Sometimes the mosquitoes ate you whole and sometimes they just drank your blood. But for some reason owing to the selection of aromas in the place the mosquitoes did not enter Allen's Tavern.

The song of cicadas in the humid late afternoon surrounded the settlement on Buffalo Bayou, rafting high and low and all about the deep green mossy wood. Here there was Allen's General Store for the industrious citizens of the Raven's New Jerusalem, and Allen's Tavern for the idle gentry, men drawn by fate or pushed by unmet obligations or unhappy marriages elsewhere to this semitropical haven so far from Paradise. A livery stable served both communities with a few tolerable horses and a coach out back that had not moved since Santa Anna had been stripped of his army and his feminine masquerade.

Much of the livery stable and little of the general store filled the space of Allen's Tavern.

"In the world," Maddo exhibited the stern nectar remaining in his glass to his companion Arthur, editor of the Galveston Steamer, "the whiskey of Tennessee is perhaps the finest thing."

"But for the grand Crockett," Arthur replied in toast, "you are certainly right."

They drank, again.

Arthur caught the bartender's eye for another bottle.

"The finest thing from Tennessee, at the least."

"Pity the woeful Cherokee, then," Maddo said, "who are, at best, third best thing."

Arthur nodded in solemn agreement.

"And where, sir, do you place Jackson?"

A large, well-dressed drunken man turned from the bar and his bottle and his two large, well-dressed drunken companions to face them with his question.

"Why," laughed Maddo, "no better than fourth, sir!"

"You would put that buffoon Crockett and his filthy savages before the Hero of New Orleans and the Saviour of the Republic?"

Arthur nodded enthusiastically and Maddo said, "If I knew to whom you referred, sir, I would indeed."

The large, well-dressed drunken man swaggered nearer, "Cherokee and Crockett before Andrew Jackson?"

"This is Texas, sir," said Arthur, pulling himself more erect, "not Louisiana."

"Crockett is the hero in this country," Maddo said between his teeth, still smiling, but tightly, "and the Cherokee have no saviour."

"You mock me, sir?"

"You bluster, sir, and thus you are mockable."

"You will honor me, sir."

"I will mock you, sir!"

The large, well-dressed drunken man shoved Arthur, who was closer, with one hand and smashed his glove onto the bar before Maddo with the other hand. His large well-dressed drunken friends gathered behind him.

"I will meet you in the morning, sir, and not be mocked!"

"Indeed I will meet you, sir," said Maddo still smiling, brushing the glove to the floor, "and then mock you again!"

The large, well-dressed drunken man swung a huge fist in Maddo's direction. Maddo easily stepped away, now Arthur taking his arm and guiding him toward the door. Arthur knew that Maddo did not care about anything. He also knew that Maddo had a loaded and capped Pocket Navy revolver in his belt, behind his hip.

The large, well-dressed drunken man's large well-dressed drunken friends restrained him from following.

"At dawn, gentlemen," called one of the friends, "at the meadow flats up the bayou. Do you know it?"

Arthur nodded, Maddo already outside, "At dawn!"

The orange dawn saw the miasma rise from the lazy water. The dew was thick on the ground and mists shrouded the luxuriant banks of Buffalo Bayou. They rode a mile or two up the heavily wooded channel, to the damp flat meadow where the large well-dressed men were waiting in their capes and hats against the damp morning. Today was the day of the Autumnal Equinox.

Upon dismounting, the friend who had spoken last night presented Arthur with two cards. They read Phillippe Robicheaux and John Jean Robicheaux.

"My brother Phillippe desires satisfaction for this ruffian's manners."

"Your brother takes this matter lightly," Arthur asked, "that an afternoon's pleasure should yield a morning's danger?"

"My brother insists that an afternoon's insult should yield a morning's injury."

"How clever your brother is," said Maddo, draping his cloak over his saddle.

Arthur untied a carefully folded blanket from his saddle. It was a deep red and black wool adorned with a Cherokee Lightning and Eagle.

"Since Mr. Robicheaux took offense and gave challenge," Arthur opened the fold and with both hands presented the blanket to the brother, "as Mr. McQueeg's second, I present these weapons to be used." Two Colt 1851 Navy revolvers nestled in the dark woolen symbols. "You and I shall load and cap two chambers of each. The principals shall take their position along a north-south axis at twenty paces distance. Your man may elect his cardinal direction."

John Jean's face darkened almost imperceptibly and he glanced to his brother, who nodded slightly. For the first time Maddo noticed that each of the large, well-dressed men sported a very considerable knife near the unbuttoned lower opening of his coat. Neither were firearms visible at their horses. These men had not been farther west than they were right now.

As Arthur helped him remove his coat, Maddo whispered to him, "How scientific! At least we will not be tied together with Bowie knives."

"A ball will cut deeply enough," Arthur hissed, "be lively and calm at the same time, my young poet. I wish to know the older, wiser philosopher."

"And you shall, my friend. Let us see about these sons of Napoleon."

Maddo, to the south with his back to the bayou, and Phillippe took their positions upon the wet grass. A modest freshening breeze came down the wooded channel, setting the trees in motion and dispelling the last mists of the fine morning. Arthur and John Jean, Arthur assisting with both pistols as John Jean appeared to retain some of the effects of yesterday, loaded 20 grains of black powder and round ball and then capped each of two chambers of each Colt's revolver, wheeling the cylinder about to bring the first capped chamber under the hammer on first full cock. Each second delivered his revolver to his principal.

Standing with the others well back from the line of fire, Arthur called to the armed men.

"Gentlemen, I invite you both to apologize, and step away from this scene."

John Jean also addressed them, "Sirs, let us part amicably!"

"I have yet to mock you this fine morning, sir!" Maddo shouted at Phillippe, "shall I begin?"

Phillippe screamed in tense anger, "I shall put an end to your bounding, rabbit!"

Phillippe Robicheaux raised his revolver, cocking the unfamiliar weapon with the thumb of his other hand. The grip of his fingers was too tight and he pulled the trigger as the muzzle came up.

Maddo heard and felt the ball whiz by his left hand. Electricity ignited his ears and filled his eyes and his rear tightened. He forced himself to exhale.

The explosion and blossom of smoke ascended from the flat meadow.

Maddo stepped back with his left foot as he brought his revolver to bear in his right hand, presenting a quarter silhouette to Phillippe, who cocked his pistol in the same manner, letting the muzzle wander but bringing it around for more business. He was going to take his second shot! Using his right hand only, Maddo cocked the hammer and placed the faraway stubby tower that was the front site of his revolver over the ever-uglier face of his opponent who was definitely trying to kill him. Maddo began to squeeze the trigger.

Phillippe fired again. The ball passed through Maddo's shirtsleeve at the left shoulder, warming the skin but applying no force to his arm. An adrenaline wave crashed over Maddo's body.

Maddo's hammer dropped before the wave reached his hand. The robust crack alighted the generous puff of smoke, bound for the blue sky above them. Maddo cocked his revolver again, still raised but bouncing vigorously around his target, which now was spinning and falling.

A fountain of blood erupted from Phillippe's neck. He was down, eyes open, legs moving, hands grasping at his collar, bleeding badly at the throat. His brother and his other large, well-dressed friend and Arthur ran to him.

Arthur, who still carried the Cherokee blanket, stood over him for a moment, picked up the revolver, and quickly strolled to Maddo. He took Maddo's revolver, uncocked and uncapped it, and briskly but thoroughly wiping each with his handkerchief wrapped both weapons back into the blanket of Lightning and Eagle.

"You had best ride, Maddo! Follow the bayou west and then light out for Bexar," Arthur shook his hand affectionately and then tied the Cherokee blanket with the Colt's Navy revolvers to Maddo's saddle, "ride like the wind!"