Deborah assented gratefully. If the quest could end here, so much the better. She thought briefly of visiting her family’s graves in the burial ground west of town, then decided against it. That could still unnerve her, and she might need all her strength for hunting Dane. Her family deserved a separate time when she could give them the unhurried tribute of full attention.
So she and Conrad skirted Lawrence on the south and he left her a short distance from the Kaw in a ravine shaded by a large single oak which had somehow escaped prairie fires which had probably kept trees from growing heavily, on the south side of the river.
“I suppose I shouldn’t help my younger brother from the saddle.” Conrad grinned. “But since no one’s watching, I’ll have that pleasure.”
He swung her down, strong hands almost closing around her waist. “I won’t be long,” he promised. Then he added with a grimace, “If I find your Mr. Hunter, I’ll feel more like telling him to leave than bringing him to you!”
His mouth brushed her sheared hair. Then he was back on Sleipner, riding back to town.
Deborah sighed, watching him grow smaller, then disappear in the rolling prairie. Both Sara and Judith had lost the men they loved and married others with whom they seemed happy.
If Dane were dead, Deborah knew she’d have to accept that. After a while she could perhaps open herself to Conrad, let him love her, grow to love him fully. But stupid as it was, she couldn’t put Dane from her heart; while they both lived, she was bound to him, just as in a perverted way she was tied to Rolf because he’d given her that first kiss with her own blood on his lips.
She loosened Chica’s cinch, rubbed her down with an old handkerchief she’d found deep in one of Laddie’s pockets, and rummaged in the pack for the food parcel. It’d be noon by the time Conrad got back. They might as well picnic in the shade before going on. It wasn’t hard to find patches of barren ground where small foragers and grasshoppers had eaten grass and plants to the roots. Placing two chunks of limestone where they’d support the coffeepot Sara had provided, Deborah started collecting twigs and tinder to start a fire, using larger pieces to hold it.
Boiling river water would make it safe to drink. Rather than empty her canteen, she went down to the river and was filling the pot when she picked up the sound of hooves.
Conrad? In a few minutes more she knew it couldn’t be. The sound was coming from the wrong direction; there were a number of horses.
Heedless of spilling water, she started to run for the ravine and Chica, then controlled herself and walked, instead. The first riders were coming over a rise to the east. Getting on Chica and trying to outdistance them would simply create suspicion.
She’d known she’d have to face people on this mission, but here she was, wanting to scoot like a rabbit! All the same, if the strangers decided to stop a while, she hoped Conrad would return quickly.
Pulling the hat almost over her eyes, she started making a fire. Or trying to. Her fingers shook till one match after another had to be discarded. The horsemen were pulling up.
“Trouble, sonny?” called a rough voice. “Reckon we could get your fire goin’ for a cup of coffee.”
Deborah glanced up. Her heart turned over, seemed to stop. Next to the burly man who’d spoken, Rolf Hunter sat on his tall bay. She ducked her head and mumbled something, hoping he hadn’t seen, that in the flashing glimpse he hadn’t recognized her.
He spoke to the men, who fell back a distance. Then she heard the creak of leather, followed by his steps coming toward her. There were spurs on his boots, long-roweled, polished. That was all she saw, keeping her face lowered, praying he didn’t know her.
“So here you are,” he said after a long moment, when she thought her nerves would break and she’d scream. “Hair cropped, breasts bound, but God! You’re beautiful! Stand up, my love. Let me see your face.”
She didn’t move, trembling inwardly, trapped, trying to think how to save herself, but even more, how to keep Conrad from riding into this troop. Her upper range of vision caught on dangles of hair hanging from his belt, and she thought of the horsehair trimming Johnny’s coat.
This wasn’t horsehair. Some was yellow, some was black, there was one dingy reddish cluster, and the rest was brown, from sandy to dark, some straight, some curly.
Eight, nine … She stopped counting.
Faint with horror, she couldn’t move. The Bowie pressed against her leg. But even if she got it out before he could stop her, she couldn’t escape that pack of men.
Rolf pulled her to her feet. “I can’t handle you gently or the lads would wonder. It’s best they think you’re what you’re dressed as.” His tone was conversational, but the ridge behind each nostril showed white, and in the searing noonday sun, his eyes shone brilliant green, with the pupils contracted to tiny points. “Now, what’s this masquerade?”
Her brain hummed. Conrad. Any minute he’d ride into this. She had to think of something! Rolf’s arm lifted.
Deliberately, he struck her, obviously calculating the force so that though it staggered her, she didn’t fall. “I’m not the soft boy you diddled. You’d better know that right from the start. What’re you doing dressed up like this?”
She could think of no way to protect Conrad. If she wasn’t here when he came back, he’d look for her. “I’m hunting for Dane. Have you seen him?”
“I’ve done my best not to,” Rolf said with a harsh laugh. “I go by another name these days: Charlie Slaughter. Like the ring of it?”
“Do you know where Dane is?”
Rolf slapped her again, casually. It jarred her neck, brought tears to her eyes. “Answer my questions before you ask any. How do you like my name?”
“It seems to fit,” she said between her teeth.
He laughed. His eyes played over her, bringing a humiliated flush washing upward to the roots of her hair. “It’s acquired quite a luster along the border. We’re what you might call specialists at catching runaway slaves and liberating good horseflesh from trashy owners.”
He was still strikingly handsome, but in the seven months since she’d seen him, his features had coarsened. He reeked of sweat, horses, tobacco, and whisky. Only his hair, hanging below his shoulders, was the same raw gold.
A dark blue shirt faced with red silk was slit halfway down his chest, and she suspected her Bowie was on the other end of a braided leather thong hung around his sun-darkened throat. The other Bowie and pistol at his scalp-laden belt gave him a look of restraint compared to the bristling armaments of his men: their Bowies, Arkansas toothpicks, braces of pistols, and scabbarded shotguns and rifles. Deborah made a helpless gesture at them as they loafed in their saddles.
A pack they were. Beasts. And Rolf’s whistle could bring them down on her.
“Why?” she asked. “Why?”
“Why did you break out while I was avenging your family? Why didn’t you want me instead of my noble brother, who, I hear, has gone looking for me in St. Louis since his snuffing around here fetched him nothing?” Rolf shrugged. “Let’s just say, sweet Deborah, that I’ve found my métier. I’ve always believed I was a throwback to Vikings. Your border’s given me a chance to be myself.”
“A plundering killer and night thief?”
This time he knocked her to her knees. The side of her face was numbed, but she felt the slow trickle of blood from her lip. At his feet, in range to touch the dry bedraggled scalps, Deborah thought with lucid remoteness that she still had her thoughts, could say anything she wished, but the price would be a blow. Enough could break her physically no matter how right she was.
As if considering the plight of another person, she tried to see if provoking Rolf to kill her would save Conrad, then saw no way that it could. If she were missing, he’d follow the plain track of the brigands.
“At first I stayed because of you,” Rolf said. “Someday I was sure to find you. But your chance at being my pampered wife in St. Louis or London’s over. You’ll ride at my stirrup
, share my pallet, and if you’ve any sense, you’ll keep my hell-hounds from knowing you’re a woman.” His voice roughened. He took a step forward and stopped. “Blood on your mouth, Deborah! As it was that first time. I want to kiss it away, but that’ll have to wait till dark.”
“You can’t keep me alive long if I decide to die.” From somewhere, bracing for his hand, she found the strength to laugh. “I might show your men I’m a woman, work them up into killing you.”
To her shock, he didn’t strike her but laughed in delight. “I knew there was fire in you! I’ll have it if it roasts me! But you mean to bargain or you wouldn’t show your hand. What do you want that I might give you?”
“There’s a man, a friend, helping me hunt for Dane.”
Rolf’s pupils seemed to spread dark over the irises. “A man?”
“Yes. He’s in Lawrence trying for leads. If you’ll promise not to hurt him when we meet, I’ll say—oh, that you know where Dane is and will take me there, that he needn’t trouble further.”
Rolf slanted her a strange look. “If you weren’t waifing after my brother, I’d think you loved this—friend.” He studied her with narrowed eyes, then finally shrugged. “I suppose it’s worth some forebearance to have you pliable. Convince this fellow that you’re freely with me and he can depart in peace.”
The Bowie pressed against her leg inside Laddie’s loose corduroys, a last grace. She wouldn’t feel bound by her promise once Conrad was safely gone, but she couldn’t guess now whether the blade would be for her or for Rolf. She only prayed that Conrad would accept her story and not insist on seeing her reunited with Dane. He was stubborn enough, certainly, and this gang was pure and undiluted Border Ruffian.
“Get your stuff together and let’s ride,” Rolf ordered. “I promised the boys a drink in Lawrence if we can find anyone with the guts to sell it after those temperance ladies took to telling men what to do!”
Fresh alarm shot through her. She’d been too dazed, too frightened for Conrad and herself to wonder what the troop was doing this far from the border. There were still back-and-forth raids in the southeastern part of the Territory, but since the Doy affair, this northerly region had been fairly quiet.
“You’re not going to cause trouble in Lawrence?” she cried.
“Not unless your Black Republicans and abolitionists ask for it,” Rolf drawled. “I had some fine times in that funny little town. Hurry up! The boys are getting restless. I’ll go tell them how you’re all in a sweat to join up with us.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because you’re a runaway kid who liked a little authority once he got a taste of it,” Rolf taunted. “And if you’re smart, you’ll stick close to me after you join us. You’ve somehow flattened your breasts, but your throat and mouth still look damned womanish.”
He swung up on Sangre and cantered toward his men. Deborah poured out the coffee water, then hastily bundled up her pack and tightened Chica’s cinch. She was mounting, awkward from the length of the Bowie against her thigh, when Conrad and Sleipner came into sight.
. Pausing at sight of the gang, Conrad’s head turned toward Deborah. She waved and rode to meet him, trailed by Rolf. Make him believe you, she told herself. For his life, he must believe you.
“Conrad!” She tried to sound happy, but her voice cracked. She swallowed, close enough now to see his frown. “Conrad, such luck! This is Dane’s brother, Rolf. He’s going to take me to him.”
“Is he, indeed?” Scanning Rolf, Conrad nodded, then turned again toward Deborah. He flinched, then made a sound in his throat before his eyes, catching Rolf’s, changed to winter ice.
“I can’t believe any man would hit Deborah, but some thing has. Since you’ve apparently become a brigand, Mr. Hunter, what do you ask for our lives?”
“Deborah’s safe.” Rolf stared at the older man, gave a slow nod. “She wants to go with me. Do us all a favor and head back from where you came from.” He leaned forward suddenly, spurred by some flickering recollection. “Where do you come from, mein Herr? Are you the Graf of Friedental who’s taken to stealing niggers?”
“I’ve stolen nothing.” Conrad’s thoughts must have flashed to his sister, Rebe and the runaways, and the villagers, but his face was as impassive as carved stone. “But if you have questions about Friedental, I’m the one to ask.”
Rolf laughed venemously. “I don’t have any questions, Graf. One of the men I pay for information—it’s taken some doing to dodge my determined brother—told me all about your nigger nest. We were headed there to get those slaves back and teach the Prussians to stick to their plowing.”
Deborah shrank. “But—you said—”
“That we weren’t out for blood in Lawrence. We’re not. My lads don’t know where we are headed, really. I never tell them anything I don’t have to a second earlier than I have to. Prevents a lot of misunderstandings.”
“So.” Conrad was musing aloud. “Your men don’t know about Friedental?”
“No. I figured if we ran into something lucky on the way, we could save that for later.” Rolf chuckled. “Farmers are sitting ducks. Always there.”
“Especially when they’re pacifists and forbidden by their religion to fight,” thrust Deborah.
Rolf shrugged. “They should’ve thought of that before they let niggers roost with them.” He cocked his head at Conrad. “But you, Graf, bear the ritual saber scar. How are you with Bowies?”
“Rolf!” cried Deborah, bringing Chica forward.
“It would be interesting to find out,” Conrad mused. “I’ll gratify your curiosity if you’ll agree, win or lose, to leave Friedental alone.”
“You’ll lose,” said Rolf. “Why should I bargain?”
Conrad smiled. On his tall gray horse, he looked very much the nobleman descended from generations of men used to weapons and command. “I thought that as an Englishman, you might have racial memories of single combat when two men spared their armies.”
“Ah! So it comes to chivalry!”
“I’ve always thought it the only saving grace veiling spurs and swords. Having met your brother, I hoped for it in you.”
Rolf stiffened. After a moment he slapped his knee. “Done, then! A tournament with Bowies! I’ll tell my men that in the unlikely chance you carve me up, you’re to go unharmed and they’re to head back to Missouri.”
“And Deborah?”
Rolf cast her a tigerish glance of possession. “I won’t lose. But if I do, she can go with you. I don’t want her to belong to anyone but me, and I’m sure you’re too honorable to seduce her. My men would wear her to the backbone in a week.” He laughed at the fury in Conrad’s face and inclined his head mockingly to Deborah. “Credit that to me,” he said, “though tonight I mean to have what I was too soft a fool to take before.”
“Rolf!” she pleaded, riding forward. “Fight me! I can use a Bowie!”
“Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “But I’ve another use for you.”
He rode toward his men and announced the duel in a swaggering way that made them whoop and form a wide ring, some dismounting, others keeping to their saddles. He walked briskly about, inspecting eagerly proffered knives, then accepted one of cutlass dimensions and continued the search for its match.
Deborah bit back pleas to Conrad not to fight. He was bound to, not only for Friedental, but because he now knew Rolf’s intent toward her. Pressing Chica close to him, she said fiercely, “Keep yourself covered! Try for the guts, “the soft spots beneath his ribs! For God’s sake, kill him if you can!”
“For your sake.” Conrad dropped a hand on her shoulder, as if bracing a youngster, but his touch was a lover’s. “Don’t fear too much, my darling. For sport, we used to spar with daggers.”
“If I hadn’t come—”
He shook his head. “Then this mob would’ve struck Friedental. No, Deborah, live or die, as I may, the village is safe this time. But you—I have to win because of you.”
>
Rolf raised two blades that flashed blindingly in the sun. They looked eighteen inches long. Deborah knew so well the broad-ribbed blade, that curving point, honed to razor-edge sharpness on both sides.
“I love you.” She fought to be steady. “Conrad, I love you.”
A light flared in his gray eyes; they searched her, knowing what she meant. “I know you do,” he said. “And I love you—with all my heart and strength, with my life and death.” He sapped from the saddle. “Will you hold Sleipner for me?”
She dismounted, too, and, leading the horses, followed him.
xx
Conrad must have been a peerless swordsman, for years later and with a strange weapon, he moved with grace and decision. Rolf had held the blades together, proving the lengths equal, and offered a choice. There his gallantry ended.
He gave Conrad no time to get the feel or balance of his knife, but pressed his attack at once, slicing for Conrad’s torso while defending his own vitals.
Had Conrad not been cool, content to parry, the fight would have ended within seconds. As he sensed his opponent’s unshakability, Rolf dropped back, feinting now, trying to draw Conrad’s blade.
Conrad kept his knife on guard, but he didn’t push. Deborah could guess his mind. The longer he had to accustom himself to the weapon, the better he could use it, the more his old skills would revive. He’d take no chances he didn’t have to.
“Get ’im, Charlie!” one of the men yelled. “Quit your fancy dancin’!”
“Let the Proosian have it to the hilt!” another urged. “Spill his guts!”
“Goddamn!” jeered the bearded man who’d first ridden up to Deborah. “If this is how gentlemen fight, I’m glad I’m not one!”
Rolf renewed his assault. Deborah felt Conrad’s motions, moving her body with them in an agony of suspense. She’d never dreamed he could last this long. If Rolf would just grow restless, raise his knife, lunge too far—
Parry and cut.
Parry. Cut.
Beautiful. Deadly.
Deborah gasped. Conrad’s left arm came up like a shield and caught Rolf’s blade. While it was embedded, held by a deliberate twist of Conrad’s arm that must have been excruciating, Conrad slashed.
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