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Negress was tall and strong, with flowing feminine lines, dark brown complexion, and features pleasing to Vanessa's eye.
    â€œWere you born a slave?” Vanessa asked out of curiosity.
    Lonnie Mae stopped what she was doing, then turned and faced her employer. She thought for a few moments and then said, “Yes, ma'am.”
    â€œIs life very different now that you're free?”
    â€œYes, ma'am.”
    â€œIn what way is it different?”
    â€œBecause I'm free, ma'am.”
    â€œBut nobody's really free,” Vanessa tried to explain. “You're still doing the work that darkies did under slavery. What's the difference?”
    The Negro woman replied politely. “It's true that my husband and I still work the same, but our children will go to school, and they'll be lawyers, doctors, and ministers someday. That's the big difference, ma'am. We can work our way up like white folks now.”
    Vanessa returned to her desk and reflected upon what Lonnie Mae had said. She's got a man and children, she's got something to live for, while I've got my bank account, Lord Byron, and memories of Duane Braddock. Who is the mistress, and who the slave?

CHAPTER 3

    A FAINT GLIMMER APPEARED IN THE endless blackness. Gradually it enlarged, changed proportions, and became a bearded man in a hooded robe strolling across the desert, Jesus Christ surrounded by disciples, with halos around their heads. “It looks like he's coming around,” Christ said.
    The patient struggled to open his eyes. Christ floated in foggy shrouds, while St. Matthew held a canteen of water to Duane's lips, but Duane lacked strength to swallow. He tried to pray vocally, but no sound come. His existence was pain, and he couldn't even moan. Oh, my Jesus, forgive us our sins . . . then his eyes closed, and he dropped into endless oceans of sludge.
    Dr. Montgomery pressed his ear to his patient's chest. “He's getting stronger, all right. Soon he'll take nourishment.”
    Cochrane was surprised that the patient had lastedso long. It was a week since they'd found him, but somehow he was hanging on precariously, bathed and dressed in clean clothes. Dr. Montgomery had been attending him since they'd returned to their hideout, a scattering of adobe haciendas in a spot gracing no maps of Mexico; they called it Lost Canyon.
    Located by chance during one of their many dodges through the Sierra Madre Mountains, it was surrounded by crags and deep sudden drops, inaccessible except for three narrow passageways, each heavily guarded at all times. If a stranger drove past, he wouldn't know Lost Canyon was there.
    They had a natural well and pond at one end of the canyon, and plenty of grama grass for horses and cattle grazing in the afternoon light. Cochrane returned to his hacienda, lit a corncob pipe, and looked out the window at his little village domain. It was a far cry from Charlottesville, but at least he didn't have Yankees breathing down his back. His irregulars maintained a small farm, and if money was required, there was plenty stashed in a cave. An old tattered Confederate flag fluttered in the breeze in front of Cochrane's house, and he was pleased with all he'd accomplished.
    He watched Dr. Montgomery ministering to the wounded young traveler, who lay outside on a cot set up before the doctor's hut. The doctor believed sunlight had healing properties, and exposed his patient's naked wounds to the rays whenever possible. The stranger was feeding off himself, growing thinner every day, the bone structure of his face standing out like a skull.
    He's probably an outlaw like Johnny Pinto, Cochrane figured. Why else would he be riding alone across Mexico? But he's an educated man, and possiblywe can have a conversation if he recovers. Unfortunately, he might not survive.
    Cochrane had learned to hold back feelings. It wouldn't do for a company commander to break down and cry in the midst of battles for hills and valleys that no one had ever