the fight was provoked?” Mildred said, shocked. “That’s just a sort of legalized murder and robbery. It isn’t fair.”
“Nobody ever said life was fair,” Krysty protested. “We all know that.”
“Gatewood’s picked swords,” Ryan said. “Look at the size of the blade he’s selected. Saber. Sort of cutlass. Huge blade. Kahla won’t be able to even lift it.”
Jak grinned. “Saw him with his sword. Using rapier, like Doc.”
Krysty looked at the teenager. “Really! That’s unfair. He’ll likely get butchered.”
Jak rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “Want bet, Krysty? Reckon little man wins inside minute.”
Knowing the albino youth’s extraordinary expertise when it came to close-contact fighting, Krysty chose not to risk a wager against him.
The gleaming ship’s bell, tinted orange by the setting sun over the western bank of the Sippi, rang a single deep note to indicate the half hour.
The officer cleared his throat. “Duel will begin on my signal. Any apology?” He hardly waited for the possibility of an answer. “No? Swords. No other weapon. I’ll shoot down any man breaks the rules or interferes.” He waved a .32-caliber Taurus revolver in his right hand. “Ready? Start.”
Only then did the crowd become aware of the discrepancy between the two men’s chosen weapons.
Gatewood, tall and lithe, wore a white suit, with a vermilion vest that sported mother-of-pearl buttons. He swished the long-bladed saber that Ryan recognized as resembling a nineteenth-century light-cavalry officer’s sword. It was nearly three inches wide, single-edged, with a needle point to it and a ponderous brass basket hilt.
Kahla, jacketless, wore a dark vest and pants over a white shirt with loose, baggy sleeves. His rapier was less than an inch in width, probably Spanish in origin, several inches shorter than the saber, with a delicate, silver-chased hilt.
“My support is with the swordsman rather than the clumsy artisan,” Doc whispered.
Ryan’s first gut reaction had altered. Trader used to say that biggest and strongest was best, and it generally was. But there was also a case in this kind of combat to be made for fast and light and deadly.
Apart from the fluttering of the ornamental bunting that was strung all about the upper decks of the boat, the only sound was the steady, monotonous pounding of the stern paddle wheel, which Ryan noticed was moving a little more slowly than usual, as the evening light began to fade.