"But I would think," said Delgado, "that it would be extremely difficult to poison a man who suspects he is being poisoned."
"Pull the sash."
Delgado saw the bell pull on the wall beside the mantelpiece and gave it a tug.
"Once more, for Naomi," hissed Horan.
Delgado pulled the sash a second time. Very faintly, he heard a bell jangle in some distant corner of the big house. A moment later, the octoroon slave girl Delgado had last seen on the levee on the day of his arrival at St. Louis entered the room. She was barefoot, and instead of the plain calico dress one might expect a slave to wear, she was clad in a scarlet dress, daringly low cut and adorned with black lace. It was the type of garment, garish and suggestive, that a woman of easy virtue might wear. Her tousled hair fell in abandon to her ebony shoulders. There was an almost feral gleam in her dark eyes. She looked at Delgado, and he could tell she recognized him.
"This is Naomi," said Horan. "She is a whore. That is why I insist that she dress like one. She is my murderess."
Delgado got the impression he was an actor in a bad dream. What exactly was going on here? This scene was almost too macabre to be real, and he began to wonder if Brent Horan was mad.
He looked at Naomi, waiting for her reaction to Horan's accusation, but her expression was inscrutable and told him nothing.
"Oh, yes, McKinn. The bitch is murdering me," continued Horan. "But I don't know precisely how. I make her taste all of my food. She takes the first sip of any drink that is placed before me. As you can see, she does not seem to be similarly afflicted. I have no proof, therefore. Nonetheless, I am certain."
"Surely, a man like you doesn't need proof to act," said Delgado dryly.
Horan grinned like a fox, without mirth.
"You mean why don't I just kill her and be done with it?"
"You are certainly capable of such a thing."
"Quite so. And I will kill her, in my own good time. Oh yes, she will die before I do. You see, McKinn, we have a peculiar situation here. Naomi knows she is doomed, and yet she doesn't try to run away. What does that tell you? That she is willing to die in order to accomplish her purpose. Which is my death."
"And you? You're evidently willing to play the game through to the end."
"Oh course."
Fascinated by this morbid situation, Delgado shook his head. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, that you're right—that she is poisoning you. If you did away with her now, you might recover."
"But then I would be deprived of going to her every night, of taking my pleasure as I watch the hate unmasked in her eyes, of having my way with my own executioner."
Delgado stared at him. "You have a twisted mind, Horan."
"Thank you. I think, perhaps, that day on the levee, you wanted to prevent me from buying her, if only to spite me."
"That's true, in part. It wasn't to spite you, though."
"Indeed? You wanted her for yourself, perhaps? Well, I can't blame you. Look at her. She is beguiling, isn't she? And she is a wildcat in bed."
"That's not why, either. I wanted to save her from you."
"Ah. The truth is out. You're another one of those crusaders, aren't you? This country is full of them. You wanted to save her from—what? A fate worse than death?"
He is mocking me now, realized Delgado. He is insane. That means I was wrong—I am in danger here.
"Something like that," he said.
"You wanted to, and yet you didn't. That's your problem. You lack the courage of your convictions. I'll give you a second chance. Life doesn't often give us second chances, McKinn, so consider my offer carefully before you let another opportunity slip through your grasp."
"I'm listening."
"One round of whist, McKinn. If you win, you can take Naomi away from here, saving her life in the process. What do you say? Come on, man. You're a gambler, aren't you?"
"And if I should lose?"
Horan struggled to get to his feet, a mask of pure hate on his face.
"Then you will meet me on Bloody Island."
"You mean a duel."
"That is precisely what I mean. You won't accept a challenge issued in the conventional way, will you? You have nothing to gain by it, since you have no honor to protect, and since you know I will prevail. So what do you say? You could save this nigger wench's life."
Delgado glanced at Naomi. As impossibly bizarre as it sounded, he believed that Brent Horan would kill this woman. Was she really poisoning him? Perhaps so. Not that it truly mattered. She would die, and she knew it, and Delgado actually flirted with the idea of accepting Horan's offer. After all, he'd had the chance to rescue Naomi from this evil man once before, and failed. Failed her—and failed himself, as well. Could he walk out of here and leave her to a terrible and certain fate?
Then he thought of Sarah, and the bright promise of their future together, and knew that, yes, he could. He had to. Bitterly, he realized that perhaps Horan was right. Perhaps he did lack the courage of his convictions—if he had any convictions. But he had too much to live for to throw his life away.
And it was clear that Naomi did not want to be rescued.
He looked Horan straight in the eye and said no.
Fury stormed across Horan's ravaged features, and Delgado suspected that, had he been possessed of a weapon at that moment, Horan might have killed him on the spot, and the gentleman's code of honor be damned.
"One day," snarled Horan, "you will face me on the field of honor."
"Horan," said Delgado coldly, "I came to tell you that Sarah Bledsoe and I are to be married. I had hoped you would realize that while there may have once been something between the two of you, there is nothing now. Sarah changed while she was away, and she despises everything you represent."
Horan sank back into his chair. The effort required to rise and stand for a few moments had completely exhausted him.
"You will never marry her, McKinn," he said confidently. "If I can't have her, no one will. Now get out of my house, you gutless bastard."
With a stranglehold on his flaring temper, Delgado walked out of the room. In passing Naomi he forced himself to look her way, but it was as though he did not even exist for her; she was gazing at Brent Horan with such malevolence that Delgado believed Horan was telling the truth—that she was, somehow, killing him by degrees, and was perfectly willing to die if it meant ridding the world of his shadow. Horan's will was strong, but no more so than Naomi's. The two of them were locked in a deadly embrace, and both were too proud to let go. Delgado wished he had her courage.
He collected his hat, coat, and gloves from the old servant in the main hall, then his mount from the boy outside, and urged the horse into a gallop as soon as he was in the saddle, eager to be gone from this wicked place.
2
Jacob Bledsoe was anxious to hear all about Delgado's visit to Blackwood, and that afternoon he had Delgado and Jeremy carry him down to the parlor from his bedroom; now that he had two strapping young men to transport him, he expressed his intention to come downstairs on a daily basis. With Jeremy and Sarah present, Delgado related the whole story, leaving nothing out.
"So you see, sir," said Delgado in conclusion, "I failed in the endeavor. There still exists bad blood between Brent Horan and me."
Bledsoe shook his head. "Incredible. Simply incredible. The man must be stark raving mad. As long as he lives, Del, your life is in jeopardy."
"Which is why Brent should be killed," said Jeremy.
"You stay away from him," said Bledsoe. "Give me your solemn word that you will, son."
"Very well, Father. I will avoid him. If possible."
"It's possible—just steer well clear of Blackwood. Horan rarely leaves that place these days."
Jeremy just nodded unhappily.
"Please understand, Mr. Bledsoe," said Delgado, "that this doesn't change anything. I still intend to marry your daughter."
Bledsoe nodded. "Of course you do. I think the two of you should be wed a
s soon as possible. And then, Del, I want you to leave St. Louis. Go back to Taos and take Sarah with you."
"I will not leave you, Father," said Sarah firmly. "I cannot."
"You will both be safe in Taos. Horan cannot harm you there. Please, daughter. Do this one last thing for me. Del, do you concur?"
"I leave that decision up to Sarah." In fact, what Jacob Bledsoe suggested had already occurred to Delgado during his ride back to town from Blackwood. It had also occurred to him that Sarah would never leave St. Louis as long as her father lived, so he had reluctantly decided not to even broach the subject.
"Not like you, Del, to run," said Jeremy.
"Jeremy, you're a fool!" snapped Bledsoe.
Sarah went to her father and kissed him on the cheek. There were quiet tears in her eyes. "If it is your wish, Father, I will go away."
Delgado couldn't believe his ears.
"Good! Good!" Bledsoe rubbed his hands together. "That's settled then. The two of you decide on a date. Make it soon. The sooner the better."
"What about appearances, sir?" asked Delgado. "If we seem to rush into this, tongues may begin to wag, you know."
"And there are vicious tongues in this town," said Jeremy.
"To hell with appearances," grumbled Bledsoe. "Good God, man, I have lived my whole life for the sake of appearances. Now that I am about to cast off this mortal coil, I realize how wrong I have been to do so. Besides, I have my heart set on giving the bride away, and a long engagement could be fatal to my plans." He smiled at the small joke he had made.
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Father." Sarah sighed.
Bledsoe patted her hand. "I find it rather ironic that the two of you are suddenly preoccupied with keeping up a good appearance in this matter. If memory serves me, you are the same two hotheads who helped a prisoner escape from jail and then smuggled abolitionist propaganda into the house of a prominent slaveowner." He chuckled. "Now, suddenly, you're worried about what people think?"
Delgado smiled. "It's what you think that matters most, sir."
"Well, I'll tell you what I think, young man. I think my daughter has made a very wise choice for a husband."
"Thank you."
"No, it is I who should thank you, Del. And God help you. You'll have your hands full with this one, I promise you. She is full of surprises."
"Oh, Father," said Sarah, trying bravely to sound light of heart. "Admit it. You wouldn't want me to be any other way."
"Hmph! What about a best man, Del?"
"I thought I would ask Jeremy."
"Splendid!" said Bledsoe.
"Of course," said Jeremy without much enthusiasm.
"What's wrong with you?" asked his sister.
"Nothing. I would be pleased to be your best man, Del."
"Fine. I think I'll ride out and tell Hugh Falconer. I want to make sure he's going to be at the wedding."
The next day Delgado rode out to the Falconer cabin to do just that. The mountain man was chopping firewood when he rode up, and invited Delgado in for some hot coffee. The day was sunny but cold, and Delgado gratefully accepted the invitation. He told Falconer and Lillian that he and Sarah had decided to be married in two weeks' time.
"We'll be there, of course," said Lillian, delighted.
"Wouldn't miss it," said Falconer. "So, Del, why don't you tell me what's bothering you?"
Delgado was taken aback. "Is it that obvious?"
"We've been through quite a lot together, you and I, in the last six months. I think I can read you pretty well, and right now I'd say you're worried sick about something. Maybe I can help."
Delgado proceeded to tell him about yesterday's visit to Blackwood. "The man is obviously insane," he concluded. "He is obsessed with the idea of doing away with me. But why? It makes no sense. He isn't rational. I stopped him from committing murder aboard the Sultana. He should thank me for that. And I am marrying a girl who wouldn't have anything to do with him even if I had never entered her life."
He stopped and looked sheepishly at Falconer, realizing he had given himself away.
"Yes, Hugh, I'm scared. Brent Horan scares me."
"Me, too."
"Would I stand a ghost of a chance against him in a duel?"
Falconer shook his head. "Even if you did, would it make any difference?"
"No, I guess not."
"I didn't think so."
"I will not fight a duel. It's one thing to kill a man in the heat of battle. But dueling is . . . is cold-blooded murder, any way you look at it. Don't you agree?"
"Doesn't matter what I think, Del. It's what you believe, and you have to live your life according to your beliefs."
Delgado sighed. "I just don't understand why Horan is so set on killing me."
"Pride."
"What do you mean?"
"You keep getting the best of him, Del. You beat him at cards. You made him back down from lynching that abolitionist. Then you helped Rankin escape. Don't think those men you saw outside the courthouse weren't there with Horan's blessing. There are probably twenty, thirty men in these parts who would drop everything to do his bidding. They feel beholden to Daniel Horan for helping them through the hard times, and that carries over to his son, without question. It's an obligation, of sorts."
Delgado nodded. "Jeremy told me."
"As for Sarah, you'll never be able to convince Horan that you didn't steal her away from him. He doesn't like to lose, Del, and he loses every time with you. But on Bloody Island he knows he wouldn't lose."
"Do you think Sarah is in danger?"
"No way of telling. Horan isn't rational, as you said. Who knows what he might do?"
"But he is deathly ill. He couldn't do much."
"Don't be too sure."
"What do you suggest?"
"Leave St. Louis as soon as possible and take Sarah with you. Sounds to me like Horan will be dead before summer. Then you can come back if you want to."
"Running away." Delgado grimaced. "Smacks of cowardice, don't you think?"
"Put pride aside and concern yourself with Sarah's safety."
"Yes, of course. Well, Jacob Bledsoe made the same suggestion. I guess I'd better be getting back."
"Won't you stay for supper?" asked Lillian.
"Thank you, ma'am. Maybe some other time. I'm grateful for the coffee."
Falconer walked outside with him.
"If you need help," said the mountain man as Delgado mounted up, "you know where to find me."
Delgado nodded and rode away. It was a comfort to know that a man like Hugh Falconer would back him if matters took a turn for the worse.
He was wending his way through the hustle and bustle of the St. Louis streets when a covered surrey rumbled right by him, and he caught a glimpse of Blackwood's white-haired doorman handling the reins. There was someone in the rear seat, beneath the calabash roof, huddled in blankets, and though Delgado didn't get a clean look at the passenger, he knew it had to be Horan. A vague but disquieting premonition prompted Delgado to wheel his horse around and follow the surrey. He was confident Horan hadn't seen him, and he was curious to know what his nemesis was up to. Whatever it was, Delgado felt sure he wouldn't like it.
The surrey came to a stop in front of the Planter's House hotel. Delgado angled his horse to the opposite side of the street. Dismounting, he tethered his mount to one of the iron hitching posts and climbed up onto the sidewalk. Across the street Brent Horan emerged from the surrey and was met by a man Delgado had never seen before. He was obviously a man of breeding. He was clad in a well-tailored frock coat in hunter's green, fawn-colored trousers, polished boots, and a silk hat. He carried a malacca cane. The man gestured to the Planter's House barroom as he talked to Horan, and a moment later they entered that establishment together.
Delgado hurried across the street, dodging a horseman in a hurry and a dray wagon loaded with casks, and headed in the direction of the river. He approached the old slave, who was standing b
eside the surrey.
"Good afternoon," said Delgado. "Do you remember me?"
"Yessuh. Good afternoon to you, suh."
"Could you tell me, who was that man who was just speaking with Mr. Horan?"
"Dat's Mistuh William Darcy, suh. He's a long time friend of the massuh's."
Darcy! The man who, according to Jacob Bledsoe, had tried to deliver Horan's challenge the day after he and Jeremy had left St. Louis. A notorious character, Bledsoe had said. A riverboat gambler by trade, and a duelist of some note, besides.
Why had Horan come to town to meet Darcy? Perhaps just to have a friendly drink or two in the Planter's House barroom. But supposedly Horan seldom left Blackwood these days. And he was certainly in no condition to make the trip. Delgado admitted to himself that he had felt relatively safe knowing that Horan was essentially confined to the plantation by his illness. That sense of security was now proven false. Delgado felt he needed to know what Horan was up to.
"Thank you," he told the old man and followed Horan and Darcy inside.
The barroom of prestigious Planter's House was no ordinary saloon. Dark polished wood, gleaming brass, maroon and dark green upholstery, a thirty-foot pier glass above the back bar, ornately framed oils of seductive nudes, the best labels, the aroma of the finest cigar tobacco—even the spitoons were kept at a high polish. Only gentlemen were allowed in this establishment, and there was quite a few of them present at this hour, enough to keep four bartenders hopping behind the fifty-foot mahogany bar. Delgado had been here before, with Jeremy, who frequented the place when he wasn't off fighting in a war.
Delgado found a spot for himself at the end of the bar near the street entrance and scanned the room, locating Brent Horan and William Darcy at a table beneath one of the stained glass windows depicting a white plantation house at the end of a tree-lined drive. They were staring at someone farther down the bar, unaware of Delgado's presence. Delgado hoped he could keep it that way.
"Name your poison, sir," said a barkeep.
"A cognac."
The man nodded and poured a dollop of the amber liqueur into a glass.
"Are you a guest in the hotel, sir?"
"No." Delgado paid for the drink.
"My good man, have you heard the news?" A middle-aged gentlemen had bellied up to the bar next to Delgado. He was flushed and bleary-eyed; obviously he had overindulged.
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