# The Man on Horseback/Chapter 32
### CHAPTER XXXII
#### THE DUEL

The little Ensign, Baron von Königsmark, though he had only been gazetted a few months earlier, proved to Tom as the Stadtbahnzug, the suburban train, rattled through the night towards the Friedrichstrasse depot, that he was very familiar with duels and their etiquette.
"Yes," he replied to the Westerner's amused questions, "at the Cadets School I was principal and second at several affairs of honor …"
"My sainted grandmother!" cried Tom. "You don't mean to say that you little snut-nosed brats at school …"
"We already wore the King's Coat!" the Ensign cut in a little stiffly, while Tom murmured weakly: "Holy Mackerel!"
"We must have another second," continued von Königsmark gravely, after the other's mirth had subsided. "Some friend of yours, a countryman by preference. Whom would you suggest, sir?"
"Well. Let's see."
Tom scratched his head. Quite suddenly his lack of real friends, now that Vyvyan was gone, struck him very forcibly. McCaffrey? Impossible. And so were the American and English jockeys who fore gathered at the "Gross Berlin American Bar."
A German, then! But—who? He shook his head. Gosh! he said to himself, he had no friend amongst the Germans, not a single one with the possible exception of the little Ensign, now it had come to a show-down.
By this time the train had pulled into the station, and Tom had an idea.
"I'll get Poole," he said, "our web-foot Oregonian Vice-Consul. Won't he be surprised? Oh, boy!" and he went to the station telephone booth and startled his countryman from sleep.
But it appeared that the latter was not only surprised, but also indignant.
"What?" came his voice across the wire after Tom had explained what he wanted of him. "I—to be your second? Preposterous! Absolutely preposterous! Remember that I am in the service of the American Government! Why, man, the Big Boss back in Washington would have my scalp!"
Poole rang off while Tom returned to the waiting-room.
"What luck?" queried the Ensign.
"Nothing doing."
Tom felt dejected and just a little homesick. He turned to go when, coming from the station restaurant, he saw Trumbull, the American newspaper correspondent who, recently, had refused to shake hands with him.
The man was for passing by without a word, but Tom stopped him, explained his predicament in a few words, and Trumbull broke into laughter.
"Sure," he said, "I am your man. I'll be there with bells. What's the next thing on the bill o' fare?" he asked the Ensign.
The latter explained that he would telephone out to the Prince's palace, see if the Baron was still there, ask who his seconds were, and arrange for an immediate meeting between them, Mr. Trumbull, and himself, at his apartment.
"Pardon me a moment, gentlemen." He entered the booth.
"Say," whispered Tom to the newspaper man, "isn't he the little fighting cock?"
But Trumbull did not smile. Very soberly he shook the Westerner's hand.
"Graves," he said, "I guess I was wrong the other day. Otherwise you wouldn't … Never mind. But take my tip. Shoot to kill. At the very least, put him out of action first pop."
"No, no! What's the matter with you?"
"If you don't, he will."
Tom grinned. "I'll just wing his gun arm."
"I'm afraid that won't be enough. Get him through the lung—and quick."
He had spoken in such a strangely tense manner that Tom looked up curiously. He had seen gun fights in the West, and he knew that odd things are liable to happen when it goes for the life of a man.
He cleared his throat.
"You mean …"
"I mean that you are up against a stacked deck!" said Trumbull brutally.
"You're crazy, old man. Götz-Wrede is a gentleman …"
"I guess so. But he's a German gentleman, with German standards as to what it means to be a gentleman. And in Germany the first rule for a gentleman is to obey the orders of his superior officers."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. I don't know you so very well after all, Graves. I am only helping you because you were an American—once …"
"I am still!" cried Tom heatedly.
Trumbull waived the point.
"Never mind. I just ask you to take my tip, that's all."
"But why? For God's sake, why?"
Trumbull gave a cracked laugh.
"Never mind," he said. "I'm only a hopeless drunkard with a fixed idea. They'll tell you so in Park Row—in Washington too, for that matter. I'm just plain bughoused when it comes to Germany and German politics. Don't you believe a word I say. But"—he gripped Tom's shoulder—"shoot straight!"
A moment later the Ensign came out of the telephone booth and reported with a great deal of business-like precision and, too, a certain well-pleased satisfaction that he had arranged the meeting with the Baron's seconds and that they must hurry.
"See you as soon as we get through," he said to Tom. "I suppose it will be pistols. So you had better eat a good breakfast and top it off with a tumbler of brandy neat. Beer, preferably English stout, is all right for sabers, but when it comes to the little old pop guns brandy is the ticket, Herr Kamerad."
He saluted and was off, together with Trumbull, while the Westerner drove home through the waking streets of Berlin.
Krauss met him at the door.
One look at him convinced Tom that, somehow, the man knew what had happened—perhaps, he thought a moment later, what was going to happen. For the valet's face was gray, haggard, deeply lined. His eyes stared anxiously, as at some terrible specter of night, and Tom smiled rather bitterly.
Everything suddenly seemed very clear—and he had been all sorts of a cursed fool.
Warning? Why, he had been warned right and left, but he had not even taken the trouble to look more closely, to understand.
The Web!
Who was it had spoken about the Web?
Oh, yes! Lord Vyvyan—to be sure!
And other people, too. Martin Wedekind. And old Mrs. Wedekind, Martin's mother. And Trumbull—and …
"Well, Krauss," he asked finally, "what's wrong?"
Krauss stared at him. He tried to speak. Could not. Rather, dared not.
He was a tool, a tiny wheel in the great, cold blooded, crunching machinery of the German Secret Service. They had clouted and stamped him into a number, a drab, gray, monotonous pattern, cuttingly efficient, soulless, hard.
But …
Suddenly he spoke, very rapidly, as if afraid that thought, deliberation, might stop his flow of words; and he blushed very much as the Ensign had blushed.
"Leave Germany, Lieutenant," he cried. "I shall help you. Please leave …"
Tom shook his head. He put his hand on the "servant's shoulder.
"Krauss," he said, in a low, tense voice, "I thank you. You aren't so bad. But you cannot serve two masters. And your master is …"
"You!"
"Not a bit of it! Your master is Germany. I know—now. It took me a long time to see. I guess I am very much of a damned fool. But I know—now. Just you brew me a cup of coffee and," he remembered the Ensign's advice, "bring the brandy bottle."
At seven o'clock his seconds returned, looking very grave.
"Stiff conditions," said Trumbull.
"Of course!" Von Königsmark inclined his head. "It was a deadly insult, you know."
"Well," said Tom, "don't scare me to death. What is it? Bricks at a hundred yards?"
"Six shooters at twenty paces," rejoined Trumbull, "continuous fire after the umpire has counted Three until one of you two is dead or completely disabled. Simultaneous firing. I insisted on that. They were going to give their man first shot—said he was the insulted party. But I held out."
Tom smiled.
"Thanks," he replied. "I guess I'll wing me my little bird. It's a cinch."
Trumbull was excited. "Don't you be so all-fired sure. Remember what I told you …" But he did not say any more, for Tom, with a warning cough, had indicated the Ensign, who had stepped to the window.
The latter was very nervous. Every few seconds he looked at his watch.
"We meet at nine o'clock in a little clearing in the Grünewald just the other side of St. Hubertus," he said. "We'll have to leave here soon. If there, are any letters you want to write …"
"No, no, not to a soul," replied Tom. Then he reconsidered.
He did not believe in heroics. Nor in sugary sentimentalities. On the other hand, he was too natural, too simple a man to be afraid of his emotions. He loved Bertha. There was the one great, all-important fact in his life; and it made no difference that the girl did not return his love.
Should he call on her?
Impossible. It was too early in the morning. Besides, he hardly had the time.
But he must hear her voice, just once, before the duel.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said to the two seconds. "Would you mind stepping in the other room for a minute? I want to telephone to somebody."
A moment later Central had connected him with the Colonel's house.
"I would like to speak to Miss Bertha," he told the servant who answered the call.
He waited. Then:
"Hello, Bertha! Is that you?"
"No!" boomed a harsh voice across the wire. "This is Colonel Wedekind speaking. I forbid you to talk to my niece. You have disgraced the regiment, sir. You …"
Tom gave a bitter laugh.
"Say," he shouted back, "cut out the grand-stand play! I get you all right, all right! Efficiency! That's what you call it, eh? But, my God, I have an idea that even German efficiency ought to back water when it comes to a little slip of a girl! Ring off? Sure I'll ring off, you damned old son of a …"
He slammed down the receiver, took a deep breath, and called to the other room.
"Come on, fellows. I'm all ready. Let's get through with the slaughter."
They drove down the Kurfurstendamm, across the Halensee Bridge, through the latter suburb, and out into the snow-clad solitudes of the Grünewald. The woods were silent and crisp, sweet with running shadows and the slanting beams of the chilly winter sun. Far on the edge of the horizon a flush of gold and amethyst was fading into pale blue.
They stopped at St. Hubertus. The old-fashioned road-house was still asleep, with here and there, on the upper floor, a yellow light flickering and leering behind silken window blinds. A circular driveway led up to the massive, cast-iron gates of the little pine park which surrounded the house. Beyond it was the garage.
"Wait for us," said the Ensign to the driver. "We'll be back after a while."
He walked ahead, the other two following, Trumbull talking in an undertone to his countryman.
The Westerner did not reply. He hardly listened. His thoughts were of home. Back there, twenty miles the other side of the Killicott, was just such a pine forest as this one, with just the same cool peace and quiet. He remembered a day, two years ago, when he had ridden through it by the side of Bertha. He remembered how still it had been—he could have heard the breathing of a bird, the dropping of a loosened pine needle.
And the same chilly, distant sun in a haze of gold and silver, and its fitful rays weaving checkered patterns through the lanky trees.
"Here we are, gentlemen," came the Ensign's voice, and Tom looked up.
They had arrived at the clearing. At the farther end was Baron von Götz-Wrede, smiling, debonair, talking nonchalantly to his seconds—the Hussar, and another young captain of cavalry whom Tom did not know. A little to one side was the umpire, Major Wernigerode, speaking with the surgeon who was sitting on a camp-stool, arranging his instruments very much with the mien of a butcher.
The seconds met, the umpire presiding. All the details were quickly arranged. The distance was marked, the six shooters inspected and accepted, the two duelists placed facing each other.
"Meine Herren," said the Major in a loud voice, "I believe you understand the conditions. Fire at the word Three. Not before. Keep on firing until all barrels are emptied or until death or disablement. Breast to breast. Neither budging, swerving, receding, nor advancing is permitted."
He stepped to one side, joining the doctor and the seconds.
"One!" He counted.
Two …"
There was a roaring detonation, a sheet of flame, immediately echoed by another, double intonation, by two sheets of flame that followed each other so quickly that they seemed to be one.
The Baron had fired first, at the signal Two! Deliberately! Shooting on a foul! Shooting to kill—to murder, rather!
But Tom's eyes, his ears, his brain, his nerves, his hand, had acted simultaneously. He had swerved, dropped to the ground. He had fired—fired again, sure of his aim.
He was unwounded. But the Baron lay crumpled up, his blood staining the snow.
It had all happened in the fraction of a second. At once there was excitement, cries, shouts. The Umpire, the seconds, the doctor came rushing up.
"Foul! Foul!" cried the Hussar, threatening the Westerner with the Baron's pistol, which he had picked up.
The young Ensign knocked it aside.
"Your own man shot foul!" he replied feverishly. "He shot first … at the word Two. I saw it. Didn't he, Major? I appeal to you, Major!"
Trumbull gave a strange, cracked chuckle. "You just bet he shot foul. There's no discussing that point—at least"—his voice rose challengingly—"if these gentlemen speak the truth! If their uniform allows them to speak the truth!"
"Mein Herr!" yelled the Hussar.
"Dry up," replied Trumbull. "You can't threaten me worth a whoop in hell. I am not afraid of you, you crimson-coated jackanapes …"
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" implored the Umpire. "Never mind. Don't you see?" pointing at the doctor, who was busying himself over the Baron's prostrate, unconscious form.
The surgeon looked up, with supreme professional calm.
"He isn't dead," he said.
Tom had not spoken a word. Now he laughed.
"Didn't think he would be," he rejoined. "I know I should have killed him, but, somehow, I couldn't do it. Just a couple of flesh wounds, eh, doctor?"
"Yes. You got him …"
"I know," grinned Tom. "I got him through both wrists. That's what I aimed at. Sure!"
He turned to the Ensign.
"Well," he went on, "this is my first affair of—what'd you call it?"
"Honor!"
"Hm!" Tom scratched his head. "Affair of honor. What the devil would you say was an affair of dishonor? Never mind. But I don't know the ropes. Put me wise. What is the next thing to do?"
"Go home. Wait until you hear from the Colonel," replied the Ensign.
"All right. Home it is." He took his seconds arms. "Let's get back and have a bite of breakfast."