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  "That sounds positively transcendental."

  She took offense at his lighthearted tone of voice. "Is there anything that you do take seriously, Mr. McKinn?"

  "My apologies. I did not mean to—"

  "You had better learn what it means to be an American since, whether you like it or not, you are about to become one. How can we live up to our promise as a nation, as a land of the free, a haven to the oppressed in a world filled with tyranny, when we keep our own people in chains because of the color of their skin?"

  "Tyranny. I seem to recall making a very similar speech to Brent Horan."

  "Brent!" She clutched his arm. "You know Brent Horan?"

  Horan's name, he was sorry to see, provoked strong passions in Sarah.

  "I made his acquaintance aboard the river packet. He was trying to murder an abolitionist."

  "An abolitionist? What was this man's name?"

  "I don't recall. Wait a minute. Rankin, I believe. Yes, that was it. Rankin was his name. As a matter of fact . . ." He reached into his frock coat's inner pocket and withdrew the pamphlet from which he had read during the confrontation aboard the Sultana. "I'd forgotten I had this."

  Sarah nearly snatched the pamphlet from his grasp. "The American Antislavery Society. I have attended many of their meetings in Philadelphia."

  "Somehow I am not surprised."

  She seemed not to hear him. "I do not know this man Rankin. What became of him? Did they . . . did they kill him?"

  "No." Modesty prevented Delgado from mentioning that he had done his part to rescue the abolitionist from the rope. "I believe they turned him over to the authorities here in St. Louis."

  "May I have this pamphlet?"

  "By all means."

  "I think I shall go see Mr. Rankin tomorrow. Will you come with me?"

  "Of course." Delgado didn't care where she wanted to go, as long as he could be with her.

  She bestowed another smile upon him. "This must be our little secret. Father would not approve."

  "I will tell him I have asked you to join me in a carriage ride, and that you accepted."

  "You're not afraid to get involved?"

  "Involved in what? If I get to spend the day with you, Sarah, I would risk the devil's wrath."

  She took his arm again. "Let's go back inside. I really should apologize to the guests. If I don't, Father may forbid me to even leave the house."

  As they left the moonlit garden, Delgado ruefully observed that their evening stroll had not turned out at all as he had hoped it would.

  3

  The following morning Clarisse knocked on Delgado's door to inform him, with that exotic creole patois of hers, that Master Bledsoe requested his presence in the parlor downstairs.

  Delgado tried to curb his nervousness as he descended the stairs. Had his host somehow become privy to the conspiracy he and Sarah had hatched last night in the garden?

  Hugh Falconer was there, slack in a velvet wing chair, looking a lot more comfortable in rough homespun than he had in a frock coat last night.

  "By a stroke of good fortune, General Kearny is here in St. Louis," Bledsoe informed Delgado. "Hugh has spoken to him on my—or rather your—behalf, my boy."

  "I don't understand."

  "Safest way to get you home to your father is with the army," replied Bledsoe. "No resistance is expected, you see."

  "Ah," said Delgado. I wouldn't be so sure of that, he thought. But he did not speak his mind.

  Bledsoe was pacing, hands clasped behind his back. He was clearly agitated. "The general has no objection to your accompanying the expedition, Del. In fact, he is interested in employing you, unofficially, of course, as a sort of liaison with the Mexicans. I realize that may be placing you in a delicate situation . . ."

  "Personally I would do anything in the interest of peace," said Delgado. "But I must also consider my father's position."

  "Yes, yes. Perfectly understandable."

  "I would prefer to consult with him first."

  "Of course, of course." Bledsoe continued to pace. "In a related matter, my son, Jeremy, has enlisted with Doniphan's Volunteers. A reckless act. He is indifferent to his father's feelings in this regard. I have tried to talk him out of going back to war, but without success. He is going, and I am nearly beside myself with worry. I almost lost him once. I could not bear it were something to happen to him."

  He stopped dead in his tracks and wheeled to look in anguish at Hugh Falconer.

  "Hugh, my friend, I have no right to ask this of you. You have a wife, a son. I know it was a hardship on them when I prevailed upon you to go to Texas, into the thick of the fighting, to watch out for my son's welfare. You very nearly lost your life to save his. I can scarcely bring myself to ask you to once again—"

  Falconer held up a hand. "I'll go, and gladly."

  "I would offer you a substantial sum of money for the service, if I did not think such an offer would be offensive to you."

  "It would be, Jacob, so don't bother."

  "What will Lillian say?"

  "I'm getting kind of restless, and she can tell."

  "She is a splendid woman."

  Falconer nodded. "I'm lucky."

  "In addition, you will see Delgado home safely."

  Falconer rose and went to the window to gaze out at the quiet morning street. "Jacob, Del and Jeremy aren't children anymore. They're grown men, and they're capable of taking care of themselves."

  "Don't worry, Mr. Falconer," said Delgado, jovial, trying to lighten the mood. "I'll make sure you get safely to Santa Fe. But you will be on your own coming back."

  Falconer turned, grinning. "If we're going to be on the same string, Del, you had better start calling me Hugh. That way, if you ever have to yell at me to duck for cover, it will take half as long."

  "Hugh it is, then."

  "I won't mind the change of scenery," said Falconer. "Truth is, I've got a few old friends out that way I would like to see again. Heard tell there's going to be a rendezvous of sorts at Turley's Mill."

  "Why, that's only a few miles out of Taos," said Delgado.

  Falconer nodded. "And I'd like to pay a visit to Charley Bent. There's talk they might appoint him governor of the New Mexico Territory. I knew him when we were both still wet behind the ears, right here in St. Louis. Matter of fact, he and his brother William once saved my life."

  "When does General Kearny plan to leave?" asked Delgado.

  "A week, maybe ten days."

  "I know you are eager to be on your way," said Bledsoe.

  His thoughts all of Sarah, Delgado managed a wan smile. "I can wait."

  "Splendid! Splendid!" Bledsoe clapped his hands together. A great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. "It is arranged, then. Hugh, you are a godsend."

  "My pleasure, Jacob." Falconer nodded at Delgado. "See you in a few days, Del." With that, he was gone.

  "Come, my boy," said Bledsoe. "Have breakfast with me. I have suddenly regained my appetite."

  "Mr. Bledsoe, your daughter has consented to join me in a buggy ride today. With your permission."

  "She has? Oh, well, certainly. Certainly. I just hope she does not pester you with more of that nonsense from last night. I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you."

  Delgado allowed himself a clandestine smile as he followed Bledsoe out of the parlor.

  A few hours later, as he steered the Bledsoe surrey down St. Louis streets, Sarah by his side, he said, "Your father still thinks you are going to marry Brent Horan."

  It was perhaps a bit forward of him to broach such a personal subject, but he felt he had to know where Sarah stood in this respect.

  "He spoke to you about that?" she asked.

  "Over breakfast. He said you've changed some, and he did not think Brent Horan would think it was for the better."

  "Brent and I would be a very good match," she said.

  His heart plummeted.

  "For Father," added Sarah dryly.

  "And for
you?"

  She gave him a funny look, but did not call him to account for the liberty he was taking.

  "I could never marry a slaveholder."

  "Perhaps for you he would emancipate his slaves."

  Sarah laughed. "I lack the zeal to be that devoted an abolitionist!" When Delgado made no reply, she glanced slyly at him and asked, "Is this idle curiosity, Mr. McKinn, or something more?"

  "I think your father wondered the same thing. But he decided I could not do much damage to his plans in a week's time."

  "A week?"

  Delgado told her about the arrangements made for his journey home. He watched her carefully, while trying not to appear he was doing so, hoping to see even a glimmer of disappointment on her lovely face. If there was one, he missed it.

  "Considering events, you must be quite concerned about your parents," she said.

  "I confess that I am. Actually, my father prevailed upon yours to try and keep me here until the war had run its course."

  Sarah said nothing to that. Delgado chided himself for even cherishing a slender hope that she might encourage him to stay. After all, they had met only yesterday. What did he expect? A breathless affirmation of undying love from her ruby lips? It was one thing to be an incurable romantic, and something else entirely to be a self-deceiving dunce.

  St. Louis had only recently presented itself with a new courthouse, a formidable limestone structure set dead center in the square off Market Street, and within sight of the levee. Here, in a basement cell, languished the abolitionist Jeremiah Rankin. As the town constable escorted them down a flight of steps beneath the courthouse entrance, they noticed a group of twenty or thirty men loitering in grim silence on the grounds.

  "You see those men?" asked the constable as he used one of his many keys to unlock the basement door. "They're here for the same reason as you folks, Miss Bledsoe."

  "You mean Rankin?"

  Looking worried, the constable nodded. "The judge holds court on Monday. I just hope I can hold onto Rankin till then. I don't think those men up there are inclined to wait too long for justice."

  "What do you think they want to do?" asked Delgado. He wondered if these were some of the men Jeremy had told him were so beholden to the Horans.

  "It can go one of two ways. If Rankin's lucky, they'll just tar and feather him and ride him out of town on a rail. If he's not so lucky, they'll lynch him."

  "Of course you will see to it that he stands before the magistrate come Monday," said Sarah.

  The constable gave her a sour look. "I've got three deputies, ma'am. Two of them just took ill, all of a sudden like. Does that answer your question?"

  He threw the creaking door open. Across a barren anteroom and through an iron-plated inner door they passed, to find themselves in a long passageway flanked on both sides by cells of strap iron.

  "First cell on your left," said the constable.

  Rankin was sitting on a narrow bunk, hunched over, head in hands. When he looked up and saw Delgado, he shot to his feet.

  "You!"

  Sarah glanced curiously at Delgado as she addressed Rankin. "You know Mr. McKinn, sir?"

  Rankin came to the cell door and gripped the strap iron so tightly his knuckles whitened. "I should say I do. He saved my life aboard the Sultana."

  "Don't take it personally," said Delgado. "I only intervened because I happen to believe that every man deserves a fair hearing in a court of law."

  Rankin's smile was taut. "Which distinguishes you from many others in this part of the country. But, in spite of your efforts, sir, I may not get that day in court."

  Sarah turned to the constable. "May I have a few words in private with the prisoner?"

  "I don't think that's too good an idea, miss," said the lawman, dubious.

  "You know me. I am Sarah Bledsoe. Do you imagine I might be concealing a pocket pistol or steel file in my petticoats? If so, you have my permission to search for them."

  The constable turned beet red. "I'll wait outside."

  As soon as he was gone, Sarah told Rankin that she was a member of the American Antislavery Society. Rankin was surprised.

  "If I can be of any service to you," said Sarah. "Do you have an attorney?"

  "In the first place, I think you would be hard pressed to find a lawyer willing to jeopardize his career—not to mention his life—by representing me," replied Rankin, sardonic. "In addition, the gentlemen who accosted me on the riverboat cleaned out my pockets. I am as poor as Job's turkey."

  "I can provide you with the necessary funds, Mr. Rankin."

  "I am grateful, miss. But, again, I doubt I will be in court come Monday. So your money would be wasted."

  "You seem resigned to your fate," remarked Delgado.

  "I am a soldier in an undeclared war. My cause is just. I have no regrets."

  "You may believe your cause is just. That is your right. I only hope innocent people aren't hurt in the process."

  "There are no innocent people, sir, where slavery is concerned. Slavery is the greatest evil. You are either for it or against it. To ignore it, to pretend it does not exist, or is of no concern to you, is no defense."

  "You deal with morals as you would mathematics," observed Delgado. "Slavery was a fact in the ancient world, and it has only recently been condemned by the Christian world. In this country slavery was a fact when the Constitution was framed. The founders agreed the institution should be protected where it already existed. They abolished the slave trade, though, and prohibited slavery in the Northwest Territory. That demonstrates they did not wish slavery to expand. The general expectation has always been that it would gradually be extinguished. Social change comes slowly. But you abolitionists lack the patience to wait for it."

  "The South will never dispense with slavery, sir," said Rankin. "Cotton is king, and as long as that is the case, they must have their slaves."

  "So you would destroy the economy of an entire region to right this wrong?"

  "I would! And not lose a moment's sleep. As a nation we must hang our heads in shame as long as a single slave remains in bondage within our borders."

  "Easy enough to say. We're not talking about the ruin of your part of the country, are we?"

  Rankin's eyes narrowed. "You don't like me or what I stand for. So why did you save my life?"

  "I told you why. And you are wrong in one respect. I admire your motives, sir, but abhor your methods. You would instigate a slave insurrection to have your way. I think it was the Apostle Paul who said that we are not to do evil that good may come." Delgado turned to Sarah. "My apologies. I know you would like to have your own private discussion with Mr. Rankin. I will wait outside with the constable."

  A few minutes later, she rejoined him beneath the courthouse steps. This gave Delgado ample time to realize that, once again, his impulsive nature had gotten him into hot water. He disliked the abolitionist, not because the man's actions were illegal, but rather because they put others in jeopardy. Not least Delgado himself, and Sarah Bledsoe. But this dislike for Rankin had loosened his tongue, and he had promptly trampled on it—and Sarah Bledsoe's convictions in the process. His words would not endear him to her. Of this he was certain.

  Thanking the constable, Sarah swept past Delgado and headed for the surrey. Catching up to her, Delgado said, "Miss Bledsoe, I hope you understand, in a sense I was playing the devil's advocate . . ."

  She turned on him. To his surprise there was a smile rather than anger on her face. "You have no reason to explain yourself. Your heart is in the right place. I know it must be. That is why I must ask you to help me save Rankin's life. Save him from them." She looked beyond the surrey at the grim-faced men lingering like a bad dream in the square.

  "I do not have it within my power to say no to you."

  "I was counting on that. Wait here for me."

  She caught the constable wearily ascending the courthouse steps. There in the bright hot summer sunshine they spoke earnestly for a few moments. T
he constable glanced several times at the men who hovered menacingly about the courthouse like vultures waiting for a suffering creature's last breath. Then, reluctantly, he nodded, and Sarah rejoined Delgado.

  "He'll help us," she said, triumphant. "Like Pontius Pilate, he wants to wash his hands of this business."

  "Help us do what? What are you up to?"

  "I'll tell you on the way home."

  4

  That evening, after dinner, Delgado slipped undetected out of the Bledsoe house. At a nearby livery he rented a buggy with a calabash cover and drove back to the corner of Laurel Avenue and the Rue St. Eglise. As he waited, he asked himself for at least the hundredth time why he was being such an utter fool by getting involved in something that was none of his business. For the hundredth time the answer was obvious. He was bewitched by the beautiful Sarah Bledsoe. He had never known such a remarkable woman—and he had made the acquaintance of quite a few fair ladies. Still, the consequences of what they were conspiring to do were too horrible to contemplate.

  A short while later, a breathless Sarah joined him, encased in a hooded cloak of black pilotcloth.

  "All clear?" asked Delgado.

  She nodded. "I told Clarisse everything. She will see to it that our absence is not discovered."

  "Hmm," said Delgado, skeptical, as he stirred the horse into motion.

  At the courthouse he waited outside in the buggy while Sarah went in to find the constable. She made certain that any who might have reason to be watching saw by the light of the storm lanterns flanking the courthouse door that she was, indeed, a woman, and as she emerged a moment later to accompany the constable down to the basement jail, she was illuminated again.

  Humming a tune—it helped him to keep his nerves on an even keel—Delgado waited. A man materialized out of the evening shadows to approach the buggy, a flinty-eyed man wearing a linsey-woolsey shirt and stroud pants, a cold pipe clenched between his crooked teeth.

  "Wouldn't have any tobacco to spare, now would you, friend?" he asked, peering at Delgado.