Chapter XII
The csikós quietly emptied his last bottle of beer. The cowboy poured out the rest of his red wine into the glass.
They clinked glasses.
“Your health!” It was drained at a breath.
Then the csikós began. Leaning on his elbows he remarked,
“This is a fine large puszta, this Hortobágy, eh, comrade?”
“Truly it is!”
“I hardly think the desert could have been larger where Moses kept the Jewish people wandering for forty years!”
“You must know best, you are always poring over the Bible!”
“Still, though the Hortobágy be so large, there is not room enough on it for both you and me.”
“I say the same.”
“Then let us rid it of one of us!”
With that they caught up their cudgels, two oak saplings from the Csát forest, the club end heavily loaded.
Each went to his horse. Cowboys do not fight on foot. When the girl returned from the house, both were in the saddle.
After that no word was spoken. Silently turning their backs on each other, one went right, one left, as if flying before the approaching storm. When there was about two hundred paces between them, they glanced back simultaneously, and turned their horses. Then swinging their cudgels, both lads put spurs in their horses, and rushed at each other.
This is the duel of the puszta.
It is not as easy as it looks. Fighting with swords on horseback is an art, but the sword where it strikes inflicts a wound not easily forgotten. He who wields the cudgel must aim his blow for the one instant when his galloping steed meets his opponent’s. There is no parrying possible, no thrusting aside of the stroke. Who strikes truest wins the day.
The two herdsmen, meeting at the cudgel’s length, struck at each other’s head, then dashed past on their horses.
Sándor Decsi shook in the saddle, his head fell forward from the force of the blow, but tossing it back directly, he straightened his crumpled cap. Evidently his crown had only felt the handle of the cudgel.
His stroke had been better aimed. The loaded end hit his adversary’s skull, who, turning sideways, tumbled out of the saddle, and fell face downwards on the ground. The victor bringing up his horse, thereupon promptly cudgelled his fallen foe from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, nor spared a square inch of him. For such is the custom.
If gentlemen of higher rank would only adopt it, God knows how rare duels would become!
Having ended this business, the csikós picked up his opponent’s cap on the point of his stick, tore out the lining, and found beneath a withered yellow rose. He threw it up in the air, giving it a knock which sent the petals flying in a hundred pieces, and floating like butterflies down the wind.
“I told you beforehand, didn’t I?” shouted the csikós from on horseback to the girl, who had watched this decisive combat from the inn door. He pointed to his mangled opponent. “There! Take him in and nurse him! You may have him now!” A hissing thunderbolt fell before the mill close by. Here was the storm. All round them the sky crashed and crackled.
“You see,” said the girl, “had he struck you instead, I would have thrown my own body over you, and protected you from his blows! Then you would have known how truly I loved you!”
The csikós put spurs to his horse, and galloped off into the storm. Sheets of rain and hail fell in torrents, thunder crashed with a blinding flash. The girl gazed after the horseman till the storm hid him from view. Once or twice when it lightened his figure shone visible through the fiery rain, then she lost sight of it, till at last it vanished utterly.
Perhaps she never saw him again.
Jarrold & Sons, Limited, The Empire Press, Norwich.