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sling—"the bullet missed the bone. I'll be free of this damned contraption in a few days. My wife insists I follow the doctor's orders to the letter. I've worn it this long only out of deference to her wishes."
    Delgado was intrigued. This man, this legend of the frontier, who had lived a wild and untrammeled existence in the most remote reaches of the high country, and who had answered to no man, seemed to have fallen prey to an affliction common to the male of the species—he had taken a wife and surrendered his sovereignty by so doing.
    "Come along," said Falconer, taking up one of the heavy valises with which Delgado had been struggling, and he did so with such ease that one might have thought the bag filled with goose down. "I have a surrey yonder."
    They began to cross the levee, Delgado following closely in Falconer's wake as the bigger manresolutely blazed a trail through the polyglot crowd. Between the levee and the row of warehouses was a narrow lane, and here stood the conveyance of which Falconer had spoken. A single horse stood patiently in the shafts. The two padded seats were covered by a calash folding top of leather, with an isinglass light in the rear. Falconer tossed one valise onto the backseat and turned to relieve Delgado of the other one—but Delgado wasn't paying attention. He was staring at eight Negroes marching single file down the lane toward them. They were bound together by a length of rope to which their leather collars were attached. A brutish-looking man, a Collier pistol in his broad belt and a cudgel in his hand, was walking alongside, keeping a wary eye on the slaves. Behind him came a smaller man in a black broadcloth frock coat and a straight-brimmed hat.
    "They're being sold down the river," said Falconer.
    "That has an ominous sound to it."
    Falconer nodded. "Bodes ill for them, that's certain. In some way each one of them has drawn his master's wrath. Made trouble. So they'll end up in Louisiana, or maybe even Cuba, where they're likely to be poorly treated."
    "There is a woman among them. A white woman."
    At the end of the line walked a dark-haired beauty with skin as pale as Delgado's own.
    "She's got Negro blood in her, or she wouldn't be there," replied Falconer. "Octoroon, maybe. With her looks she might wind up in a New Orleans brothel. Or, if she's real lucky, the mistress of a young Creole blade."
    Falconer's delivery of these facts was meticulously devoid of emotion, and Delgado studied the frontiersman's features for any indication of his true feelings. But Falconer was as stoic as a statue.
    "I don't think I care for the 'peculiar institution,' " decided Delgado.
    "What is there to like about it?"
    "Hold there!"
    Delgado's stomach muscles knotted. He recognized that voice as belonging to Brent Horan. But Horan, coming down the backside of the levee, was paying no attention to him, but rather was hurrying to intercept the slave dealer and his merchandise.
    2
    "Sir," said Horan, addressing the man clad in black, "have these niggers been sold?"
    "Why, no indeed, sir," replied the dealer. "They are bound for points down the river. I intend to auction them off in New Orleans."
    "I am interested, then, in buying the wench." Horan was staring at the octoroon. In fact, he could not seem to take his eyes off her. For her part she kept her eyes cast down. Just as well, mused Delgado. The naked lust on Horan's face was revolting.
    "Well, I . . ." The dealer looked about him with a nervous air. "This is not really the ideal place to carry out such a transaction, sir."
    "How much?"
    "Beg pardon?"
    "How much for the girl?"
    "I . . . I would expect to get at least a thousanddollars in New Orleans. Perhaps as much as fifteen hundred . . ."
    Horan stepped closer to the octoroon and began to lift her calico skirt. Aghast, the dealer clutched at his arm.
    "Sir! This is a public place."
    "Just want to see what I'm buying. She has a finely turned ankle, doesn't she?"
    "There are ladies