“Yeah, they found him in one of the backrooms with the charred hilt of a knife stickin’ from his back. It’s the sheriff’s guess that he was one of the keepers and that the fire was deliberately started to cover up the murder. My bet is that one of those inmates who escaped caught him unawares, grabbed his keys, and took off after setting the place on fire.”

The men mumbled among themselves and grew angrier as conjectures about the escaped inmates became more lurid. As he listened, it became increasingly apparent to Horace that if these fellows were provided with the proper incentive, he would not have to face Ashton Wingate at all, for they would do it for him.

He glanced about him, sizing up many in the group as a bunch of ruffians who frequented the taverns and picked up odd jobs here and there to supply them with necessary coinage. By their rough garb, it was easy to assess that these were not part of the affluent class and might be impressed by the presence of a wealthy gentleman in their midst. Having worn his newest and best for Marelda’s benefit, he was outfitted well enough to strike awe in the minds of these penniless yokels. His fine gray frock coat and trousers were imbued with light plum stripes, while the brocade vest was traced with a pattern of small plum flowers. Why, his garments, right down to the plum-and-gray-checkered silk cravat, might have even made the arrogant Ashton Wingate writhe in envy.

Horace cleared his throat to gain the others’ notice, sensing that here was his chance to put forth his suspicions. “Men, listen to me. We’ve got to do something about those madfolk running around our community. None of us are safe, and it’s a downright shame that the womenfolk of Natchez have to venture out at the risk of their very lives.”

A low rumble of assent accompanied the nodding of heads, and after a moment the men quieted and again gave Horace their full consideration. Warming to his topic, the squat, would-be orator puffed out his chest and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. It was no mystery to him that several stared with jaws hanging slack, for he was sure his authoritative demeanor and costly garb affected some in that manner. If he heard, he gave no hint when one man commented to a companion:

“Gor! Ain’t no man what dresses like that this time o’ morn’n!” The fellow scratched a heavily stubbled chin. “He musta spent the whole night swillin’ down gin. Prob’ly slept it off wid one o’ Cottonmouth Maggie’s girls down by the Trace.”

“Look to yourselves, men!” Horace barked. “It’s not only the women who are in danger. Reliable accounts have it that mad people sometimes have the strength of five or six men! They’re likely to tear a common man apart for the pennies in his pocket!” He sought to find the magic words that would set them aflame with righteous fervor. “I say it’s time we band together and search out these escaped madfolk before they do us some harm!”

Silence settled over the group as they realized he was actually asking them to do something. A few more curious souls had joined the gathering, and a jug was passed around and repeatedly tipped to moisten thirsty gullets.

“Now, it’s been assumed that the escaped inmates were all men, but I’ve heard there was also a woman among them. In fact, the very same night the madhouse burned, Ashton Wingate brought home an injured girl who was wearing only a nightgown and was all muddied and bruised from trampin’ through the swamp. What’s a man to think when we all know it’s only a few miles through the woods from Belle Chêne to the madhouse?”

He could see the responding nods and hear the growing buzz of comments.

“There’s no tellin’ what she might do to them poor folks out there or to those old ladies who stay alone when Ashton’s away on business. Set another fire?”

The crowd could summon no great sympathy for the ladies, especially when they thought of that big black overseer who watched over the place. Ashton Wingate had made it clear some time ago that no one fooled with any of his, be it his kin, his slaves, or his property. They remembered a time when he had called out the sheriff to carry off a bunch of boys who had gone out to his place on a ’coon hunt, and after several hours behind bars, they had ended up having to pay for that cow, which at night and from a distance had really looked like a coon. There were other stories about how men were hired out there and expected to work right alongside the slaves. Why, it was common knowledge that a man couldn’t earn a day’s pay at Belle Chêne without churning up a sweat and nearly working his fingers to the bone. Any excuse to trample on the Wingates’ lawn was to be taken advantage of, and this one seemed a far better excuse than most. It would feel sort of good to tweak Ashton’s nose on his own front lawn….

Horace cried aloud as if haunted by the horror of it all. “We just can’t let this kind of thing go on! That madwoman”-the leap from suspicion to conclusion was easy-“could murder a dozen people or more if she isn’t put away!”

This time there was a shout of assent, and when it died, Horace ranted on in his high-pitched voice.

“We’d just be doing all of them a favor and performing our duty to make it safe for everyone to sleep at night and for womenfolk and children on the streets.”

“You’re right!” The hue and cry was taken up. “Who knows their way around out there? We need someone to lead us out!”

Horace grew anxious as a sudden note of confusion seemed ready to sap the will of the crowd. “I do!” he yelled and became instantly aware of his folly. “I can draw you a map.” His voice dwindled even lower as he added, “I…er…I’d go myself but I have no horse….”

“Use mine! We need some one to show us the way!”

Horace stared at his hand where a pair of reins had suddenly appeared, and when he looked about, the owner of the horse had gone. The rawboned nag at the other end of the leather straps gave Horace gaze for gaze. The horse appeared to have been assembled by a neophyte who had randomly jammed long gnarled bones into a sagging, mottled brown, and mostly hairy hide. The steed’s narrow eyes appeared to harbor an ill-disguised desire to wreak vengeance on any man fool enough to straddle his bony back. Horace shuddered as he recalled the pain that had accompanied his last attempt to ride a horse. That particular event had caused him to swear an oath to keep himself forevermore to the well-padded seat of a carriage.

“I…um…don’t…” he murmured weakly, then turned away from that mean-eyed stare and managed somehow to gather some semblance of bravado: “There’s no tellin’ how violent that woman might be. Someone should…”

“Here!” A rusted antique of a long, double-barreled flintlock shotgun was thrust into his other hand. “She’s primed and loaded, so’s you treats her like a baby, see?”

Guns were another item Horace failed to understand. They had always left him hurting in one part or another. At first his father had scorned him because he could not shoot, then, relenting, had tried to instruct him in the proper use of firearms. An hour later the elder Titch had found himself seriously contemplating a savaged hat and shredded coattails while a doctor plucked buckshot from the lower portion of his backside. He had hastened to agree with the medical man that the son would likely fare just as well without a knowledge of hunting in his education, and the subject had never been broached again…until now.

“Come on!” someone shouted. “Let’s be about it!”

All around him men were mounting horses that seemed to have been gathered from nowhere, and somehow Horace found himself in the saddle with the gun cradled in his arm. He hurt almost at once and, glancing around in dismay, searched for some trace of his driver or carriage. He noticed the sheriff’s bewhiskered deputy surveying the happenings from a short distance away, but the man’s tobacco-chewing reticence gave Horace no reason to hope that this ride would be terminated. Several men climbed into a wagon, and the whole entourage assembled behind the short-legged dandy, with a pair of buckboards bringing up the rear. Though he sought heartily to catch a glimpse of his carriage and promised himself that he would deal harshly with his driver whenever he found him, there was no escape for M. Horace Titch.

Someone slapped his horse, and they were off amid shouts and a noisy scramble. Horace was quite astounded by the fact that a steed could have such a bone-jarring trot. The corners of his mouth turned down in an agonized grimace as his backside bounced unmercifully against the saddle. To escape the abuse he tried to stand in the stirrups for a moment, but that position threatened to topple him headfirst over the horse’s neck. When he clamped his legs tighter around the horse’s belly, it only seemed to excite and encourage the animal into a faster trot. Horace jerked on the reins to keep the pace slower, and the best the confused mount could do was a stiff-legged half-trot. Horace’s dark head jerked with every downward motion of his body, and he became a mass of jiggling ripples from his jowls to his toes. It was a long way to Belle Chêne, and he was more than a little afraid that the ride went directly through hell.

The harpsichord took unto itself a new life under the slender, agile fingers that caressed the keyboard. Lierin was enthusiastic at her ability to play the instrument and, while the ladies napped upstairs, had slipped into the parlor to examine the extent of her talent. The sweet fluid notes had drawn Ashton to the room immediately upon his arrival home. He had seen to the last details of the steamboat’s departure upriver and left his captain and Mr. Logan to the matter of boarding the passengers.

Breathing out the smoke of a long, black cheroot, Ashton leaned back in his chair and watched the vapors drift slowly toward the ceiling as the light, airy music filled his head and echoed through the house. He was bathed in a sea of bliss. He could name no other woman who could stir his emotions so completely and bring such pleasure to his senses. Her merest presence touched his life with happiness, and yet he realized she was still much of an enigma to him. She had a great deal to tell him about herself and her life and where she had been for these past three years.

The mood was broken by a sudden and persistent knocking on the door. Lierin stopped playing and glanced around as if she had forgotten there was another world beyond the parlor. When Ashton called out, bidding admittance, he was amazed when one of the stablehands answered the summons and hurried in with hat in hand. It was unusual for Hickory to come into the house, and Ashton knew before the man spoke that a crisis was imminent.

“Massa,” the groom wheezed and waggled a finger in the general direction of Natchez. “Massa, dey’s a whole passel o’ men acomin’ dis way, ridin’ lickety-split an’ lookin’ like dey’s up to no good.” The black paused to swallow and catch his breath before continuing: “Suh, Ah do believe dey’s headin’ here. Dere jes’ ain’t no other place fo’ dem to go.”

Ashton pondered the matter as he tapped the burning end of his cigar in a dish. “Perhaps we should see what kind of reception we can arrange for them. Do you have any more running left in those long legs of yours?”

“Yassuh, Massa Ashton.” Hickory grinned and nodded an eager affirmative. “Ah was jes’ up in de hayloft when Ah seen dem acomin’. Why, Ah gots at least a mile or more o’ dust raisin’ left.”

“Judd is cleaning some of the brush away from the creek.” Ashton rattled out orders in rapid-fire sequence. “You get down there and tell him to come back and bring every man he can lay a hand to. Tell him to come ready for trouble. I’ll leave instructions with Willabelle in the kitchen. Best be on your way now, Hickory.”

The man was already turning to leave, and the door quickly closed behind him. Ashton went to Lierin, who had risen from the bench. He smiled to ease her worried frown and took her hands into his.

“No need to fret, my love,” he soothed. “Some of the boys from town get themselves liquored up once in a while and start cavorting around the countryside, seeing what kind of trouble they can get into. We’ve learned how to handle them without anyone getting hurt, so just continue to play. The sound of your music pleasures me greatly, and I would hear more of it. I must have a word with Willabelle now, and then I’ll just step outside on the porch.” He pressed a quick kiss on the back of her hand, then released her and left. Lierin returned to her music, but with Ashton’s departure from the parlor, the delightful interlude had ceased to be. The luster of the moment had definitely fled with him.

The group of horsemen drew near the porch where the master of Belle Chêne awaited them. They dissolved into a roiling, struggling mass as each one jockeyed for a position. Of course, the loser of this melee had to be the rider least skilled in the art of horsemanship, in this case one Mumford Horace Titch. This stalwart who had led the hardy band came to a stumbling, scrambling halt with the hooves of his gallant mount almost banging into the bottom step. A shocked expression contorted his face at the last stiff-legged bounce, and he sucked in his breath through gritted teeth at the pure agony of the moment. He stood up in the stirrups, trying to ease his pain, and surreptitiously sought to untangle the butt of the overlong shotgun from the loose ends of the reins. The gaping twin bores of the eight-gauge swung in a wide arc, and there was a sudden scurrying as Mr. Titch’s companions wisely concluded that their spokesman needed more room.