American fiction; Horror tales, American; Short stories, American
Scarcely less easy was it to defend his wearing his twin revolvers
even with dinner-dress, for he put on evening-dress for dinner, with
the punctiliousness of an Englishman in the wilderness, put it on as
often as he dined and yet wore it so naturally and unobtrusively,
that no more than the incongruous belt did it embarrass the guests he
made at home in any kind of clothes they happened to be wearing. His
admirers pointed to this as a kind of exploit, as something of which
only a perfectly sane and exceptionally fine man could be capable.
They adduced his clear-headed business sense, his excellent judgment
on matters pertaining to real estate, his knowledge of horseflesh,
his horsemanship, his coolness, skill and exceptional good temper at
cards, as cumulative proofs of his perfect sanity. They admitted he
was peculiar on one or two points but minimized these as negligible
eccentricities. They were ready to descant to any extent on his
personal charm, and this indeed all were agreed upon. To attract
visitors by good dinners, good liquors, good cigars and endless card
playing was easy. To keep his visitors at their ease and entertained
for hours with mere conversations while seated on his veranda, was
no small feat in itself and a hundred times a feat when their host
obtruded upon them the ever visible butts of his big revolvers and kept
a repeating rifle standing against each jamb of his front door. This
tension of perpetual preparedness for an imminent attack might well
have scared away everybody and left Case a hermit. It did nothing of
the kind. It was acquiesced in at first, later tacitly accepted and
finally ignored altogether. With it was ignored his strange complexion.
I had myself puzzled over this: after long groping about in my mind I
had realized what it reminded me of, and I found others who agreed with
me in respect to it. It was like the paleness one sees for the half of
a breath on the face of a strong, healthy man when in sudden alarm,
astonishment or horror his blood flows momently back to his heart.
Under such stress of unforeseen agitation a normal countenance might
exhibit that hue for a fraction of a second, on Case’s visage it was
abiding, like the war paint on an armor-clad, drab-gray and dreary. Yet
it produced no effect of gloom in his associates. He not only did not
put a damper upon high spirits but diffused an atmosphere of gaiety and
good fellowship.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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