The Tiff at Taviuni

By

EFORE my aunt died,” said Peter, and we all laughed. Everything that ever happened in the short, but varied, career of Peter Moreton invariably took place prior to the demise of this inestimable relative.

The talk, by a circuitous route, had happened on the subject of dueling, and we of “The Wasters' Club”—a select body composed strictly of those who did nothing and were not ashamed of it, holding that life was meant to be lived, not abused—were airing our views with a freedom of speech and action only possible in the seclusion of our president's den in Guildford Street.

Frank Watson had given it as his firm conviction that not one man in a hundred at the present day would have the pluck—he called it something else—to rise at five a.m. with a “next morning” head, part his tongue in the middle, and sally out to Hampstead Heath on horseback to hold a rapier, much less a pistol, with any degree of precision against a buck of a century ago.

Sam Lambert, on the other hand, and with a wealth of pantomimic description—he had been an actor before somebody at home died and left him enough to crawl on—intimated that Watson consistently talked out of the back of his neck, or he would know that physical courage and endurance were on as high a plane to-day as ever they were. Opportunity for showing them alone was lacking.

Percy Stanton, with a nicotine-stained finger on the siphon handle, had told us that he “knew a man who” but he so invariably did that we drowned him with a chorus of our very own.

Then came Moreton's remark, as chronicled above; and, with a sweet resignation, he filled his pipe during our ribald outburst. Nothing short of an American-cut lounge suit could move Moreton.

“As I was saying,” he continued, setting light to the tobacco, with due consideration for an immaculate white flannel waistcoat, “before my aunt died, I saw one of the most extraordinary duels that I suppose could be fought. There was no cold dawn or coffee and pistols for two about it, either; for it was fought on Taviuni beach in the full light and heat of a Fijian sun.

“I was overseer on a copra place at the time, and so were Hugh Morgan and Billy Stone, both excellent fellows in their way, but—well, you know what it is when two or three men are thrown solely on one another's company for months at a time. The way the other fellow hangs up his hat will get on your nerves if you see him do it often enough. Anyway, they saved me from death by mildew with their eternal and entertaining squabbles.

“Morgan was a typical Australian, so I won't try to describe him, or one or two of you would fall on me; and Stone was an American of the Americans—a long wire of a man, with gigantic hands and feet, dark, greasy hair falling over his forehead and basin cut at the back, pegtop trousers, and a pair of 'reserve' shoes that looked like nothing so much as red-hot flatirons studded with overgrown drawing pins.

“You can imagine the differences of opinion between these two, and you can imagine the time I had until I hit on the plan of remaining strictly neutral whenever they came near me with their arguments. But I knew it couldn't go on forever; and when a skirt—or rather a female sulu—came to the island, I sighted the beginning of the end.

“Its wearer was a Samoan girl, with a skin and a voice of velvet, and a pair of eyes that alternately melted like butter and flashed like sunshine on a still lagoon. I make no extra charge for descriptive matter.

“She was the daughter of the new cook, or he said she was—which has to suffice on Taviuni. He was a scoundrel, of course, for no Samoan leaves his own incomparable islands unless he's kicked out; but his daughter

“Morgan thought it a downright sin to see such a girl peeling tara root; and the next day saw a lead bangle flashing realistically on the soft, brown arm.

“Stone was convinced that the daughter stunt was a fake. She had been kidnaped [sic] by 'that stinking old cook,' and he was going to 'investigate some.'

“His kindly interest took the shape of a brass ring that the girl had to wear on her thumb to make fit; and inside of a week she was a very fair imitation of a hotel chandelier.

“Starting with the red hibiscus blossom behind her left ear and working downward, she sported a pair of colored-glass earrings, three seed necklaces, a belt of whipsnake skin, a tapa-cloth sulu, a pink, rosetted—and slightly soiled—garter, and—a pair of beaded moccasins.

“The last was a master stroke; and for two days after their appearance, Stone wore an air of quite self-confidence.

“The girl received all advances with the same ravishing smile and droop of silky eyelashes, and Heaven knows where the absurdity would have ended but for the first kiss, which, after the manner of such functions, brought things to a head.

“It was Morgan's—clearly and incontrovertibly Morgan's—behind the copra shed; but Stone either saw or heard it—I don't know which—and, on the strength of the beaded moccasins, disputed the Australian's right with a straight left to the mouth.

“Of course, they came to me about it, and equally, of course, I tried to shelve responsibility.

“'I can't see what you want to come bothering me for,' I said. 'Surely the lady will decide?'

“'That's the trouble,' growled Stone. At times he looked very like a Cree Indian, and at that moment you could see the scalp hunger lurking in his beady black eyes. 'She won't decide. She's a tender-hearted little thing, and I guess she's scared of hurting Morgan's feelings—feelings of a sun-baked, aboriginal back number—who can't ride!'

“He said a great deal more that most of you are too young to hear.

“Morgan looked at the matter in a different light.

“'If the man had the smallest streak of white in him,' he said, 'he'd know what any man thinks of a “butter-in” but what can you expect from a flat-footed, snake-bellied, half-breed—who can't ride?'

“'Let the lady decide,' I repeated wearily, and turned over on the other side. Mat fever's an awful thing when it gets a grip on you,

“'By Cripes, we will!' bleated Morgan, and strode out of the burri.

“That night they came to me together, with horse faces and murder written on them.

“'We're going to fight,' blurted Stone. 'This thing's gone the limit, and we want you to referee.'

“'Go to the devil!' said I. 'Settle it among yourselves and leave me alone.'

“'There's no work about it,' Morgan chipped in. 'You can sit under a palm and smoke, if you like. All you've got to do is to be there, down on the beach, so that Stone won't start any of his Yankee Gotch gouging tactics.'

“'Or Morgan the Austral Bill Lang foul,' snapped Stone.

“I could see it was the best thing for both of them, and began to take a little interest.

“'What are the weapons?' I suggested.

“They looked at each other and said: 'Fists,' simultaneously.

“'I asked,' said I, 'because it seems to me that the only thing that you're both thoroughly agreed upon is that the other can't ride, and by deciding the matter of the girl on horseback, you'll heal up another running sore into the bargain.'

“They looked apprehensive, but interested.

“'How can we fight with fists on horseback?' said Stone.

“'I was coming to that,' said I, warming to the work. 'I think I have also heard more than once that the Australian stockman can do more in five minutes with his whip than the American cowboy in half an hour with his lariat, and vice versa—why not decide that little difference, too? Then, when the bloodshed is over, you'll have a clean slate. Think of it!'

“And they thought—both trying to look as if their ardor hadn't cooled in the least.

“Well, you must know that on the big copra places in Fiji they run cattle—mostly Herefords—to keep the grass down, so that they can see the coconuts when they've fallen. The niggers, of course, do the mustering on foot—and, by gad, they can run!—but the white men are mounted; and we had about as representative a collection of imported Australian 'skate' as could be found in the Fijis.

“About noon, as arranged, I sauntered down to the beach in a towel and an umbrella, took the judge's stand under a young coconut, and lit my pipe.

“I was beginning to think the combatants had got an attack of cold feet at the last moment, when the girl strolled down the track through the mangroves, smoking a cigarette, and plumped down at my side as cool as you please.

“'The turagas come,' she said.

“I looked her carefully over and decided that, taking all things into consideration, she was almost worth fighting about. She was a wisp of a thing, but carried her little thoroughbred head in a way that caught my fancy; and her eyes But there!

“'Who's your money on?' I asked; but she only giggled and dug her toes into the sand.

“Presently the others rode up. They looked worried; but Morgan was cracking his stock whip in fine style, and Stone whirling his pet rawhide lariat, which he had carried round the world, in wider and wider circles round his head.

“They dismounted in front of me, and I propounded the rules that had given me many a perspiring moment in the concoction.

“One. The first man to touch the ground would be disqualified.

“Two. The beach, and only the beach, was to be the scene of action. The man who passed the boundary line into the bush would be disqualified.

“Three. The stock whip and lariat were to be the only weapons. The employment of any other means of offense or defense—I thought that rather good—would entail instant disqualification.

“Four. The combatants were to start from opposite ends of the beach, and the fight was to continue without interruption until the finish.

“It looked an ugly thing to me. To tell the truth, I had never dreamed they would fall in with my suggestions so readily; but, since they had, there was no drawing back for any of us, and I consoled myself with the thought that they had brought it on themselves. But for one's eternal skiting about his prowess with the stock whip, and the other's blatant boosting of the lariat, the idea would never have occurred to me. All the same, I had seen Morgan flick a coin from a man's finger with his whip, and Stone rope and drag a refractory nigger half a mile with his lariat; and, as I say, the thing looked ugly.

“As for the girl, she looked up at me with her stereotyped smile, giggled, and moved nearer in the sand. It was plain that she hadn't the faintest idea what was in the wind, and looked upon the proceedings as a gigantic joke enacted for her benefit.

“I had no time—if I had had the inclination—to explain, for the two riders had reached the opposite ends of the beach, and, at the crack of my Colt, wheeled and jogged quietly toward one another, Morgan with his whip trailing in the sand, and Stone with his lariat swinging easily at his side.

“In the middle of the beach they stopped and circled in the sand, for all the world like boxers sparring for an opening. Then Stone ducked with lightning quickness, and the whiplash cracked precisely where his head had been a moment before. This happened three times before Morgan seemed to realize that he was wasting time and energy on a small, moving target and gave his attention to the other's body. Again the long snake of his whip shot out, and this time fell with a flat, sickening sound somewhere on Stone. The man writhed with pain; and when he wheeled, I saw that his shirt was torn open and dyed a deep crimson at the throat; but still the lariat swung tirelessly at his side, and his long, wiry body swayed with the ease of the born rider.

“So far, things had been pretty one-sided. Morgan seemed to have found his range, and kept up a perfect fusillade of lash reports; but Stone was wonderfully quick, and, by the time the long whip had uncurled itself, he was always a few inches below or to right or left.

“I was beginning to think the lariat was practically useless, when it left the American's hand—a beautiful, open throw that missed Morgan by an inch and slithered down his leg to the sand. In a flash Stone had flicked the spent noose back to his hand, but Morgan saw his opportunity and made the most of it. It would take at least six seconds to open and rearrange the noose, and, during that time, he had the other at his mercy. Stone saw it, too, and, wheeling his horse, lay flat to its shoulder and galloped full tilt up the beach with Morgan's lash alternately cutting into his flesh and cracking about his ears.

“By the time they had reached the end of the beach—a flying scurry of sand and horses—Stone was reeling in the saddle and his shirt was a sodden, red rag—but the noose was again ready for the throw.

“I thought I saw the end. The Australian would corner Stone against the mangroves, and either drive him into them or cut him to ribbons. But I had reckoned without the cunning of a descendant of Cree Indians. For perhaps five seconds, the man stood at bay, cornered, and facing and dodging a perfect hail of murderous lashes. His face was cut now, and his rope hung limply at his side, rendered temporarily useless by a biting caress from Morgan's whip, then once again he bent to his horse's shoulder, and made a dash for the open. He reached it, and, wheeling suddenly, rode straight in on the Australian.

“The whip was too long for work at close range, and I could see the consternation on Morgan's face as he realized it. They were not more than six feet apart when Stone threw the noose, and I saw the Australian's arms shoot up and outward in an attempt to ward it off. He never touched it. The rope fell in a clean, wide circle above his head, and, with the last of his strength, Stone set spurs to his horse.

“The result was all that could have been desired. The American had lashed a wooden fork to the pommel of his saddle by way of a Mexican 'horn,' and now, half hitching his end of the lariat over it, he jerked Morgan clean out of the saddle. But the sudden tension did more than this. In his terribly weakened condition, and with a horse that knew little of the ways of lariats, the tautened rope flipped Stone from his seat at the same moment, and, as far as I could see, the two men hit the sand simultaneously.

“The American lay quite still, an untidy blemish on the stretch of shining beach, but the riderless horse galloped on, dragging Morgan helplessly in its wake.

“The man's arms were pinned to his sides, and he could do nothing but cut intermittent furrows in the sand with his protesting heels, and turn involuntary somersaults.

“This would have been harmless enough if the horse had kept to the beach, but when it made straight for the bush and the shortest cut to its stable, I began to sight a tragedy, and shouted at the top of my voice to some niggers who had drifted down to watch the antics of the 'mad turagas.'

“I even tried to wave my arms—think of it, in that heat! But it was impossible; the girl had clasped me round the neck in a paroxysm of excitement, and I was powerless: However, they seemed to understand, and at last caught the horse—I believe a Fijian would catch a running jack rabbit—and, hurriedly flinging the girl from me, I”

“You're a liar,” said Sam Lambert, with quiet conviction,

Peter cleared his throat and gravely examined the bowl of his pipe.

“In that case” he began.

“But who got the girl?” came the chorus.

Peter's lethargic, sunburnt creased into a reminiscent smile.

“Well,” he said, a trifle diffidently, “until my aunt died”

But some one passed him the Tantalus.