Sighing in relief, Zach came to the well-lit house. Whiskers and Tails was exactly as the crewman had described it: ablaze with light, four stories high, an old and once stately house converted to pleasurable pursuits. From within came gay laughter and the babble of many voices. Men and women dressed in the most expensive height of fashion were visible through windows on every floor.

  Zach bounded up the broad marble stairs, past a row of large columns. He was almost to the door when two men in smart jackets and shirts materialized out of the shadows. Both were big, brawny and black.

  “May we help you, sir?” politely asked the one on the right, the older of the pair.

  “I need to see Captain Massey,” Zach said.

  The black on the left smiled courteously. “We’re sorry, sir, but this is a private club. Only members are admitted.” He paused and looked Zach up and down. “Are you perhaps a member, sir?”

  “No. But it’s important,” Zach informed them, and extended a hand to the silver embossed latch. “Step aside.”

  Instead, they stood shoulder to shoulder, effectively barring his way, and the older black said, not unkindly, “We would be remiss in our duties, sir, if we permitted you to enter.”

  “You don’t understand.” Zach had half a mind to fight his way in. He had to remind himself these were only servants doing their job.

  “Please, sir. Be a good gentleman and leave,” said the younger one. “We do not want to make you go.”

  “I must see him,” Zach stressed, and then he had a brainstorm. “How about if one of you does me a favor?”

  “A favor, sir?” said the older black. He was graying at the temples and had a reserved dignity about him.

  “Take a message to Captain Massey for me. Tell him it’s urgent I speak to him. A matter of life and death.” They glanced at one another and the older black said, “I will check with our mistress and if she gives her consent, we will do as you ask.” He went in.

  “Your mistress?” Zach said.

  “Miss Kitanzia Dyakonov, sir,” said the young black. “Everyone calls her Miss Kitty. This is her establishment. A more elegant and gracious lady you could never hope to meet.” He opened the door. “She bought my father and me over a year ago and set us free the very next day.”

  A couple wearing clothes that cost more than Zach had earned in his whole lifetime came strolling merrily up the stairs and the servant moved aside so they could enter. They stared at Zach. The woman tittered and her wealthy escort joked to the young black, “What’s this, James? Is it a costume night and no one told us?”

  “No sir, Mr. Piedmont, sir,” James dutifully said, and admitted them. In the awkward silence that followed, he commented, “Don’t take what he said personal. His kind always look down their noses at our kind.”

  “At blacks and breeds, you mean?”

  “At poor folk,” James said. “Those who have money generally think that makes them better than those who don’t.”

  “Then why do you work here?” Zach wondered. He had too much pride to abide anyone who thought he was inferior.

  “Out of respect for Kitty and the kindness she did us in setting us free. It cost her close to five thousand dollars for us and our families, and she has never asked us to repay a cent. She got us these jobs, she pays us a salary. My pa and me will work for her until the day we die.” James studied him. “What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking, sir?”

  “Call me Zach, not ‘sir.’ I hunt, I fish, I do some trapping. There’s little demand for beaver plews these days but other hides fetch a fair price. Griz skins, for one. I hear folks make rugs out of them.”

  “You’re a frontiersman?” James asked, sounding impressed.

  “Some call us that. Others have taken to calling us mountain men.” Personally, Zach liked the name the early trappers used: mountaineers.

  More patrons of Whiskers and Tails came up the stairs and James let them by. Zach impatiently paced, anxious for word he could go in.

  “You sure are a bundle of nerves, sir,” James remarked.

  “I reckon so,” Zach admitted. “But you would be too, if it were your sister’s life at stake.”

  The door opened and out stepped the father. One glance at his expression and Zach knew what the answer had been.

  “I am most sorry, sir, but Kitty does not wish Captain Massey to be disturbed. I am afraid you must leave.”

  Like Hell, Zach thought, and stood his ground. Whether they liked it or not, whether their mistress liked it or not, he was going in, and no one would stop him.

  Three

  The fence was seven feet high but all Zach had to do was take a few steps back to get a running start, leap with his arms outstretched, catch hold, and swing himself over. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet and crouched in the darkness, his right hand on his knife.

  Enough light spilled from the windows to reveal a wide yard, neatly trimmed flower gardens, and a footpath leading to a short flight of steps and the back door.

  Zach started forward but instantly froze when a low, menacing growl emanated from a far corner. A shadow detached itself from the mantle of night; a four-legged form that slunk slowly toward him, its bared teeth a slash of white against the black of its hide. Blazing like red coals, the guard dog’s eyes reflected the lamp light from inside.

  Zach didn’t need to confront it. He had plenty of time to turn and swing back over the fence before the dog could reach him. But he held his ground. The stakes were too high, time too precious, for him to turn tail, no matter how big and threatening the dog might be.

  And it was big. As large as a mountain lion but with a stub tail and a longer head and jaws. Jaws rimmed with razor teeth that glistened all the more brightly as the space between them narrowed.

  The dog had its belly low to the ground and was stalking him with the slow determination of a wolverine. Raising its muzzle into the breeze, it sniffed a few times to read his scent. Another growl rumbled from its chest.

  Suddenly straightening, Zach boldly walked toward the house, saying sternly, “Sit, boy! Sit!” He thought that maybe, just maybe, the dog would heed the authority in his tone and obey. But some gambles did not pay off and this was one. He had only taken a couple of steps when the dog snarled and came at him like a wolf gone rabid.

  There was a streak of black and the dog’s powerful jaws gnashed and snapped as it sought to rip Zach’s legs out from under him. Only Zach wasn’t there. At the last possible instant he leaped straight into the air, his legs tucked to his chest. The dog bounded under him, abruptly stopped, and whirled just as Zach alighted in a crouch.

  For a few moments they were eye-to-eye, the dog’s nape bristling, its breath fanning Zach’s face.

  Zach began to back toward the porch. Just like that, the dog was on the attack. It sprang at his neck, at his jugular, and would have ripped his flesh open had he not met it with a lightning slash of his bowie. Blood spurted, and the dog yipped and twisted and landed to one side, coiled for another spring.

  Risking a glance at the windows, Zach made sure no one was looking out. The momentary distraction proved costly, though, because in the fleeting instant his eyes were off the dog, it leapt and fastened its jaw onto his left wrist.

  Excruciating pain lanced up Zach’s arm, jangling every nerve in his whipcord-tough body. Twisting his forearm, he wrenched for all he was worth. He only had heartbeats before the dog’s saber teeth sheared clean to the bone.

  With a ripping of buckskin and a rending of flesh, Zach tore his arm free and backpedaled. Moistness spread down his wrist as he crouched to meet the dog’s next charge.

  Snarling viciously, the animal came in low and fast. It went for Zach’s legs this time and he narrowly avoided having them bowled out from under him. Zach swung and missed. The dog had veered wide. Wheeling, it coiled, then jumped, arcing high.

  Zach did not duck or dodge; he met the beast head-on with a stroke that would cleave a sapling. The bowie’s heavy blade sheared through hide and sinew like a hot knife through wax.

  Yipping, the dog scrabbled away and stood with its legs splayed wide as a scarlet torrent soaked the grass. It opened its mouth to bark and more blood spewed from its mouth and nose. Gagging, it tottered toward the house but only went a short way when its front legs folded and it pitched onto its chest.

  Zach straightened and checked the windows again. When he lowered his gaze the dog was on its side, its legs thrashing and jerking spasmodically. He thought of the pet wolf he once had and a twinge of regret stabbed through him. But only a twinge, which he shrugged off as he moved to the steps.

  A sharp pang prompted him to examine his wrist. A six-inch rent in the sleeve would need mending. One of the dog’s canines had left a furrow in his skin almost as long, but it was not deep and was barely bleeding. Dressing it could wait. He had been hurt a lot worse. Compared to some wounds he had suffered, this was a trifle.

  Hunkering, Zach wiped the bowie’s dripping blade clean on the grass and replaced it in its beaded sheath made for him by his mother years ago, before he took a wife. His moccasins made no noise on the steps, nor as he crossed to the door. He was mildly surprised to find it unlocked.

  Zack poked his head in, then immediately drew it back again. The door opened into a wide hallway brightly lit by lamps and filled with people moving to and fro; men in expensive frock coats with checked or striped trousers and vests, women in flowing silk dresses. He would stand out like a buffalo in a horse herd, and the last thing he wanted was to attract attention. He must find Captain Massey.

  There was a sound to Zach’s left. He flattened as another door thirty feet away opened, a door he had not noticed. From it stepped an Hispanic man dressed all in white, including a white apron. Cheerfully whistling, he walked to a stack of chopped wood, helped himself to half a dozen logs, and went back inside, pulling the door shut after him with his toe.

  The night was warm. Zach could not think of why they would want a fire until he had moved close to the other door and smelled the mouth-watering aroma of roast beef. He cracked the door and discovered a short hall that led into a kitchen. Other staff in white were bustling about preparing meals and cakes and pies.

  Crossing it unnoticed would be impossible. Then Zach noticed several white jackets and pants on pegs near the door. He selected the largest and pulled them on over his buckskins. The pants had a tie, the jacket a string of buttons. It was not much of a disguise but it would have to do.

  Zach waited until most of the kitchen workers had their backs to him, then made a swift beeline for a door on the other side. He was almost there when someone called out, “Hey there! Who are you?” Before anyone could stop him, he was through and hurrying along a crowded hall, his chin tucked to his chest. He reasoned that no one would pay much attention to him and assume he was one of the hired help.

  Finding the steamboat captain proved difficult. The house had dozens of rooms and each was jammed. The crewman had told Zach that Whiskers and Tails was one of the most popular night spots in all of New Orleans, and he hadn’t exaggerated.

  Everyone was having a grand time. Couples embraced, fondled, snuggled and kissed. Others were talking, joking, laughing. In some rooms, darker than the rest, more intimate touching took place. In other rooms, brightly illuminated by chandeliers, various games of chance were popular.

  A winding flight of polished teak stairs took Zach to the second floor. The rails were gleaming brass, the walls adorned with paintings. To say the place was opulent was an understatement. Plush carpet covered the floors, and the glass lamps were trimmed with gold.

  Zach noticed the luxuries only in passing as he moved from room to room. The next was more spacious than most and at the center was a large circular table at which sat eight men and two women engrossed in cards. He gave them a cursory glance and was turning away when a comment fell on his ears.

  “How much longer will you keep us waiting, Massey?”

  The table was ringed by so many spectators that Zach had not noticed a heavyset man in a blue jacket and blue cap over by a bar. Bushy sideburns and thick jowls further fit the description Zach had been given. At the moment, the steamboat captain had a buxom woman in each arm and was whispering into the ear of one while the other nibbled on his lobe.

  “Did you hear me?” the annoyed player demanded.

  “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,” Captain Massey responded wearily. “I do declare, Vasklin, that you have no sense of decorum.”

  “Says the one who has kept us waiting over five minutes while he trifles with a pair of tarts,” responded Vasklin, a short, swarthy man with greasy black hair and a greasy, pencil-thin mustache.

  Sighing, Captain Massey patted the women on their fannies and ambled to an empty chair at the table. “Have you no romance in your soul? I was arranging a rendezvous for later.”

  “Arrange them on your own time, not ours,” was the indignant reply.

  Captain Massey glared and jabbed a thick finger at his accuser, about to offer a strong retort, when another player, a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man in a fine black frock coat superbly chiseled to his powerful frame, leaned forward.

  “I would suggest that is quite enough out of both of you. We are here to play poker, gentlemen. Let’s play it.” His words were uttered softly, yet the effect on the captain and Vasklin was remarkable. Both sat back, and Captain Massey said much too hastily, “Certainly, Duncan. Whatever you say.”

  “That is Mister Duncan to you,” said the man in the frock coat. “And I believe, Captain, it is your turn to call or fold.”

  Zach threaded in among the onlookers and worked his way around the table. A lovely blond across from Duncan fluttered a fan and teasingly asked, “Are all professional gamblers so serious about their card playing?”

  “To you, Miss Stevens, this is no more than an hour’s diversion,” Duncan responded suavely. “To me it is my livelihood. So yes, indeed, I take breaches of etiquette quite seriously, thank you.”

  Vasklin smiled thinly. “Serious enough to kill four men in duels over alleged cheating, eh?”

  Duncan’s penetrating gray eyes shifted to the swarthy player. “Are you claiming I lied about your brother dealing from the bottom of the deck?”

  All conversation ceased. Everyone stared expectantly at Vasklin. Those nearest to him cleared a space around his chair.

  “I would never call you a liar, Mister Duncan,” Vasklin said with mock civility.

  “That’s good,” Duncan said, “since all the other players at the table that night saw him cheat, as well. We offered him the chance to make good on our losses but he refused. He left me no recourse.”

  “There was no other way to satisfy your honor?” Vasklin asked with more than a little bitterness. “You know dueling is frowned on by the authorities, and few duels are fought.”

  “What are you implying?” Duncan demanded.

  “Only that perhaps a more civilized means of settling the situation might have been better.”

  Captain Massey cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, if you please. Your differences on this matter are well known. But now is hardly the proper time or place to air them.” He smiled at the gambler in black. “I thought you were eager to resume play?”

  By then Zach was behind the captain’s chair. Bending over Massey’s beefy shoulder, he said, “I need to talk to you.”

  Massey gave a start and blinked. “I beg your pardon? Is this about my supper? I thought I made my wishes quite explicit.”

  “It’s personal,” Zach said, and would have gone on except that Vasklin took exception to the interruption.

  “What’s this? First we have to twiddle our thumbs waiting for the good captain to indulge his lechery, and now the kitchen help is delaying our game? I swear. The quality of this establishment has taken a definite drop.”

  From out of the onlookers stepped a ravishing woman whose reddish-brown hair cascaded past her slender shoulders in lustrous wavelets. She wore a floral silk dress exquisite beyond compare. “How is that again, Mr. Vasklin?”

  “Kitty!” Vasklin blurted, and shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean that literally, of course.”

  “I hope not, for your sake,” Kitanzia Dyakonov said. “The last person to speak ill of my place was banned from setting foot inside for a year.” She gave an imperious toss of her curls and fixed Zach with a quizzical glance. “What on earth are you doing up here? The kitchen staff are not ever to leave the kitchen.” She paused. “Wait a minute. I don’t recall ever seeing you before.”

  Captain Massey’s bushy eyebrows met over his nose. “This fellow doesn’t work for you? Then why is he imposing on me?”

  “It’s personal,” Zach said, and tugged on Massey’s jacket. “All I need is a minute of your time in private.”

  “What nerve!” Massey declared. “Unhand me, sir, and go annoy someone else. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a card game?”

  “You heard him, boy,” Vasklin snapped. “Or should I say breed. If not for those blue eyes of yours, I’d have taken you for a savage.”

  The greasy little man would never know how close he came to having his throat slit. But Zach ignored him and gripped Massey harder. “Please. It’s important. I must speak to you.”

  “Unhand me, I say!” the captain bellowed.

  Kitty was moving toward a bright pink cord suspended from the ceiling near the door. “I don’t know who you are or what you are up to, but no one badgers my customers and gets away with it.” She yanked hard on the cord. “You have exactly sixty seconds to make yourself scarce or I will have you tossed out on your arrogant backside.”

  “No. You don’t understand.” Zach started toward her to explain, but Vasklin pushed back his chair, blocking him.

  “Didn’t you hear the lady, breed?” Rising, Vasklin seized the front of Zach’s white jacket. “Why is it your kind always have the manners of a goat?” He moved toward the doorway, hauling Zach after him. “I’ll throw you out myself and save Kitty the trouble.”

  “Let go of me,” Zach warned. His patience had its limits.

 

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