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while he was governor of Natchez, so it wouldn't be as if I were meeting the man for the first time."
    Matthew grunted and took a puff of his cigar. "Now that he's governor of New Orleans, do you think he'll try to bribe you to spy for Spain?"
    "Probably, if I hint that I'm agreeable to it... which, I might add, I'm not! A General James Wilkinson I am not!"
    "For God's sake, don't say things like that!" Matthew rumbled. "I'll admit there's rumor aplenty about Wilkinson's dealings with the Spaniards, but no one can prove anything. You'd best watch that tongue of yours or the general might feel compelled to defend the honor he's always trumpeting about."
    Morgan smiled in the encroaching darkness. "I don't fear Wilkinson, papa. Nor do I think he is man enough to challenge me to a duel—he knows I would accept and win! Besides, I'm certain that if I took the time, or the interest, I could prove that our general really is a spy for Spain. You forget that Phillip Nolan and I are friends of a sort."
    "I don't like that young man—never did!" Matthew said slowly. "It's not only his association with Wilkinson, but the way he makes a living. Catching wild horses in Spanish territory—what kind of life is that?"
    "It's a damn sight more honest than the way Wilkinson earns his!" Morgan shot back.
    "Mmm, you're probably right. At least Gayoso is a somewhat honorable man; be thankful it is he you will be dealing with in New Orleans and not Wilkinson."
    "True, but it might be easier with Wilkinson—all I would have to do would be to offer a big enough bribe! With Gayoso it doesn't always work that way," Morgan murmured."You don't think you'll have any trouble do you? Morgan, we need those wharves and warehouses in New Orleans—without them, it's going to be damned difficult!" Matthew said earnestly.
    Morgan sighed, aware of the problem as was everyone up and down the Mississippi River. New Orleans was the only feasible port for the dispersal of their goods, and without Spanish permission to use the port, their goods—cotton, indigo, and even furs—would be worthless. The Treaty of San Lorenzo, signed in 1796 between Spain and the fledgling United States of America, guaranteed the right of deposit for the Americans and their uncontested use of the Mississippi River for three years, but time was running out.
    The thought of the Spanish revoking the American rights at any time was uppermost in everyone's mind, and dealing with Spanish officials in New Orleans was a nightmare. It seemed there was always one more hand to be crossed with gold before the necessary permissions and documents were granted.
    Staring out into the darkness, Morgan said slowly, "If only we could acquire New Orleans. Then this continual haggle with the Spaniards would cease."
    "Ha! Might as well ask for the moon! Spain isn't about to give up one more inch of territory. Look how long it took the Dons to evacuate the territory they ceded to us by the treaty... it was years!"
    Morgan took one last drag on his cigar and then tossed it in a nearby brass spittoon. "You're probably right, papa, but it would certainly solve a lot of problems for all of us this side of the Appalachian Mountains." Standing up he added, "Well, I am for bed, what about you?"
    "In a moment." Matthew hesitated, then brought up a subject near to his heart. "Morgan, when you're in New Orleans, there isn't any particular young lady you're going to see, is there?"
    A derisive expression flitted across the lean, dark face. "If you mean a marriageable young lady, the answer is no, papa! You'll have to be content to have your other offspring breeding your grandchildren."
    "Now, Morgan—" Matthew protested.
    But Morgan held up one hand and said in a voice laced with steel, "Don't! I will not talk about it, and if you want us to part on unpleasant terms, just continue the subject."
    Wisely Matthew abandoned what he had been going to say. Morgan could be so implacable, he admitted with a sigh, as he