owl, tecolote , he hooted twice just at sundown.”
“ Bah! You and Tia Juana are too superstitious. Did you leave the message with Rubia?”
"Si. But she made no promise that the Frenchman would come.”
“I’m taking a room tonight at the Fonda del Olvido—” Jeanette held up a forestalling hand. “I’ll be perfectly all right with your niece Rubia. Just be waiting for me tomorrow morning on the first stage back to Matamoros.”
Grumbling all the way, Trinidad drove her back to the plaza where the stagecoach stopped on its ten daily runs over the twenty-odd miles between Matamoros and Bagdad. Jeanette wrapped her shawl about the lower portion of her face to conceal her identity, but fortunately she was the only passenger on the stage’s last run of the day.
CHAPTER SIX
A s Jeanette climbed the rickety stairs of the Bagdad cantina, excitement bubbled in her like champagne. For too long life had held little challenge. Rubia, beautifully gowned in rose jaconet with a white chemisette filling in the V neck, answered Jeanette’s knock.
Ruefully Jeanette thought that of the two of them she herself looked more a lady of the night, dressed as she was in the sapphire satin and only a to uch of ivory lace to camouflage her low neckline.
Rubia ’s face was expressionless, but Jeanette could see the curiosity and—was it resentment?—that lurked in the pale hazel eyes. “Kitt, the Frenchman, has agreed to see you,” Rubia said. “Why I do not know.” She nodded her head toward the other end of the murky hall that was lit by a single candle sputtering in its socket. “He waits for you in the last room on the left.”
When Jeanette knocked, a rich baritone voice said, “ Entrez ."
The room was as black as Ha des, and she wondered if maybe that wasn’t where she might be. Facing Satan. Her eyes peered among the shadowy forms of the room’s furniture, and a voice said in muffled Spanish, “Come here¬to the corner, por favor ." She recognized it as belonging to the young Mexican on board the blockade runner’s ship.
Now, as her eyes focused, she could see two figures sitting at what appeared Jo be a small, round table, their backs half to her. She groped her way past the foot of the bed and located a chair across from the two.
“ Sientese, señorita ,” said the one to her left, the Mexican, instructing her to sit.
The leather chair, wedged into a corner, squeaked as she seated herself and settled her skirts. She wished she could make out the faces of the two opposite her mo re clearly, but each wore a sombrero pulled low. Even their clothing was dark—leather vests of black or brown, she couldn’t tell for sure, and dark shirts. She could make out a pistol lodged in the Mexican’s wide belt. She shivered. Below the table the Frenchman no doubt sported a brace of pistols strapped to his hips. She must not let herself forget that this was not like the games she had played as a child with Armand and Cristobal. These men had no consideration for a lady. But then wasn’t that what she wanted? To be accepted on the merits of what she could accomplish for the Confederacy—and not on the merits of sex?
She fixed her gaze on the Frenchman, for it was he who decided her fate; yet she could no more make out his features than she could see the back of her head. “I have reconsidered,” she began in Spanish. “I feel that we still might come to terms.”
She waited while the usual translation was made. ‘‘His terms, my captain asks?”
This was going to be touchy. “ A compromise.”
She heard the humor in t he Mexican’s voice as he gave the Frenchman her reply. Annoyed, she did not wait to hear his captain’s comments, but interjected, “Tell him that for the arms and ammunition I will play him a game of chess. If I win, he receives his share of the sale of the cotton—in gold. Nothing more. If he wins—then, his terms. I spend a night in his bed for every delivery of arms his ship
“ Bah! You and Tia Juana are too superstitious. Did you leave the message with Rubia?”
"Si. But she made no promise that the Frenchman would come.”
“I’m taking a room tonight at the Fonda del Olvido—” Jeanette held up a forestalling hand. “I’ll be perfectly all right with your niece Rubia. Just be waiting for me tomorrow morning on the first stage back to Matamoros.”
Grumbling all the way, Trinidad drove her back to the plaza where the stagecoach stopped on its ten daily runs over the twenty-odd miles between Matamoros and Bagdad. Jeanette wrapped her shawl about the lower portion of her face to conceal her identity, but fortunately she was the only passenger on the stage’s last run of the day.
CHAPTER SIX
A s Jeanette climbed the rickety stairs of the Bagdad cantina, excitement bubbled in her like champagne. For too long life had held little challenge. Rubia, beautifully gowned in rose jaconet with a white chemisette filling in the V neck, answered Jeanette’s knock.
Ruefully Jeanette thought that of the two of them she herself looked more a lady of the night, dressed as she was in the sapphire satin and only a to uch of ivory lace to camouflage her low neckline.
Rubia ’s face was expressionless, but Jeanette could see the curiosity and—was it resentment?—that lurked in the pale hazel eyes. “Kitt, the Frenchman, has agreed to see you,” Rubia said. “Why I do not know.” She nodded her head toward the other end of the murky hall that was lit by a single candle sputtering in its socket. “He waits for you in the last room on the left.”
When Jeanette knocked, a rich baritone voice said, “ Entrez ."
The room was as black as Ha des, and she wondered if maybe that wasn’t where she might be. Facing Satan. Her eyes peered among the shadowy forms of the room’s furniture, and a voice said in muffled Spanish, “Come here¬to the corner, por favor ." She recognized it as belonging to the young Mexican on board the blockade runner’s ship.
Now, as her eyes focused, she could see two figures sitting at what appeared Jo be a small, round table, their backs half to her. She groped her way past the foot of the bed and located a chair across from the two.
“ Sientese, señorita ,” said the one to her left, the Mexican, instructing her to sit.
The leather chair, wedged into a corner, squeaked as she seated herself and settled her skirts. She wished she could make out the faces of the two opposite her mo re clearly, but each wore a sombrero pulled low. Even their clothing was dark—leather vests of black or brown, she couldn’t tell for sure, and dark shirts. She could make out a pistol lodged in the Mexican’s wide belt. She shivered. Below the table the Frenchman no doubt sported a brace of pistols strapped to his hips. She must not let herself forget that this was not like the games she had played as a child with Armand and Cristobal. These men had no consideration for a lady. But then wasn’t that what she wanted? To be accepted on the merits of what she could accomplish for the Confederacy—and not on the merits of sex?
She fixed her gaze on the Frenchman, for it was he who decided her fate; yet she could no more make out his features than she could see the back of her head. “I have reconsidered,” she began in Spanish. “I feel that we still might come to terms.”
She waited while the usual translation was made. ‘‘His terms, my captain asks?”
This was going to be touchy. “ A compromise.”
She heard the humor in t he Mexican’s voice as he gave the Frenchman her reply. Annoyed, she did not wait to hear his captain’s comments, but interjected, “Tell him that for the arms and ammunition I will play him a game of chess. If I win, he receives his share of the sale of the cotton—in gold. Nothing more. If he wins—then, his terms. I spend a night in his bed for every delivery of arms his ship
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