One of his companions had mercy on him and came to his aid. When the boot was untangled, Horace climbed slowly to his feet, using the gun for a crutch, and ruefully dusted off his new suit, causing an epidemic of sneezing fits to strike those nearest him. He slapped the beaver hat against his leg until it regained some semblance of its former hue, then settled it once more upon his head. With the completion of this simple toilet, he lifted his gaze to his host and immediately detected the fact that Ashton Wingate was regarding him with something akin to pity. He could have endured outright hatred far better; at least that emotion would have made him feel less like a bumbling clod.

“Suh, I must warn you,” he began angrily, but had to pause to spit dirt out of his mouth. “We will not be put off lightly. We’ve come here to see that our community is made safe again.”

The troop of unworthies began to exchange self-righteous comments as they regrouped behind their leader. They lifted clubs and guns en masse to affirm their agreement with what Horace had stated.

With calm deliberation, Ashton perused the crowd of men, then casually called over his shoulder for a bucket of cool water to be brought up fresh from the well and a jug of rum to accompany it. Unruffled, he waited until both had arrived and made a show of emptying the dark, potent brew into the bucket. He stirred the lot with a long-handled dipper, then raised the cup and took a long, slow sip, following his action with a smile of obvious pleasure.

The mob had grown strangely quiet as envious eyes marked his every movement. Dry tongues licked longingly over parched lips, while nostrils quivered to catch the scent. When he was sure he had gained their rapt attention, Ashton lifted the dripping ladle aloft and dribbled the liquid in a slow, tantalizing stream.

“The road from town is hot and dusty. I’m sure you men could use a bit of cool water.”

Sighs of relief were quickly overwhelmed by shouts of assent, and a mass of burly bodies gathered near the stoop. Nudging elbows prodded slighter forms aside as each sought to receive his ration. Ashton stared down at them and almost smiled as he stepped back.

“Aye, that’s the way, lads. Nothing like a good swig of grog to cut the grime in a man’s throat.”

They nodded eagerly in a rushing tide of agreement. Horace finally yielded to his own thirst and deigned to put the brimming dipper to his lips. He swirled the first draft around in his mouth and then spewed a muddy stream onto the lane before he quenched his thirst. As he passed the dipper on, he got back to the matter at hand. “Mr. Wingate!” He gained that one’s rather skeptical regard almost immediately. “Do you intend to hand the woman over to us so we might deliver her to the sheriff?”

His cohorts suddenly recalled the reason for their visit and, since the bucket was nearly empty, clustered around their selected spokesman. Horace had never been leader of anything before, and he felt a surge of importance as he laid the gun over his arm and turned to survey his fellows. There was a wild dash for cover as the bore of the weapon swung with him.

Had Ashton been in a better mood, he might have found some humor in these antics, but he could manage no more than a coldly tolerant smile when the little man’s round, dirt-streaked face confronted him again. He had not heard the harpsichord for some moments and could only hope that Willabelle had had the foresight to escort Lierin up to her room.

Horace cleared his throat. “You understand clearly why we’ve come, suh. If you would be so kind as to fetch the girl, we’ll take her in to the sheriff and let him decide what to do with her. I’ll see that no action is taken against you.”

Ashton neither spoke nor changed his expression, but Horace’s eyes widened perceptively as the front door swung open and Belle Chêne’s huge black overseer, Judd Barnum, stepped casually out, with a pair of oversize horse pistols tucked in his belt. In the crook of his arm rested an ancient but well-kept, bell-muzzled blunderbuss, and across his chest he wore a wide leather strap from which dangled a dozen or so wooden charges for the awesome weapon. The black held his silence, but braced his feet apart and proceeded to dip into the large pocket of his waistcoat, removing a handful of small, jagged metal pieces, which he ceremoniously dumped into the muzzle of the blunderbuss. Laying the piece again over his massive arm, Judd glanced up to meet the startled and disturbed stare of the short man, then his gaze ranged leisurely over the rest of the gathering.

At least one of the onlookers shuddered as he conjured a mental image of the mayhem such a charge would cause. Bellies tightened and grumbled as they churned in sudden consternation. Somewhere the note of lighthearted fun had vanished from this afternoon’s foray, and they began to have second thoughts about the wisdom of disturbing the occupants of Belle Chêne.

“You gentlemen are under a misconception,” Ashton announced almost pleasantly.

Horace tried to form a question, but he found his mouth gone dry, this time with roweling dismay. He had heard that Ashton Wingate had a penchant for turning the tables on pranksters or anyone else who meant him harm, but he had not expected the man to stand firm against such odds and surely not to take the upper hand. Intensely aware of the threat that faced them, Horace could only stand and gape.

The hazel eyes flicked toward him briefly. “You most of all, Mr. Titch.”

“Why…?” The single word was strangled out.

“The lady whom you have so carelessly slandered is my wife, and you should know me well enough by now at least to guess that I’m not partial to having anything taken from me by force, especially when it is something I treasure.”

“If’n she’s your’n, why ain’t we never seent her befo’?” The question came from a bearded, snaggle-toothed fellow who stood near the rear of the group.

“If Sheriff Dobbs has any questions he wishes to address to me, I will most respectfully respond, but I owe none of you an explanation.”

“Ah…the sheriff’s a friend o’ his. Ol’ Harvey ain’t gonna do nothin’ to upset his lordship here. We’ve gotta take care o’ this matter ourselves if’n we want justice done.”

Once again nodding heads conveyed the general consensus of the group of men.

“Yeah! She might’ve been the one what murdered the attendant, an’ she could kill again! Maybe one o’ ours next!”

“Yeah! If’n he won’t give her to us, we’ll take her!”

There was a sudden surge toward the porch, but Judd stepped forward, snatching one of the pistols from his belt and driving them rapidly back as he swung the wide bore of the blunderbuss to face them.

“Ah di’n hear Massa Ashton say any o’ y’all was invited on his nice clean porch,” he said almost amiably. His big, square grin displayed a full set of gleaming white teeth. “Ah be careful about dirtyin’ it if’n Ah was y’all. Massa Ashton’s gots a mighty mean temper when he’s riled. He jes’ might tell me to blow a few heads off. It be a mess all right, but Ah gotta to do what he sez, ’cause he de massa. Y’all understand?”

“You’d better understand, nigger! You kill a white man, and you’ll be hanged. You’d better think twice about that!”

Judd’s broad grin never wavered as he met the man’s glare. “Dat ain’t gonna do yo no good, mistah, ’cause yo be six feet under befo’ dey ketch me.”

“Arrogant nigger!” an unkempt, slovenly fellow sneered. “Anybody’d think he’s got a title or somepin’.”

“There’s enough of us to take ’em,” another man urged from the center of the fray.

“Well, I seen the two of ’em clean ol’ Sal’s place out last year,” one who favored caution argued. “We’d better think on this some more.”

“Good advice, gentlemen,” Ashton agreed. “Consider the odds carefully before making any hasty decisions.”

“You don’t scare us, Mistuh Ashton,” a burly fellow jeered. “We’re gonna make pulp outa you an’ your black boy here.”

Ashton raised his arm and beckoned to the right and left. “You men best show yourselves now before these fools get hurt.”

Somewhere in the back one man nudged another, then jerked his head to one side. Other heads began to turn warily on suddenly stiff necks, while jaws began to sag. If the arrival of the massive black had not been enough to dampen the spirit of adventure, this latest development was well calculated to do the job. A steady stream of sweating black men came marching from around both ends of the house. Some of them bore scythes, while others carried pitchforks or axes, and a few had found pistols or other paraphernalia that could do injury to the common man. By the grins they wore, it was easy to determine that they were going to enjoy this rout. Willis’s eyes were wide as he slipped out the front door, and the long weapon he carried matched the one Mr. Titch had so zealously guarded. Hiram came around the end of the house, and he too bore a firearm of some length and power.

Ashton leisurely strolled across the front of the porch and, turning, retraced his steps as he considered the suddenly troubled faces of his visitors. “You men know I’m not fond of trespassers, especially those who come to poach, steal, or destroy anything of mine. Some say I’m a hard man, demanding retribution for the slightest offense. Now, it’s obvious that I can’t hang all of you, because you haven’t stolen anything or killed anyone yet. You’re too many for the sheriff to lock up, and you’d only abuse his hospitality anyway. I could give each of you the thrashing you deserve for coming out here as an unlawful mob, but I have other affairs that demand my attention. However, I think a nice, long, reflective saunter back to Natchez will suit my purposes….” He smiled tolerantly and, glancing over his shoulder at Judd, casually inclined his head. The black chuckled and, descending a step, raised the pistol and blunderbuss into the air. The bits of metal and shot went skyward with a roar, and in quick accompaniment those with similar weapons copied his manner. The blasts caused a horrendous cacophony that thoroughly startled the mounts, and to add to the chaos the falling debris rained down like a swarm of stinging bees on their hides. The bedlam was immediate and almost unbelievable. The frightened steeds snorted, whinnied, and bucked beneath the smarting shower. The reins snaked out of Horace’s hand, and the nag, sensing his freedom, took flight. The rest of the men scurried to catch flying reins, manes, or tails before their own steeds followed the example. Iron-weighted hooves lashed out in every direction, and it was a wild dance to escape their abuse. Some stalwarts foolishly persisted and ended up yelping and jumping around while others grimaced in silent agony and staggered away, and all this to the chortling amusement of those who witnessed the melee.