Delgado escorted Sarah through the ring of spectators, who parted to let them pass. All eyes were on them as they crossed the great hall, a seething Jeremy limping along behind them. Jacob Bledsoe met them at the door, wringing his hands in distress.
"Dear God, child," he gasped at Sarah, "what have you done? What have you done?"
2
"Outrageous! Outrageous conduct!" Jacob Bledsoe paced the rose-patterned rug in the front parlor of his house, so agitated that he could not stand still for a moment. "I rue the day I sent you East, daughter. I should have known better. You are too impressionable. Too impressionable by far! You don't have the good sense to ignore the rantings of abolitionists and other reformist crackpots. Shame, shame on you."
"Shame on you, Father!" retorted Sarah. "Aren't you an American? Don't you love freedom? Slavery makes a mockery of our nation's principles."
Bledsoe actually covered his ears with his hands. He looked silly, mused Delgado, but there was nothing really amusing about the situation. He still could scarcely believe that Sarah had been so rash as to smuggle the abolitionist pamphlet into Blackwood and hand it, in front of God and everybody, to the old Negro working the refreshment table. Surely, she had not expected to get away with that. Obviously she had intended to cause a scene. As a result, if Brent Horan had his way, blood would be spilled.
And yet Delgado could not muster one iota of resentment, though his was the blood most likely to be shed. Sarah was headstrong, but that was part of what made her so irresistibly attractive to him. At least she had the courage of her convictions.
"I won't listen to that kind of talk," declared Bledsoe. "No, I won't listen. The circulation of material such as you had in your possession is not only wicked, it is unlawful."
Sarah shook her head. "You don't realize what you're saying, Father. You support the censorship of ideas? Is that not a conspiracy against the rights of free men and women? Does that not make us the white slaves of the masters of black slaves? I suppose the next step will be that we must all get down on our knees when a man like Brent Horan enters the room."
"Oh, what has become of my little girl?" bemoaned Bledsoe.
"Your little girl has discovered that she has a mind of her own," replied Sarah hotly. "And she intends to speak her mind whenever the mood strikes her."
"And you have put at risk your brother's life in the process, and the life of my friend's son."
She glanced at Delgado, and his pulse quickened; undeniably she cared for him and was afraid for his life.
"Don't fear for me," he said. "I have no intention of fighting a duel."
Until that moment Jeremy had been brooding silently, slumped in a chair. Now he shot to his feet.
"I have every intention of doing so! I will not allow any person, least of all Brent Horan, to insult my sister."
"He called me a nigger lover," said Sarah. "I do not consider that an insult. It is the truth."
"Sarah!" exclaimed Jacob Bledsoe.
"I love them as I love all people. What's wrong with that?"
"Horan's intentions are what matter, not his words," said Jeremy stiffly. "From his point of view it was the worst possible insult. And he called you a vixen, besides."
Sarah shrugged a fetching shoulder. "Who knows? Perhaps I am that, as well."
"You have certainly been acting the part since you came home," lamented Jacob Bledsoe.
"Have a care, Father. Jeremy might challenge you to a duel."
"There will be no dueling," Bledsoe told his son. "I will not permit it."
"You cannot prevent it," Jeremy said.
"Brent Horan would surely kill you. He has slain two men in previous duels."
"That has absolutely no bearing on my decision."
"Honor," said Delgado, "means doing the right thing regardless of the consequences."
Jeremy stared blankly at him.
"Those were your own words, I believe," continued Delgado. "You went on to define 'right thing' as abiding by the laws of God and man. If you believe in what you say, you must turn the other cheek or take Horan to court. But a duel is no recourse for an honorable man."
Wordless, Jeremy sank back into his chair. He could not argue with himself.
"No one will fight a duel on my account," said Sarah. "I will not stand for it. I was not insulted by Brent Horan's words, so no one else should be."
"Enough," said Jacob Bledsoe. "Quite enough. I will countenance no further discussion on the subject. Sarah, go to your room and stay there until I summon you. Jeremy, Delgado, go pack your belongings. You are both leaving St. Louis tonight."
"I will not run away," said Jeremy.
"I am your father, and you will obey me. I have sent for Hugh Falconer. He will get you both safely away. I only hope and pray that he arrives in time."
There was nothing more to be said. Delgado and Jeremy followed Sarah upstairs. She did not turn around, or give Delgado so much as a glance. Delgado was in perfect anguish.
The time had come for him to go, and yet he did not want to leave. Before two days ago he had not given Sarah Bledsoe a thought; today the future looked gray and cheerless and futile without her in it.
In his room Delgado packed his bags and then stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head, to stare bleakly at the ceiling. He felt like a condemned man languishing in his cell as he awaited the long walk to the gallows, for leaving Sarah was like death. No, worse than death. She was as much an essential part of his life as breathing. How had this come about so swiftly?
He had known many women in his life; his looks and bearing had always attracted them. In Taos, in England, during his tour of the United States, beautiful women had always been there for the asking. He had admired their beauty and enjoyed their company when it suited him and then gone his way without a backward glance or so much as a twinge of remorse. Perhaps he had broken a few hearts, but he had never given his own.
Sarah, though—Sarah was different. She made him feel so alive. Other women paled into insignificance, seemed such dull and lifeless creatures, by comparison to her. He was miserable just being across the hall from her—to be half a continent apart was an unbearable prospect.
Yet what was there to do? He could not remain in St. Louis, regardless of Brent Horan. Of course, even if he stayed, he would have to leave this house, and Jacob Bledsoe would probably forbid him to see his daughter again. In that event Sarah would have to choose—her father or him. Delgado could not put her in that predicament. He loved her too much.
A couple of hours later, shortly after the clock in the hall chimed midnight, he heard someone at the door downstairs. Falconer? Or Horan's representative? Perhaps Horan himself, come to have his vengeance, and to blazes with protocol. For Delgado, Horan was of little consequence, compared to the pure torment he suffered over Sarah.
Leaving the room, he went to the head of the stairs and saw Bledsoe and Hugh Falconer in the hall below.
" . . . so you can understand why I summoned you at this hour," Bledsoe was saying "Lives hang in the balance."
Falconer nodded. Some sharply honed instinct alerted him to Delgado's presence; he turned and looked up the staircase and smiled at Delgado. That smile, calm and confident, seemed somehow a comfort to Delgado. It reassured him that, as dark as things now appeared, all would be well in the end.
"So, Del," drawled the frontiersman, "you've stirred up a lot of dust."
"I have, though I am not quite sure how it all come about . . ."
"That's the way it happens sometimes. Get your plunder and fetch Jeremy. We'll be off." Falconer turned back to Jacob Bledsoe. "I'll take them to my place tonight, and by daybreak we'll be on the road to Fort Leavenworth."
"I don't know how I will ever be able to repay you."
"Just look out for Lillian and Johnny if they have a need. Lillian doesn't take much looking after, but you never know what might happen."
"You can rely on me in that regard," promised Bledsoe.
; With a dejected sigh Delgado went to his room and retrieved his pair of valises. When he returned to the upstairs hall, Sarah was standing in the doorway to her bedroom. His heart soared at the sight of her and promptly plunged at the thought of his imminent departure. She looked as though she had been crying, though he could not be sure.
"Sarah . . ."
"Yes, Del?"
"Sarah, I . . . I have to go now."
"I know."
"I have to leave, but I will return. Will you . . . ? Could you . . . ?"
She gave him a brave, sweet smile. "Of course I will. I will wait forever if need be."
They were the most wonderful words he had ever heard. They gave him all the strength he needed to face the time they would be separated. They told him that she knew as well as he that the two of them were meant for each other, and that no matter what happened or how long it took, they would be together again.
Jeremy came out of his room down the hall, lugging a single bag. He gave Sarah a peck on the cheek. "Good-bye, Sis," he said gruffly, trying to mask his feelings. "Come on, Del. You've got to get home, and I have a war to fight." He moved on and went down the stairs.
Delgado turned to follow him.
"Del?"
She stepped closer and handed him one of the tiny tea roses from her pink sash. He held it as though it were a holy relic. Then, moving closer still, with her small, soft, warm hands on his cheeks, she kissed him ever so lightly on the lips.
Then she fled into her room so that he would not bear witness to her tears.
3
Falconer had come well prepared, bringing along a pair of saddle horses for Delgado and Jeremy. The rain had finally stopped, and the moon played hide-and-seek behind the scudding remnants of clouds as a restless wind stirred dead leaves in the streets. Jacob Bledsoe walked out to see them off. His parting with Delgado was perfunctory at best; Delgado wanted to apologize for having taken advantage of the man's hospitality. He even entertained, briefly, the foolish notion to tell Bledsoe that he was in love with Sarah, and that he would be coming back one day to make her his own. But he did neither.
Bledsoe's parting with his son was a more affectionate scene, at least on his part, but Jeremy was almost curt with his good-bye, and Delgado felt sorry for the old man, so afraid he would never see his only son alive again.
Their passage down the wet and sleeping streets took them past the livery where Delgado had rented the stockinged bay. He prevailed upon Falconer to stop, awakened the livery's proprietor, and struck a hasty bargain, offering a hundred dixies for the horse—he had never gotten around to exchanging the Louisiana paper for gold. It was an offer the owner could not refuse. The man was so happy to have the dixies rather than some less valuable currency that he threw in a saddle besides. In minutes Delgado was astride the bay, leading the horse Falconer had brought into town for him. He knew horses and had a good feeling about the bay.
Departing St. Louis, they took the road for Jefferson City. With the weather and the lateness of the hour they had it all to themselves. No one spoke, which suited Delgado just fine. He was occupied with thoughts of Sarah. She loved him, and he was on top of the world. He had no doubts that she would wait for him, and that made leaving bearable.
Great changes were in store for Taos, and he had to be there for his mother and father in case they needed him. But once things were settled at home he would return to St. Louis, regardless of Jacob Bledsoe and Brent Horan, and claim for his bride the woman he knew with absolute certitude was meant for him.
Falconer lived a dozen miles west of St. Louis, and the road conditions slowed them down, so that it took them the better part of three hours to reach their destination. By that time Delgado was bone-tired.
Despite the hour they were greeted by Falconer's wife, Lillian, a slender and very pretty woman. After they had seen to their horses, they went inside to discover a pot of fresh coffee and bowls of hot burgoo waiting for them. Delgado and Jeremy fell upon the latter—a highly seasoned pot pie made with vegetables and venison—with gusto. Falconer sipped a cup of coffee, but did not eat. Again little was said; they were trying to be quiet as Falconer's stepson, Johnny, was asleep in the cabin's loft. After eating their fill, Delgado and Jeremy lay down to sleep upon pallets of blankets and buffalo robes on the floor.
It seemed to Delgado that he had just closed his eyes before Falconer was shaking him awake. Pearl gray morning light poured through the windows.
Over breakfast Delgado asked Falconer how it was that he had come to work for Jacob Bledsoe.
"I met Lillian three years ago," replied the frontiersman. "She and her boy were part of an emigrant train bound for Oregon. At first we aimed to stay up in the mountains, but there was some Indian trouble, and I decided to bring them back here where you don't have to worry about your scalp every time you step out the door. Figured I would find something to do, though I didn't know exactly what. One day I was in the Hawken brothers' shop on Laurel Street—that's where a lot of us old buckskinners hang around and swap tall tales—when Jacob walked in. He was looking for someone to guide a mule train down the trail to Santa Fe, and decided I was the right man for the job." Falconer shrugged. "Suits me well enough. Pays good, and I'm home half the year. Not much trouble to be found on the trail these days. Every now and again somebody gets into a scrape with Indians, but I've never had a problem yet. Good thing. I'm getting too old for that kind of excitement."
"Too old?" scoffed Jeremy. "Don't let him fool you, Del. Hugh is like tough leather well put together, as they say."
"I regret that you must undertake such a journey on my account," said Delgado. He turned to Lillian. "Your husband has given his word to Jacob Bledsoe that he will see me safely home to Taos. If it were within my power to do so, I would release him from that obligation rather than be the cause of your separation from your husband."
Lillian smiled. "Of course I miss him when he is gone." She put her hand on top of Falconer's. "But it does him good to get away. In fact, he would be impossible to live with if he didn't yonder every now and then. You may as well get used to it, Mr. McKinn. You look to be quite capable of taking care of yourself, but if my husband gave his word, he will keep it, come hell or high water."
After breakfast Delgado and Jeremy went out to saddle the horses. Falconer was brief with his good-byes. He enjoined the ten-year-old Johnny to take over as man of the house while he was away, and told Lillian he would bring her something back from Santa Fe. A pair of hounds roused themselves from the front porch as they started off; Falconer's curt command send the downcast dogs loping back to the cabin. He waved once and never looked back again as they rode west.
Their destination was Fort Leavenworth, regimental headquarters of the First Dragoon Regiment, commanded by Colonel Stephen Watts Kearny. The journey there would take them five days, Falconer said, and their route would follow the Missouri River, past the new German settlement of Hermann, then New Franklin and Independence. The fort lay on the western bank of the Big Muddy between Independence and the newer community of St. Joseph, recently plotted on the site of an old trading post established years ago by Joe Robidoux of the American Fur Company.
The fort, explained Falconer, had been erected twenty years back, along with Fort Gibson where the Verdigris and the Neosho rivers joined the Arkansas, and Fort Towson down near the Texas border, to protect the relocated eastern tribes from the Plains Indians. The land south of the Platte to the Red River had been set aside for the Cherokees, Choctaws, Chickasaws, Creeks, and Seminoles, whose title to their homelands east of the Mississippi had been gradually extinguished by the federal government. The United States had promised to do this when the individual states ceded their western public lands to the new nation and, right or wrong, a promise was a promise.
In 1830, prodded by President Andrew Jackson, Congress had passed the Indian Removal Act, and the deed was good and done. The Five Civilized Tribes had needed protection, too, from the likes of the Pawnees a
nd the Comanches. Nowadays, the Pawnees, once a powerful nation, were a mere shadow of their former glory. Disease had decimated the tribe. That fact, though tragic, made the upper portion of the Santa Fe Trail much safer traveling. The Comanches, however, still posed a threat, even though the Texans had been doing their level best for more than ten years to cut that warlike tribe down to size.
Doniphan's Volunteers were using Fort Leavenworth as a rendezvous. The Missouri governor had authorized eight companies of mounted troops and two of light artillery. It seemed, remarked Falconer, that every farmboy in the state had abandoned his plow, grabbed his old squirrel gun, and set off for Leavenworth and glory.
With the outbreak of war it was the same story in every part of the country, said Jeremy. Secretary of War William L. Marcy had issued a call for fifty thousand volunteers to bolster the small regular army. Taylor's victories at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma served to trigger an enthusiastic response. Recruits flocked to the banner, anxious to get involved before it was too late, as it was obvious to just about everyone that the war would be of short duration. Thirty thousand Tennesseans responded, when only three thousand could be taken from that state. Ohio's quota was filled in less than two weeks. Illinois was authorized to raise four regiments; it soon had enough volunteers to fill fourteen.
Jeremy had heard of an incident in Paris, Kentucky, where, while the local volunteers were organizing themselves into an infantry company, word arrived that the state's quota for infantry had already been filled. Only one vacancy remained open for a cavalry unit. The Paris men collected enough plow mares to qualify themselves as cavalry, elected a captain and a lieutenant, and dispatched these officers on the forty-mile trip to the state capital at Frankfort to report to the governor. Upon reaching Lexington, these men learned that a cavalry company had been formed there as well, and its officers had earlier started off for Frankfort. Getting a fresh horse for their buggy, the Paris men pressed on. They overtook their Lexington counterparts and were well ahead in the race when one of the buggy's splintered. The captain mounted the horse and raced on. He reached Frankfort at midnight, minutes ahead of the Lexington men, and roused the governor out of his bed—only to learn that a local company had filled the last cavalry vacancy a few hours earlier.
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