Somehow M. Horace Titch found himself outside on the stoop with no recollection of how he had arrived there. He had a vague recall of sweet lips curved in a tantalizing smile before the door shut them from sight, but the memory of the yielding softness against his arm overshadowed all else and filled his chest with a pounding heart. The cool air cleared his mind by slow degrees, and he found a hat in his hand. Since it had all the appearance of being his, he placed it on his head and began to walk toward the center of town. A rattle of wheels beside him reminded him that he had come in a carriage, and he climbed inside to review the idea of approaching Ashton Wingate on the matter of the mysterious girl and the possible reactions of the man if it were done wrongly.

The elements of Horace Titch’s problem ricocheted around in his head, but whenever he settled on a tactic that seemed commensurate with diplomacy, his imagination ended the scene with chilling images of Ashton Wingate committing various forms of horrendous mayhem upon his person. His thoughts were still locked on this dilemma when the carriage passed a knot of men who had gathered on a street corner. A single word caught his attention.

“…Madhouse!”

Promptly Horace rapped on the roof and bade his driver to halt. Keenly curious, he made his way to the edge of the crowd and turned an attentive ear to what was being said. A man holding the reins of a sweating horse was breathlessly relating the news.

“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.