The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea. Reid Mayne

to understand this; and, turning together, set their heads for home.

      Chapter Twenty.

      Pot Valiant

      The bright Californian sun is declining towards the crest of the Coast Range, when two horsemen, coming from the Pacific side, commence ascending the ridge.

      As the sultry hours have passed, and a chill breeze blows from the outside ocean, they have thrust their heads through the central slits of their cloaks – these being mangas– leaving the circular skirts to droop down below their knees – while draping back, cavalry fashion, over the hips of their horses. The colours of these garments – one scarlet, the other sky-blue – enable us to identify the wearers as Don Francisco de Lara and Don Faustino Calderon; for in truth it is they, returning from the pelea de gallos at Punta Pedro.

      They have seen Diaz, and arranged everything about the duel. Faustino has finally determined upon fight. Instigated by his more courageous confederate, and with further pressing on the part of Diaz – a sort of Californian bravo – his courage has been at length screwed up to the necessary pitch; and kept there by the potent spirit of Catalonian brandy, found freely circulating around the cock-pit.

      A flask of the Catalan he has brought away with him, and at intervals takes a pull from it, as he rides along the road. Under its influence he becomes pot valiant; and swears, if he can but again set eyes upon the English guardia-marina, he will affront him in such fashion as to leave him no loophole of escape from being the challenger. Carrai! he will do as De Lara has recommended: cuff the young officer, kick him, spit in his face, anything to provoke the gringo to a fight – that yellow-haired cub without bigots or beard. And if the cur won’t fight, then he shall apologise – get down upon his knees, acknowledge him, Faustino Calderon, the better man, and for ever after surrender all claim to the smiles, as to the hand, of Iñez Alvarez!

      With such swaggering talk he entertains his companion, as the two are returning to town.

      De Lara, less noisy, is nevertheless also excited. The fiery alcohol has affected him too. Not to strengthen his courage; for of this he has already enough; but to remove the weight from off his soul, which, after the scene at Don Gregorio’s, had been pressing heavily upon it. Six hours have since elapsed, and for the first three he had been brooding over his humiliation, his spirit prostrate in the dust. But the Catalan has again raised it to a pitch of exultation; especially when he reflects upon the prospect of the sure and speedy vengeance he is determined to take.

      It does not occur to him to doubt of success. With thorough reliance on his skill as a swordsman, he feels sure of it. Though also a good shot, he prefers the steel for his weapon; like most men of the southern Latinic race, who believe Northerners to be very bunglers at sword-play, though admitting their superiority in the handling of the pistol. As things stand, unlike his comrade Calderon, he will have the choice of weapons. His intended antagonist was the first to demand the card, and must needs be challenger.

      As the two ride on, they talk alternately, both giving vent to their spleen – the man of courage, as the coward. If not so loud, or boastingly, as his companion, De Lara expresses himself with a more spiteful and earnest determination; repeating much of what he has already said at an earlier hour, but with added emphasis. Once he sees the English officer at his rapier’s point, he will show him no mercy, but run him through, without the slightest compunction. In vain may his adversary cry “Quarter.” There can be none conceded, after what has that day passed between them.

      “Maldita! it shall be a duel to the death!” he exclaims, after having given way to a series of threats, the words pronounced with an empressement that tells him to be truly, terribly in earnest.

      They have been carrying on this excited dialogue, as their horses climbed the slope from the Pacific side, its steepness hindering them from going at their usual gait – a gallop. On rising the ridge’s crest, and catching sight of San Francisco, with its newly painted white walls, and shining tin roofs, reflected red in the rays of the setting sun, De Lara, suddenly remembering the pressure upon him as to time, strikes the spur sharp against his horse’s ribs, and puts the animal to speed. The other imitating his example, they dash on towards Dolores.

      They have no intention to make stop at the mission; but, on reaching it, they draw up; obedient to the hail of a man seen standing in the door of a little tavern, or tinacal, frequented by the lower class of native Californians.

      A rough, swarthy-skinned fellow, in a garb that proclaims his calling to have connection with the sea, though not that of a sailor. He may be a shore-boatman – perhaps a piscador– though, judging by his general appearance, and the uncanny cast of his countenance, he might well pass for a pirate.

      Stepping a few paces out from the tinacal, he salutes the two horsemen, who have halted in the middle of the road to await his approach. Despite his coarse, brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he is evidently on terms of familiarity with both – the style of his salutation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his business lies, as signified by his saying:

      “I want a word with you, Don Francisco.”

      “What is it, Rocas?” asks the Creole. “Anything about seal-skins?” laying a significant emphasis on the last word.

      “Carramba! No. Something of more importance than that.”

      “Money, then?”

      “Money.”

      “Do you wish our speech to be private?”

      “Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino – ”

      “Oh!” interrupts the ganadero, “don’t let me stand in the way. I’ll ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco.”

      “Do,” says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his saddle, and continuing the conversation with Rocas, in tone so low as to prevent their speech being overheard by other queer-looking customers who have just stepped out of the tinacal, and stand loitering at its door.

      Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make a vivid impression on the gambler. His eyes kindle up with a strange light, in which surprise is succeeded by an expression of cupidity; while his manner proclaims that the revelation made to him is not only important, as he has been forewarned, but also pleasing.

      Their muttered dialogue is of brief duration; ending with a remark which shows it to be only preliminary to a further and more prolonged conference.

      “I shall be with you to-morrow, by mid-day.” It is De Lara who has said this; after which adding: “Adios, Don Rafael! Hasta mañana!” he gives his horse the spur, and gallops to overtake his travelling companion; Rocas sauntering back towards the tinacal.

      Chapter Twenty One.

      A “Golpe de Caballo.”

      On coming up with the ganadero, De Lara rides on silently by his side, without exhibiting any desire to satisfy the other’s curiosity. He but piques it by saying, that Rocas has a made communication of an intensely interesting kind; which he will impart to him, Faustino, in due time; but now there are other matters of more importance to be attended to. The fighting is before them; and that cannot be set aside.

      Calderon wishes it could: for the flask has been for a time forgotten, and the spirit has been getting cold within him.