"I do not care to be a burden to you. I can purchase a horse and provisions and make the trip alone."
Bledsoe was aghast. He looked to Falconer for help.
"Not wise," obliged the mountain man. "The trail is a dangerous one, Del. Always has been, but especially now. A man alone would have a poor chance of reaching the other end."
"Hugh speaks from experience, lad," said Bledsoe. "He knows the plains as well as anyone. That is why I retain him as my wagonmaster. He has taken two of my caravans safely through to Santa Fe. No, no, Delgado. We will have to devise a better means to get you home. At least honor us with your presence for a few days. Say a week. Tomorrow, my son, Jeremy, should be back from Fort Crawford. I would like very much for you to meet him. The two of you may well discover that you have a lot in common. And I am also expecting my daughter, Sarah, two days later. She has been in the East, living for a time with her aunt, and attending an academy in Pennsylvania. The evening of her arrival I have arranged a dinner to celebrate her return. I believe you will find the guests I have invited to that affair very interesting. No less a personage than Senator Thomas Hart Benton will attend. And I have taken the liberty of announcing your presence at a ball to be held this coming Friday at Blackwood, the Horan plantation."
"Horan?" Delgado was dumfounded.
"Yes. Another affair to honor Sarah's homecoming. You see, I fully expect in time that she will become the bride of Mr. Brent Horan."
Poor woman, thought Delgado.
"You know Brent Horan, I believe," remarked Falconer.
Delgado grimaced. Falconer had seen the look Horan had given him on the levee road.
"We've met," replied Delgado. It would be unconscionably rude to refuse Jacob Bledsoe's cordiality, so he nodded and added, "A week, then, and I thank you, sir."
"Splendid!" said Bledsoe, beaming. "Absolutely splendid!"
4
Jacob Bledsoe was right—Delgado took an immediate liking to Jeremy, who returned to St. Louis as expected on the following day. He had journeyed to Fort Crawford, headquarters of the Northwest Military District, located at Prairie du Chien in the Michigan Territory. Due to the wound he had received at the battle of Resaca de la Palma a few months earlier, Jeremy had been rendered officially inactive. Now that he was fully recovered—or rather as fully as he could ever expect to be with fragments of Mexican lead in his leg that, at times, caused him to limp—Jeremy had been striving to have his name placed back on the active rolls. He did not need to go as far as Fort Crawford to plead his case, but Delgado learned that he had friends there, and he had hoped those acquaintances would use their influence to assist him in his quest.
Apparently unhappy with the results of his trip, Jeremy announced upon his arrival that he intended to resign his commission as a lieutenant in the Regular Army so that he could enlist in a volunteer unit. His overriding ambition was to get back into the war. He simply could not sit by and rest on his laurels in the safety of his own home while fellow countrymen fought and died for a cause that was just. Jacob Bledsoe voiced the opinion that his son had done more than anyone could expect of a patriot. Had he not come within a hair's breadth of giving up his life for his country? What more could his country ask of a man?
But Jeremy was as determined to rejoin the war as Delgado was to get home because of the war. Jacob Bledsoe was keenly disappointed in his son's decision. Delgado assumed that the merchant would have preferred that Jeremy show as keen an interest in commerce and finance as he did in the martial pursuits. This, however, was simply not to be.
Jeremy Bledsoe was different from his father in many ways. Jacob was a product of the old Eastern establishment—settled, urbane, and traditional. His son, born in St. Louis twenty years ago when the settlement had been quite a bit more rough and tumble than it was nowadays, reflected the frontier with all its virtues and vices. He was brash, sometimes boisterous—though his father believed that his going off to war had matured him considerably. He was a doer, and though he did not lack a gentleman's graces, they had a raw edge. His marks as a cadet at the Military Academy at West Point proved he was more the man of action than a profound thinker, top of his class with the horse and saber, near dead last in mathematics and chemistry. Poor marks, which had rendered him ineligible for a posting in the coveted Corps of Engineers, and fit only for the cavalry. This, though, had suited Jeremy just fine.
He was a tall and slender young man, with green eyes and light brown hair, as agile as a man with a damaged leg could be. Clad in the uniform of a dragoon, he was the picture of a dashing beau sabreur. But on the day that he and Delgado went riding, he exchanged the uniform for a suit of brown broadcloth and a pair of brown blucher boots. In place of an officer's shako he wore a plain visored cap. "I will never again wear that uniform," he said with a blend of conviction and regret.
Delgado had wondered how Jeremy would handle the fact that his father's house guest was a citizen of the Republic of Mexico, since another citizen of that same republic had been responsible for shooting the bullet into his leg. But Jeremy, if he made any such connection, displayed no prejudice.
An accomplished horseman in his own right, Delgado had forgotten how much he missed riding until he settled into the saddle cinched to the back of a tall, stockinged bay; he had selected the horse himself out of the for-hire corral at the livery.
"Don't you know that old saying about horses with four stockings?" asked Jeremy, half in jest. "One white foot, buy her. Two white feet, try her. Three white feet, be on the sly. Four white feet, pass her by."
"A quaint saying," replied Delgado, "but there is no truth in it."
The bay proved him right. As soon as they had put St. Louis behind them, Jeremy challenged him to a race—across an open field to a distant line of trees and back to the road. Jeremy's sorrel hunter leaped into an early lead, but Delgado had caught up at the halfway mark, and was a full two lengths out in front by the time they were once again on the road.
Jeremy was gracious in defeat. "I thought about making a little wager on the outcome," he said, laughing. "Glad I didn't. To be honest, I don't put much faith in the old sayings, either."
A mile farther down the lane the forest began to close in—for several miles around, the insatiable appetite of a fast-growing city for timber had virtually denuded the landscape. Delgado wondered aloud why this virgin growth had remained untouched when all else around had fallen prey to the woodsman's axe or double-cut saw.
"This is Blackwood," replied Jeremy. "The Horan plantation. Or, at least, the edge of it. A mile or farther on you will find the fields, and then the main house."
There seemed, mused Delgado wryly, no escaping Brent Horan.
As they rode through the tunnel of sun-speckled green, Jeremy proceeded to tell him what he knew about the Horans, which turned out to be quite a lot. Daniel Horan, Brent's father, had been but one of many Virginian gentlemen to abandon the over-cropped land of the Old Dominion for the rich black soil of the Missouri bottomlands. In a caravan of wagons, trailed by a small herd of livestock, he had brought his wife and two little boys west, along with more than forty slaves and many fine furnishings.
The site Daniel Horan chose for his new beginning was on the bank of a navigable tributary of the Big Muddy, with abundant timber for building and for fuel. Despite the fertility of the land and being financially better off than many of his fellow pioneers, the first years for Daniel Horan had been difficult ones. Even basic supplies had proven hard to get in this as yet untamed land. Fortunately, the forests teemed with game—elk, deer, wild turkey, squirrel, and duck. They were also home to bears, wolves, and panthers, which preyed mercilessly on Horan's livestock.
"Finally," said Jeremy, "one of Horan's field hands was killed by a panther. That put Horan out of pocket eight or nine hundred dollars, so he declared war on the woodland predators. He offered a bounty on animal scalps. Times were hard, and many a frontiersman made ends meet by collecting on that bounty. Naturally, folks
in these parts became beholden to Daniel Horan. The buckskinner and the dirt farmer consider him a great man still and won't brook anyone saying otherwise."
Gradually, the wilderness had been subdued. The forest fell to broadax and fire. The ground was broken by the bull plow. The yeoman farmer planted his corn or rye and sometimes even tried his luck with a few acres of tobacco for a little extra cash, while Horan and a handful of other slaveholders, with the benefit of slave labor, cultivated much larger amounts of tobacco, wheat, and hemp. With the profits from his first good year, Horan built a grand manor, importing experienced masons to work the limestone from a nearby quarry. When the manor was finished, he moved his family out of the log blockhouse in which they had been living. But Horan's wife had precious little time to enjoy her newer, more elegant surroundings. A few weeks later, she was bitten by one of the rattlesnakes that infested this country and died the following day.
"His wife's death changed Daniel Horan," said Jeremy grimly. "He became a recluse and a brutal master. Brutal father, too, by all accounts. His eldest son finally could not stand it any longer. He ran away. No one knows for certain what became of him, though I have heard rumors that he is living in Paris now. But the second son stuck it out."
"That would be Brent."
"Right. Do you know him?"
"We've met. On the packet up from New Orleans."
Jeremy smirked. "Brent enjoys his little jaunts to the Crescent City, ostensibly to attend to his father's business affairs. But I think the brothels of the Vieux Carré attract him most of all."
"I would have to say that the son has learned the art of brutality from the father," remarked Delgado.
"Ah, so you do know Brent. Yes, he is a dangerous man to cross."
"You don't care for him."
"I have never pretended to."
"Yet your father suggests that he may marry your sister."
"Sarah has better sense."
Delgado thought that Jeremy sounded more hopeful than convinced.
"She used to be infatuated with Brent," continued Jeremy. "Young, foolish girls sometimes like to flirt with danger. If her letters are any indication, though, she has grown up in her absence. Now she flirts with dangerous ideas."
"What kind of ideas are you talking about?"
"Those New England reformers have bent her ear, I'm afraid. She pounces with complete abandon on every new fad. Women's suffrage, temperance, even abolitionism. Now the latter certainly wouldn't sit well with Brent Horan."
"I saw him buy a slave girl, an octoroon, on the levee. And I don't think she was destined for the fields, either."
"If she was pretty enough, I'm sure not." Jeremy rode in silence for a moment, brows knit, deep in thought. Then he flashed a sly grin at Delgado. "Of course, it's entirely likely my sister will find you even more irresistible than she did Brent Horan. You strike me as a decent sort. A man who knows the meaning of honor. Which is more than I can say for Brent."
"I thought he and his kind put great store in honor."
"That's not honor you're talking about. That's pride, and vanity. Honor means doing the right thing regardless of the consequences."
"I doubt if Brent Horan would define honor any differently."
"By 'right thing' I mean abiding by the laws of God and man. But you're correct, Del. Brent is very jealous of what he calls his honor. You see, he is a violent man, a man ruled by his passions. He uses the defense of his honor as his excuse to vent that violence upon others. Folks think he is a gentleman because of it. The irony is that he has no real honor."
They rode on as Delgado mulled this over. He could hear, deep in the woods, the baying of hounds, but paid little attention to the sound—until it was accompanied by the blast of a shotgun, surprisingly close to the road. He peered into the verdant gloom of the forest, trying to locate the source of the sound. Around a bend in the lane they came upon a horse tied to a tree, its saddle empty. As they curbed their own mounts, a lanky hound emerged from the forest, barked at them, tail wagging slowly. Several more hounds appeared, milling about, tongues lolling; clearly they had just had a long, hard run.
A moment later, a bearded, rough-looking individual appeared. Another man, a Negro, was draped over his shoulder. Delgado knew immediately that the black man was dead, and he looked at the shotgun in the bearded one's grasp.
With a cold, indifferent glance at Delgado and Jeremy, the bearded man heaved the corpse across the saddle of his horse, demonstrating his herculean strength by the ease with which he effected the transfer. Here, thought Delgado, was a man who could be extremely dangerous even when completely unarmed.
"Mr. Talbott," said Jeremy, cool dislike evident in his tone of voice. "Hard at work, I see. Del, allow me to introduce John Talbott. He is employed by Daniel Horan as overseer and, as you can see, slavehunter, as well. One of Horan's runaways, Mr. Talbott?"
"That's right," was Talbott's gruff, barely civil reply. "If it's any of your business." He obviously did not think it was.
"He didn't get very far, did he?" asked Jeremy.
"They never do," said Talbott as he proceeded to lash the corpse down with a length of rope.
"Talbott always gets his man," Jeremy told Delgado. "Usually brings them back in this condition."
"That must cost Horan dearly," observed Delgado. The dead man had been young and muscular, a prime field hand.
"Mistuh Horan don't mind," said Talbott. "Serves as a warnin' to them other darkies."
One of the hounds was snarling as it mauled one of the dead Negro's dangling arms. Cursing, Talbott kicked the dog in the ribs. The dog slunk away, baring bloody fangs.
"Come on, Jeremy," said Delgado, disgusted. He turned the bay with a sharp pull on the reins.
As they rode back the way they had come, Delgado looked over his shoulder once. Talbott was leading the corpse-burdened horse in the other direction, surrounded by his dogs. Delgado felt sick to his stomach.
"My God," he said. "I've seen enough of your peculiar institution to last me a lifetime, Jeremy."
Jeremy nodded. "It is a brutal business."
"You don't approve. You couldn't possibly."
Wearing a troubled frown, Jeremy did not reply.
"Why don't you do something?" persisted Delgado.
"Such as?"
"Well, I don't know . . . "
"If there is no cure," said Jeremy grimly, "one can only endure."
He kicked the sorrel hunter into a gallop, and Delgado quickened the bay's pace, and was glad when they emerged from the gloomy old woods into the sunshine of the clearings.
Chapter Three
"I will always cherish this acquaintance."
1
Delgado spent much of his free time exploring St. Louis. Gateway to the frontier, the city pulsated with life, and proved fascinating to a young man with Delgado's highly developed curiosity. But he was present at the Bledsoe house on the morning of Sarah's arrival, as any good guest would be—and he was forever glad of it.
She had come by coach from Philadelphia to Cincinnati and taken passage aboard an Ohio River packet at the city they called the Queen of the River. Twenty years earlier the Falls of the Ohio, located near the town of Louisville, had posed in certain seasons an insurmountable obstacle to riverine traffic, but a canal had been recently excavated around the falls on the Kentucky side. This was the route that Delgado would have taken to reach St. Louis from New York City, had he not opted for a succession of coastal steamers in order that he might experience the unique ambience of legendary New Orleans.
Since his arrival in St. Louis, Delgado had been chafing at the bit to embark for Santa Fe and Taos, but when he saw Sarah Bledsoe, that sense of urgency immediately melted away. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were limpid pools of hazel, her lips as shapely and red as the blossom of a rose. A heart-shaped face was framed by chestnut brown curls. Her figure was petite, but well-rounded. She wore a gray serge traveling outfit consistin
g of a long skirt and a short jacket over a pale yellow muslin blouse, pleated and tight. Her hat was adorned with a wide yellow silk band and peacock feathers. She wore pale gray kid gloves on her delicate hands and high laced black shoes on her tiny feet.
Jeremy had gone to wait for her boat at the levee. He had invited Delgado to accompany him, but Delgado had declined, not wishing to impose upon the reunion of long-separated siblings. Now he stood unobtrusively to one side as Sarah greeted her father, who had just returned to the house from a day of business. If anything, Sarah's reunion with Clarisse was the most touching of all. The two women embraced and wept with joy. Only when Sarah had composed herself did Jacob Bledsoe introduce his daughter to his guest.
"Sarah, may I introduce Mr. Delgado McKinn. Del, my daughter, Sarah."
Delgado took the proffered hand and, with a very supple, continental bow, brushed her glove-encased fingers with his lips.
"Miss Bledsoe," he said almost reverently, "I will always cherish this acquaintance."
She smiled, both flattered and amused by his suave gallantry. "Mr. McKinn, I am thoroughly delighted to meet you." Her hand lingered in his, and her smile lingered, too, as she gazed at him, and Delgado felt a blush of warmth in his cheeks. In the magic of that moment he forget all about going home.
"You must be exhausted, my dear," said a solicitous Jacob. "Perhaps you would like to retire to your room. I hope you don't mind, but I have invited a few close friends to dinner this evening in honor of your safe return."
"Of course I don't mind, Father." To Delgado's chagrin, Sarah finally took her hand away. "Come with me, Clarisse. I have so much to tell you!"
Delgado spent the rest of the day loitering about the house, idle and restless, no longer the least bit interested in the sights of St. Louis, waiting only for the next opportunity to gaze at Sarah. He had to bide his time until dinner, because she did not come downstairs until all the guests had arrived.
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