American Blood

by Jason Manning

  "Gentlemen," said Loveless, "you may cock your pistols. You will hold them pointed at the ground until I give the signal. When I say Fire, you will have to the count of four to discharge your weapons. I will count out loud, slowly, and then give the signal Stop. You may not fire before or after the count of four. If you do, Mr. Horan, Mr. McKinn will be obliged to shoot you. If you do, Mr. Bledsoe, Mr. Darcy will be within his rights to shoot you. Is that understood?"

  "Yes," said Jeremy.

  Horan nodded.

  "Gentlemen, are you ready?"

  "Ready," said Jeremy.

  "I'm ready," said Horan.

  Delgado thought, I could draw this pistol from my coat and kill Brent Horan where he stands.

  And then what would happen? Darcy would shoot him, and Jeremy would shoot the gambler Darcy. In that scenario, at least Jeremy might survive.

  But, Delgado reminded himself, Jeremy does not want to survive. Then, too, there was Sarah. You selfish, cowardly bastard, Delgado thought bitterly, hating himself so much at that moment that he could taste bile. As had happened at Blackwood, when Horan gave him an opportunity to save the slave named Naomi, Delgado found himself unwilling to sacrifice himself.

  "Fire!" said Loveless. "One—two—three—"

  Jeremy and Horan raised their pistols simultaneously, fired as one. They stood so close that it seemed to Delgado that the muzzles of their weapons almost touched. He saw the blossoms of flame, shrouded in acrid white powder smoke, saw Horan rock back on his heels, thought for one brief instant that by some miracle Jeremy had actually won the day—and then watched in horror as his friend pitched sideways to lie on his face in the grass, unmoving.

  He rushed forward, reaching Jeremy just as Dr. Loveless did. Gently, they rolled him over. A patch of blood was growing on the front of Jeremy's white shirt. Delgado watched Loveless tear the shirt open, examine the wound, feel for a pulse at Jeremy's wrist, then at his neck, and finally close Jeremy's sightless eyes.

  "He is dead," said Loveless. "Shot through the heart. May God have mercy on his soul."

  The doctor rose and glanced at Darcy, who was supporting Horan's weight. Horan was pressing his right arm against his side.

  "Are you hit, sir?"

  "Just a scratch," said Horan hoarsely.

  Greatly shaken, feeling numb, Delgado stood and turned to face Brent Horan, very much aware of the weight of the pistol in his coat pocket.

  "Well, then," said Horan with an infuriatingly casual smile as Loveless bent to examine his wound. "That's finally settled. Now there remains the business between us, McKinn."

  Delgado shook his head. "You fool. You didn't win anything today. Whether he killed you or you killed him didn't matter to Jeremy. He got what he wanted."

  "And what was that?"

  "Atonement."

  He turned away from Horan, picked Jeremy up, and walked back through the dark, silent trees with the body of his friend in his arms, while the mockingbird continued to sing somewhere in the branches overhead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Dying for the wrong cause"

  1

  That day and all the next, Jeremy Bledsoe's mortal remains lay in an open casket in a downstairs room, and the macabre rituals of death were carried out. He was attired in his Regular Army uniform. Delgado was nearly certain that Jacob would not survive to see his son laid to final rest; the old man refused to leave the chair that he had positioned at the head of the casket. When friends of the family came to pay their last respects, they would offer him their sincerest condolences, but most of the time he did not seem to even be aware of their existence. He kept staring at Jeremy's face as though he expected his son to open his eyes at any moment.

  Dr. Lowry and his wife came, as did Joshua Pilcher and his wife. Jessie Benton made an appearance, representing her father, Senator Thomas Hart Benton. Old Bullion was in Washington, trying to put a stop to a war that had raged long enough. There were others—many others—that Delgado had never met. He did not care to meet them now, either. He watched their coming and going from the window of his upstairs room, from which he seldom strayed, not wishing to intrude upon Jacob Bledsoe's grief, or Sarah's. And feeling a good deal responsible for that grief, besides.

  "I suppose I should have tried harder to stop him," he had told Sarah. "But I didn't. Not really. If you hate me, Sarah, I will understand. I wouldn't blame you if you did."

  "Hate you? Don't be silly. I love you, Del. You mustn't blame yourself. There was nothing you could have done. Don't you think I know how Jeremy was? I remember Annabel Christophe. I was a few years younger than she, but I remember quite well when she died. And even though Father tried to shelter me from the rumors that were flying about, I heard them. Like everyone else, I thought there must have been some truth in what Brent Horan said about his brother. Allan's disappearance seemed to confirm it. Jeremy never told me what really happened."

  "In part that is what he couldn't live with," said Delgado. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told you the truth, either." He had told her everything Jeremy had said, thinking she had the right to know.

  "No, you were right to do so. In fact, I think everyone should know the truth. People should know Brent Horan for the liar he is."

  "Maybe you're right," conceded Delgado.

  He wrote down, to the last detail, Jeremy's version of what had happened to Annabel Christophe and why. The next morning he called on Stephen Maitland at the offices of the St. Louis Enquirer.

  "I would like you to print this in your newspaper," he said.

  Maitland took the letter. "What is it, Mr. McKinn?"

  "You might say it is the confession of a man who knew he was about to die."

  As he read, Maitland turned more pale than usual. "Good heavens! I . . . I don't know that I can do what you ask, sir."

  "What's the matter? Are you afraid of Brent Horan?"

  "He is a . . . a very powerful man."

  Delgado was in no mood to play games. "So am I, Mr. Maitland. I have a good deal of power over you, now don't I?"

  Maitland's owlish eyes blinked rapidly behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. "You mean . . . you mean Clarisse, of course," he whispered.

  "Perhaps I should bring the matter up with your superior. I believe the owner of this newspaper visited the Bledsoe house this very afternoon. He has long been acquainted with Jacob Bledsoe, hasn't he?"

  "What . . . what matter are you referring to?"

  "This letter, of course."

  "Oh, yes. Of course. Well, I . . ."

  Delgado remorselessly pressed his advantage. "You once said that if ever you could be of service . . ."

  "Yes, yes. I remember." Maitland sighed in pure anguish. He folded the letter and with resignation put it in his pocket. "I will see that it is printed, Mr. McKinn. You can rely on me."

  Delgado wagged a stern finger at him. "In the next edition."

  "Yes."

  When he got back to the Bledsoe house, he learned that during his absence Jacob had finally collapsed. He was resting quietly in his bed.

  "Did you tell him?" Delgado asked Sarah.

  "I didn't have the chance to."

  They had agreed it would be better if Jacob heard the truth about Jeremy's connection with Annabel Christophe's death from one of them before he read it in the newspaper.

  "I hope we are doing the right thing," said Delgado. He had been assailed by doubts all the way back from the Enquirer.

  "I'm sure we are, Del. The people who matter will not think less of Jeremy, for he has done the honorable thing, and tried to set matters right. Or, at least, that's what we're doing for him. I think he would have done the same had he been clearheaded. But his hatred for Brent Horan clouded is judgment. His self-hate, too. Yes, I truly believe we are doing the right thing. It is Brent Horan who will be exposed as the scoundrel he is."

  "Question is, how will Horan react?"

  "Who cares?"

  "I do, for one. So should you. Aren't you a
fraid of him, Sarah? Of what he might be capable of doing?"

  "No, I most certainly am not."

  "Well, I am. And just because you are a woman, don't think for a moment that you aren't at risk."

  "He is an evil, wicked man, and if I can become the instrument of his downfall, then I shall consider myself a very fortunate person."

  Delgado wasn't quite sure what she meant by that, but he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to ask her.

  Early the following day, Stephen Maitland personally delivered the morning edition of the Enquirer. Without seeming to, Delgado watched him and Clarisse slip lovers' glances at one another as he pretended to look at the paper, which Sarah had eagerly grabbed out of Maitland's hand. Delgado couldn't get used to the idea of Maitland and Clarisse being lovers; they were an odd couple, indeed. But there could be no denying that the Creole Negress had strong feelings for the pale, gawky newspaperman. Truly, mused Delgado, love was blind.

  "I hope this is what you wanted," said Maitland.

  "Yes, quite," replied Sarah with a quiet kind of triumph.

  "I suppose I ought to be getting back." Maitland gave Clarisse one last, longing look and took his leave.

  At noon Jeremy Bledsoe was laid to rest in a churchyard, beside the grave of his mother. His father could not attend. Jacob was still unconscious, in a coma from which, according to the doctor, he might never emerge. Delgado was proud of Sarah. Through it all she bore up bravely. At least a hundred people showed up. Hugh Falconer was present, along with Lillian and Johnny. When the service was over, the mountain man found an opportunity to take Delgado aside while Lillian spoke with Sarah. Falconer looked as grim as Delgado had ever seen him.

  "I know what you're trying to do," said Falconer. "You and Sarah."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "You're striking back at Brent Horan. But it won't work. He doesn't care about his reputation. Not anymore. The man's dying."

  "We just wanted the truth to be known."

  "You're stirring up a hornet's nest."

  "What do you suggest I do?"

  "Either get out of town or kill him, Del. Before he kills you."

  "That's what Jeremy told me."

  "I know the two of you had become close friends. I'm glad you agreed to serve as his second. At least he had a friend there when he died."

  "I thought about shooting Horan. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I wasn't willing to give my life to save Jeremy's. What kind of friend is that? I'm a coward, Hugh."

  "No," said Falconer firmly. "You're just too damned civilized for your own good. This was something Jeremy felt he had to do. Whether you thought it was right or wrong, you had to let him go through with it."

  "Would you have?"

  "You know how much I thought of him. But yes, I would have."

  "I'm not going to run," said Delgado. "I feel as though I've been running away from something all my life. From the responsibilities that my father wanted me to shoulder. From everything that was going on in New Mexico. I didn't want to take a stand. Well, I'm going to this time. A person has got to be willing to fight for what he thinks is right, no matter what the cost."

  "That's what it's all about in this country, Del."

  "I know." It was all quite clear to Delgado now. America was a vision, a goal not yet attained, and being one of its citizens meant being blessed with an opportunity that most people in the world would never know—an opportunity to transform vision into reality. A reality of equality and prosperity for all. To pursue this dream was not merely a right, but the responsibility, of every American.

  Diego Archuleta had said that all Americans were concerned only with themselves. But Delgado knew that wasn't true. He thought about Brent Horan and Langdon Grail, and, yes, to an extent even Jacob Bledsoe and his own father. Such men proved that the idea of America, the promise, was more than the sum of its parts. And some of those men, like Horan, stood in the way. Delgado knew it was time he tried to right the wrongs he saw all about him. That was what his beloved Sarah was trying to do. America had its shortcomings, but they could be overcome, and he was ready to do his part.

  True, this final reckoning with Brent Horan was in large measure a personal affair. But it was more than that. It was not the end of anything, but just the beginning. . . .

  "Beware, then," said Falconer. "Keep alert. Horan is running out of time. He'll have to make his move soon. When he does . . ."

  "Yes. I know where to find you. But this is something I have to do."

  Falconer nodded. "But you may need to even the odds. Horan won't come for you alone. He's afraid of you."

  "Of me? Don't be ridiculous."

  "It's true. You see, he knows you're not a coward. And he knows you've beaten him at every turn. So I'm pretty sure that this time he'll have help."

  Delgado took Sarah back to the house on Laurel Avenue. She said not a word, and seemed very tied and careworn. Delgado could think of nothing to say that would comfort her. He turned her over to Clarisse, who took her upstairs to her room, and went into the parlor to pour himself a stiff drink, which he badly needed. Clarisse had built up the fire in the hearth, and he settled in a chair near it and tried to relax. He found that to be a very difficult proposition. He kept thinking about Brent Horan, hating the man more than he had hated anyone in his life. In fact, he was sure now that he had never really hated anyone or anything before.

  Clarisse came downstairs. He called her into the parlor.

  "Horan thinks he is being poisoned by one of his slaves," he told her. "He makes her taste his food and drink, and yet she has no ill effects. Still, he is convinced she is killing him."

  Clarisse just stood there, inscrutable, watching him.

  "Do you think that's possible?" asked Delgado. "Could she be poisoning him?"

  "Oui. It is possible, I think."

  "But how?"

  Clarisse shrugged. "There are a number of ways. She is perhaps using belladonna, a plant that grows wild in the marshes."

  "Yes. The nightshade. I remember from my chemistry class at Oxford. Extracts of the leaves and roots were used in ancient times by women to dilate the pupils of the eye, which they thought made them look more desirable. Belladonna means 'beautiful lady' in Italian. But if she puts it in his food, why isn't she affected?"

  "Perhaps she has built up a resistance to it. This can be done by taking small quantities over a long period of time. She would still become ill, but not as ill as he."

  "I see."

  "Or perhaps it is not poison at all. I know of this woman. She is called Naomi, n'est-ce pas?"

  "That's right."

  "Her previous master sold her to the slave dealer because she practiced voodoo."

  Delgado shook is head. "Voodoo or poison, whichever method she is using, she hasn't worked quickly enough to suit me."

  "If that is all, I must go now to the kitchen."

  Delgado nodded. The brandy conspired with the warmth of the fire to make him drowsy, and he soon drifted off into a fitful sleep, only to awaken with a start to find Clarisse touching his shoulder.

  "She wishes to see you."

  The clock on the mantelpiece told him he had slept for hours. He hurried upstairs, tapped on Sarah's door, and entered at her bidding. Sarah had not changed out of her dress of mourning black. She stood at a window, and he went to her. He could tell she had been crying, but she was calm and composed now.

  "It's getting dark," she said. "I don't want to be alone."

  Poor Sarah! She had lost her brother, and at any moment her father might succumb. He could not blame her for fearing the darkness, and for the first time Delgado became fully aware of the responsibility he now bore upon his shoulders. He was all Sarah Bledsoe had left.

  He took her in his arms and held her close, and later he sat up on the bed while she slept with her head on his chest. He stayed awake through the night, holding her, protecting her, making her feel secure, and only when the first shreds of
daylight came stealing through the windows did he leave her, still sleeping soundly. He went downstairs to find Clarisse, wanting coffee for himself and a nice breakfast tray for Sarah when she woke.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turned the corner into the hall and, hearing a telltale rustle of clothing behind him, began to turn around, catching a brief glimpse of a man wearing a white hood over his face, with holes cut out for the eyes—and then something hard hit him at the base of the skull, and he fell in an explosion of sweeping pain and blinding white light. The light faded to black, and he fell, and kept falling, falling, falling into oblivion. . . .

  When he came to, he was momentarily disoriented. Sitting up, a moan escaped him as the walls began to spin and the floor beneath him felt as if it were tilting sharply one way and then the other. His skull felt as though it had been split in two. His vision slowly cleared, and he looked around and remembered where he was and what had happened, and the sudden fear nearly strangled him. He got to his feet, then stumbled and fell to hands and knees and got up again with Sarah's name on his lips, and somehow half ran, half crawled up the stairs to her room, her empty room. He ran next to Jacob's room and found Bledsoe in his bed, and his first thought was that My God they've killed him. But Jacob was still alive. These men weren't Diego Archuleta's rebel killers. No, Brent Horan was behind this. Delgado was sure of it. Jacob was still lost in the coma. Delgado thought bitterly that perhaps now that would be for the best if he never came out of it, because Sarah was in Brent Horan's hands.

  He checked every room upstairs, even though in his heart he knew Sarah was gone. He found Clarisse downstairs, bound hand and foot and gagged, on the floor in the kitchen, and he untied her, removed the gag, and she told him what he already knew, that two men had grabbed her and bound her, two men wearing white hoods with holes for the eyes cut out.

  "They took Sarah," he said, his voice hollow, as though it reached his ears from the black depths of a bottomless pit.

  "Horan," was all she said.

  Delgado nodded and went up to his room and put on his coat. He made sure the derringer was in the pocket. Then he left the house. He borrowed a horse from the nearby livery and nearly rode it into the ground getting to Falconer's place.