"What news are you referring to?" asked Delgado pleasantly, trying to scan the faces along the bar.
"Why, about General Winfield Scott, of course. Ol' Fuss and Feathers himself. He's captured Vera Cruz. Why, by this time, his army must be on the march for Mexico City. He'll whip that devil, Santa Anna. Mark my words, sir, the war will soon be over."
"Splendid," said Delgado. "Now, if you will excuse me . . . "
He stepped away from the bar, studying the men collected at the far end of the mahogany. If he moved deeper into the room for a better angle, Horan and Darcy could not help but see him. Quite possibly, Horan would let him alone in this public place. But Delgado didn't want to take that chance. If it was at all possible, he wanted to avoid the man altogether.
Then he saw Jeremy Bledsoe separate himself from a crowd at the far end of the bar. A belligerent cast on his features, he moved, unsteadily, toward Horan's table.
"It has come to my attention that you two gentlemen are staring at me," he said, putting a caustic slur on the word gentlemen.
Smiling coldly, Darcy glanced at Horan.
"We were discussing your sister, sir," said Horan. "We have heard she is involved with a ring of criminal abolitionists who help slaves escape their rightful owners. The rumor is that she does not charge a fee for the nigger bucks, as long as they consent to sleep with her."
The silence started at the tables adjacent to Horan's and spread like a highly contagious virus across the room.
"Did you hear that?" one man near Delgado whispered to another.
Delgado moved. "Jeremy!"
Jeremy glanced at him. So did Horan. But Darcy was watching Jeremy like a hawk.
As he neared the table, Delgado said, "Jeremy, don't do this. Remember the promise you made to your father."
Jeremy looked at him as though he did not know who Delgado was. Then he leaned over the table and backhanded Brent Horan.
Darcy shot to his feet. Horan remained in his chair, touching his jaw where Jeremy's knuckles had left a red welt. Triumph blazed in his eyes. He glanced at Darcy.
"Would you do the honors, Mr. Darcy?"
"I consider it a privilege, Mr. Horan," replied the gambler.
"Any time, any place," hissed Jeremy.
Darcy turned to Delgado. "Am I to assume that you will represent Mr. Bledsoe in this affair?"
Sick at heart, Delgado nodded. He wanted no part of this madness, but Jeremy was his friend, and he could not forsake him now.
"Bloody Island," said Darcy. "Tomorrow at dawn. Pistols will be Mr. Horan's weapon of choice. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly," said Delgado.
Horan got to his feet.
"Why are you doing this, Horan?" asked Delgado. "Is it because I refused to fight you?"
"Oh, you will, McKinn, you will. No, this is unfinished business between Jeremy and me. It has nothing to do with you. I don't want to leave any loose ends. Good day, gentlemen."
He walked out of the barroom.
"Bloody Island, at dawn tomorrow," said Darcy and followed Horan.
Delgado realized everyone in the place was staring at him and Jeremy. "Let's get out of here," he said.
They reached the crowded sidewalk as Horan's surrey pulled away. Darcy was seated beside Horan. Neither man looked around.
As he watched the surrey go, Delgado said, "You're a fool, Jeremy. They planned this whole thing."
"Horan is right. We have unfinished business."
"What kind of business? Damn it, Jeremy, what will I tell Sarah? And what will you tell your father?"
"You didn't have to involve yourself."
"I'm as big a fool as you are."
"Fine. I'll find someone else to serve as my second."
He started to walk away. Delgado caught up with him, took him by the arm, and spun him around.
"I haven't forgotten how you stood at my side that night in Taos, when Archuleta's men were after me and my family. I'll stand by you tomorrow. But I want to know why. I want the truth, Jeremy. Why is this happening?"
"Darcy's been watching me ever since we got back. Every day I've come here at this hour. I established a routine so Horan would know where to find me. I didn't want this to happen at my own house, in front of my father."
Delgado shook his head. "How considerate! So you never meant to keep that promise."
"It had to happen."
"But I want to know why. Why this bad blood between you and Horan?"
"I'll tell you in the morning. On the way to Bloody Island."
Delgado let go of his arm. "Jeremy, my friend, he will kill you."
"Probably. If I don't get him, though, it will be up to you, Del."
"I am not going to fight a duel. I have too much to live for to throw my life away."
"I don't," said Jeremy, and turned away.
3
Early the next morning before dawn, Delgado found himself in a surrey rattling through the sleeping streets of St. Louis. They had slipped out of the Bledsoe house, walked a couple of blocks along Laurel Avenue, and found the rented conveyance waiting for them, as Jeremy had arranged. The driver was perceptive enough to know that something was afoot that he would be better off knowing nothing about, so he kept his mouth shut and attended to the business of delivering his passengers to Maple Point, which Jeremy informed him was their destination. Delgado still wanted to know the reason for the long-standing feud between his friend and Brent Horan, but Jeremy did not want to talk in the presence of the driver, so Delgado was forced to bide his time.
They had left Jacob and Sarah ignorant of the dark mission upon which they were now embarked. Jeremy insisted that no good could come from telling his father in advance, and on that score Delgado had to agree. But he had wanted to tell Sarah the whole truth. Most of all he wanted to explain to her, before the fact, why he was involved in an affair which in all likelihood would result in the death of her brother. He was afraid she would hate him for it—and hate him all the more for keeping it a secret from her. But Jeremy begged him not to speak to Sarah, and in the end Delgado agreed not to. How could he refuse Jeremy this? It would be like refusing the last wish of a dying man. Through it all ran Delgado's strong conviction that nothing on earth could deter Jeremy. This was the moment Jeremy had been living for. The question remained—why?
At Maple Point, north of the city, a boat was to be waiting for them. Jeremy had made this arrangement, too. Here they would also be met by a Dr. Loveless. According to Jeremy, Loveless was one of the few St. Louis physicians whose discretion could be relied upon by duelists. Not surprisingly, the good doctor was a Southerner who believed devoutly in the validity of the affair of honor for the settlement of differences between gentlemen. Loveless had made numerous excursions to Bloody Island. Apart from this, he was a capable physician whose presence on the dueling ground had saved more than one life. Loveless, however, had not yet arrived at Maple Point, and Jeremy took this opportunity to finally share his secret with Delgado. Suddenly, he seemed almost eager to do so.
"Not too many years ago," he began, "I developed a real friendship with Allan Horan, Brent's older brother. The two of them were as different as the moon and the sun. Allan was a decent fellow, well liked by all who knew him. He would go out of his way to help a person in need, be they acquaintance or complete stranger. He never had a harsh word for anyone—except Brent. They were usually at odds.
"It happened that Allan and I fell in love with the same girl. Her name was Annabel—Annabel Christophe. Her father was a merchant. He's dead now. Annabel was as beautiful as . . . as an angel." Jeremy paused. His voice was trembling, and he took a moment to collect himself, staring past Delgado at the river where the dark shape of Bloody Island was silhouetted against the gray eastern sky.
"Allan and I both courted Annabel, but eventually she had to make a choice, and she chose me. Allan accepted her decision with good grace. He bore me no ill will. Our friendship was strong enough to withstand even this strain.
Annabel agreed to marry me. But I ruined everything. I was an impetuous fool, then."
Delgado smiled. "I'm afraid you still are, my friend."
"Yes, yes, I suppose I am. You see I . . . we . . ." Jeremy shook his head, his features twisted with powerful emotions. "We made love, Annabel and I. She became pregnant. Needless to say, she was distraught. If her father found out, he would be outraged. He would forbid her to marry me. I would not be allowed even to see her again. Annabel's reputation would be ruined. I begged her to run away with me. We would be married and live where no one would be aware of the truth. But she wouldn't do it. The poor girl. . ." Jeremy's voice broke.
Delgado put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Did your father know?"
"Certainly not. I dared tell no one. Not even Sarah. Well, that's not exactly true. I did tell one person—Allan Horan. I knew I could trust him. He agreed that Annabel and I should leave St. Louis and promised to help us in any way he could. But then . . . then Annabel took matters into her own hands. She was in a fit of despair, Del. She wasn't thinking straight. She went to an old woman who lived on the Creve Couer. The woman gave her a potion that would cause her to miscarry. Only something went wrong, and . . . and Annabel died."
"My God. Jeremy, I'm truly sorry."
Jeremy nodded and took a moment to compose himself before continuing with his story.
"Naturally, the rumors began to spread like wildfire. And this is where Brent Horan comes in. He spread the word that Allan was the child's father. You see, Brent was always jealous of Allan. He didn't like it that Allan was the eldest and stood to inherit Blackwood. And he knew his brother too well. Knew he wouldn't deny the charge and wouldn't point the finger at me. Of course, I admitted everything. But, oddly enough, almost everyone thought I was just trying to protect Allan, when, in fact, he was the one protecting me. I pleaded with him to tell the truth, to defend himself, expose Brent for the liar that he was. But he was too proud. He wouldn't do it. Instead, he disappeared. He did it for me, you know. He realized that his running away would convince everyone that he was, indeed, responsible for what had happened to Annabel. You have to understand, Del that her death hit him very hard. He loved her as I did. Perhaps even more than I. He went to Europe a broken man. Nothing seemed to matter to him anymore. Nothing except friendship and my good name. He sacrificed everything for me."
"I see."
"One other knew the truth—Sterling, the newspaperman. I don't know how he found out, but Allan made him swear not to tell a soul. He never did. He admired and respected Allan. Everyone who knew him did."
"So that must be why Sterling disliked Brent Horan so."
"He was a very good judge of character."
"Did you hear from Allan again?"
"He wrote to me a couple of times. I was the only one he wrote to, apparently, and he made me promise not to tell anyone where he was. I kept that promise. And then, for a long while, I received no word from him. I became concerned. Finally, I heard from a woman who had worked as his housekeeper in Paris. Allan was dead. His body had been found in the Seine. His death was ruled a suicide. I suppose he'd never gotten over Annabel. So you see, he died, alone in a strange land, for my sake."
"And you blame yourself as much as you blame Brent Horan. Or more."
"Of course I do," said Jeremy bitterly. "I was a coward. I should have taken responsibility from the very first, but I didn't, and things got out of hand, and once Brent made his accusations, it was too late, because Allan would never back down from Brent. Never give Brent the satisfaction. It was between the two of them. Do you see what I mean?"
Delgado nodded. It all made sense to him now. Not just Jeremy's hatred for Brent Horan, but also his friend's compulsion to place himself in jeopardy on the field of battle. And, soon, on the field of honor. Jeremy did not want to live. The deaths of Annabel Christophe and Allan Horan burdened his soul.
Doc Loveless had still not arrived. Jeremy was getting anxious, constantly glancing at the eastern sky, trying to calculate the precise imminence of dawn. "We will wait ten minutes more," he told Delgado, consulting his keywinder. "Then we will have to go on without the good doctor." Delgado nodded. A gentleman was not late to his own execution. That would be exceedingly bad form.
Loveless arrived in the nick of time, driving a buggy at breakneck speed. Jeremy introduced him to Delgado. The physician was perfunctory in his courtesy. "Let's get on with it, shall we, gentlemen?" he asked, fishing his own timepiece out of a vest pocket. Jeremy stared at the black medical grip Loveless removed from the buggy. Wondering, assumed Delgado, if the neatly rolled bandages and astringents and steel instruments contained therein would have to be employed this morning in a desperate battle to save his life. The arrival of the doctor seemed to have a sobering effect on Jeremy. But Delgado knew his friend wasn't going to back down. Not after all these years of being haunted by two ghosts.
They got into the rowboat, and the boatman pushed off, then settled down with the oars. He obviously knew this stretch of river well, for he managed to negotiate the tricky currents with almost contemptuous ease and landed them at the northern tip of Bloody Island. Chunks of ice, some bigger than the boat, as well as dead animals, uprooted trees, and other flotsam provided obstacles in the swift main current, but the boatman deftly avoided all hazards. No one uttered a word during the crossing. Delgado tried to keep his teeth from chattering. The morning was bitterly cold and seemed colder still on the river. Besides that, his nerves were frayed.
Bloody Island was approximately two hundred yards at its widest point, and nearly a quarter of a mile in length. Most of it was thickly wooded. The dueling ground was a clearing along the eastern shore, out of sight of St. Louis. There was a law on the books in both Missouri and Illinois against dueling, and though it was not strictly enforced, men engaged in affairs of honor preferred secluded spots where no one was likely to witness the activity. Bloody Island fit the bill perfectly, and had been used for the purpose for more than thirty years, although Delgado had learned that it had acquired its name as a result of a fight back at the turn of the century between Indians and keelboatmen.
Another boat was beached on a sandy spit at the northern tip of the island, and the boatman sat on a nearby log, puffing phlegmatically on a corncob pipe. His attitude was one of a man who had not a care in the world, and, unreasonably, Delgado resented him for it. Their boatman joined the other after Jeremy had given him payment for the passage over. It was simply sound business practice, mused Delgado, to require cash on the barrelhead from a customer who was on his way to possible death.
Jeremy led the way along a footpath that twisted and turned through the dark, silent woods. Just as they reached the clearing, golden shards of sunlight began to pierce the overgrown verdure. Immediately, a mockingbird launched into song. The mighty river murmured as it rolled by. The wooded hills of Illinois made a pretty picture a quarter mile to the east. But the bucolic pleasantness of the scenery was lost on Delgado. Brent Horan and William Darcy stood together in the clearing, and his undivided attention was focused on them. Darcy came forward.
"Gentlemen," he said with a curt, barely civil nod.
"We are here on a solemn and unhappy occasion," said Dr. Loveless gravely. "Is there any possibility of reconciliation?"
Jeremy shook his head. Loveless turned to Darcy, brows raised in a silent query.
"Mr. Horan requests that we proceed," said the gambler. "Unless Mr. Bledsoe wishes to withdraw."
Jeremy glanced at Delgado, who realized he was expected, as Jeremy's second, to speak for his friend.
"Mr. Bledsoe has no intention of withdrawing," he told Darcy.
"Then," said Loveless, "it becomes the duty of the seconds to see to the loading of the weapons."
Delgado drew two pistols from the pockets of his longcoat. He carefully measured powder, rammed home the bullets, and affixed the percussion caps. Having rejoined Horan, Darcy was similarly employed. Delgado offered both pistols to Je
remy. Jeremy selected the one he wanted, and Delgado slipped the other back into a pocket.
"Thank you, Del," said Jeremy, his voice without emotion.
"God bless you, Jeremy." There was much more that Delgado wanted to say. He wanted to plead with his friend to refrain from going through with this madness. He wanted to convince Jeremy that as a young man he had his whole life ahead of him. That there was no point in living in the past. One had to live for tomorrow. Everyone made mistakes. That his death would break his ailing father's heart. That he, Delgado, would miss him terribly. But he said nothing else, knowing it would all be quite fruitless.
"The time has come, gentlemen," said Loveless.
Delgado helped Jeremy shed his heavy cloak. Jeremy shuddered and smiled at Delgado. "Quite cold this morning."
Delgado nodded. Across the clearing Brent Horan was suddenly doubled over and racked by coughing. Darcy supported him, or he might have fallen to the ground. Delgado watched hopefully. Perhaps Horan would become too ill to continue. Maybe God would spend a miracle. But Loveless was marking off five paces, and when he was done, Horan had straightened up and was no longer coughing.
"Five paces—fifteen feet," said Loveless. "Is that agreeable?"
Delgado was horrified. At such close range there was bound to be bloodshed. He had hoped the two principals would stand at either end of the clearing. That way, with luck, Horan might miss Jeremy. A fragile hope, but Delgado was clinging to slender threads.
"Quite," said Darcy.
After glancing at Jeremy, who nodded, Delgado sighed and said, "Yes."
"The principals will take their places." Loveless had made two distinct marks in the frosty grass with the heel of his boot. Jeremy and Horan stood at these marks. Loveless had paced off his line at right angles to the rising sun so that neither man would have it in his eyes. Suspended just above the Illinois shoreline, the sun was directly in Delgado's eyes, but he didn't move. He felt the sun's meager warmth on his face and listened to the mockingbird progress rapidly through its astonishing repertoire.
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