Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 13

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“He will call thee out, depend on it,” groaned Audubon, sinking into a chair.

“That’s his privilege,” said Bowie.

“Why did thee do it?”

“I wasn’t going to listen to him blackguard you——”

“Me? I’ll thank thee to let me conduct my own affairs! Narcisse is my friend. He has been drinking, and in his cups his temper is uncertain, that is all. Besides, ’twas no more than I deserved. Most justly he berated me. But thee took it on thyself to intervene, thou great American oaf—and now——” He broke off, wringing his hands.

Bowie was speechless. Under the circumstances, he thought he had conducted himself rather well.

After a moment he said, “If that’s the way you think, we’d better part company right here. But just bear this in mind: he insulted me too.”

Audubon sat staring at the wine stains on the table, his face woebegone.

“Come, Nez Coupé,” Bowie said.

But the artist leaped up. “Wait! Nay, in God’s name we be friends!” He seized Bowie’s arm. “I’m on thy side, thee must believe me. I go with thee—we must think what to do.”

Bowie grunted. As they left the café, Nez Coupé said, “You should have leave me at him. The knife is more quicker than the pistol.”

“He had no pistol,” Bowie said. “If you’d knifed him, you’d have hung.”

Nez Coupé fell into sulky silence. Definitely, this was not according to Cajun notions of how an affair should be conducted.

“Already Narcisse has been principal in three duels,” Audubon said dolefully.

This was of interest. “Did he kill his men?” Bowie asked.

“Nay, wounded them, all three. One with the pistol, two with the sword.” Sudden hope in the artist’s face. “It’s by no means sure. Thee may escape with a wound only——”

Bowie laughed a short, ugly laugh. “If he and I fight, I’ll make you one promise: somebody’s going to get killed.”

It was like a pronouncement of a sentence of death. The artist shivered slightly, and said no more. Bowie turned toward the river.