Gone to Texas by Jason Manning Read Free Book Online Page A

corps.
    The sins of the father
. . . Indeed, he realized now that there was no escape from the ghosts of the past. Emily Cooper had come to see him and deliver his father's cutlass and then had taken her own life—a vial of poison, arsenic or strychnine or belladonna, no one knew for certain, it seemed, and what did it matter now?
    O'Connor was right. There was absolutely no way that Christopher could refuse to accept Vickers' challenge. To do so would be to label himself a coward, and in that case he would have no future in the army anyway. He was doomed, no matter which course he took.
    Christopher lengthened his stride. He didn't give much thought to dying, except to the degree that it would give Adam Vickers' satisfaction if he perished, and he couldn't bear the thought of that. So he would do his damnedest to stay alive, and then try to bear the disgrace of his discharge from West Point with as much dignity as he could muster, secure at least in theknowledge that he was a victim of a malevolent fate. Cold comfort. They were right when they claimed that life was a chain reaction of events beyond a person's control. None of this was his doing.
The sins of the father
. . .
    Ahead in the darkness loomed the bulk of the riding hall. O'Connor caught his arm and spun him around.
    "Maybe Gil's right," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Maybe this
is
foolish."
    "It's worse than that," opined Bryant mournfully.
    "What?" rasped Christopher. "You've had a change of heart, O'Connor? You? Well, if you have, then go on. I release you from your obligation to serve as my second."
    "It isn't me that I'm concerned about," said O'Connor, offended. "It's you. Vickers is an expert with the sword. You should have chosen pistols. As the challenged, it was your choice. You are an excellent shot. As good as your grandfather, I wager."
    "No. I must use the cutlass."
    "Why? You didn't even want the flaming thing yesterday."
    "It is fitting that I use the cutlass."
    "Fitting? What does that mean? You'll hack each other into bloody pieces."
    "I have no intention of killing him."
    O'Connor was flabbergasted. "No intention of . . . then you'll die for certain."
    "Give me the cutlass and go back to the barracks."
    O'Connor refused to relinquish the cutlass, wrapped in the tasseled carriage blanket, which he carried under one arm.
    "No," he said grimly. "I'll see this through."
    "Then come on. I mustn't be late for my own funeral, remember?"
    Christopher turned for the riding hall. O'Connor and Bryan exchanged glances.
    "I've never seen him like this," said Bryant, clearly worried. "What's gotten into him?"
    O'Connor shrugged.
    The riding hall was a cavernous stone structure with carriage doors at the north and south ends. Rows of large slanted casements ten feet from the ground along the eastern and western walls were designed to flood the interior with natural light. Sand had been dredged up in vast quantities from the river to provide a surface for the hall.
    When Christopher stepped inside the hall he was assailed by the pungent aroma of horses. But the place was empty, except for Vickers and Morgan, standing in the center of the hall, a lantern at their feet emitting mustard yellow light, their cloaked figures throwing elongated shadows. As Christopher and his companions approached, Morgan took Vickers' cloak. Vickers stood there, watching Christopher, and the blade of his saber whispered and gleamed in the lantern light as he flicked his wrist, nervous or impatient or both.
    "Gentlemen," said Morgan, with arctic formality. "We are ready to proceed. What rules shall apply?"
    "None," said O'Connor. "Unless you are willing to accept first blood."
    Morgan glanced at Vickers, who gave a curt shake of the head.
    "Considering the enormity of the insult to the Vickers name and family honor, that will not suffice," said Morgan.
    "Insult?" Christopher laughed, a sharp and derisive sound which darkened Vickers' face. Proper etiquette of the
code