"I didn't?"

"Just so I'd go with you."

She rose and kept looking at him as she undid the skirt she wore over the pair of trousers, let the skirt slip to her feet and stepped out of it. All she said was, "My, my."

"I couldn't help but think it."

"I see myself as trade goods. Is that what you're saying?" "What'd you tell Boudreaux?"

She said, "Ah, it's not as simple as you make it sound. Did I tell Rollie I love him? We could discuss what I did with him, and maybe with others you don't know about? That could take a while and you might be more confused than you are now." Amelia began unbuttoning her shirt. "Why don't we keep it simple and get undressed. You don't sleep in your clothes, do you, Ben? Let's wait till we're in bed, bare naked, then decide if you want to talk or what."

They saw smoke rising in clouds and pretty soon a pair of tall chimneys and Virgil said, "That must be it."

"The mill," Tyler said. "And there's the house." A plain, two-story structure made of stone, a fort with verandas. He had expected the house to be painted a bright color, more dressed up, flower gardens close around it. He couldn't see Amelia tending a garden, but she might've had it done. He realized he was looking for signs of her.

She had told him to sit down and she'd pull off his boots, saying she didn't want to get spurred and asked why he wore those big row els He told her he liked the sound they made, the ching, when he walked.

Virgil said "I don't see nobody around."

When he and Amelia were undressed and before they got under the blanket, he knew that first sight of her naked would be with him the rest of his life. She asked if he still wanted to talk. Saying it now, she was having fun with him and he didn't have to answer. He remembered wanting to see her like that in daylight, though what he saw under the moon and stars would be enough.

The railroad tracks and telephone line were taking them through a field of scrub now, curving toward the mill, the chimneys rising above the main works, a factory stretching out into farmland with wings and sheds and stables part of it, the mill structures covering a good acre. They could make out ox carts loaded with cane stalks in the yard close to the mill, a gang of workers pulling stalks from a cart and feeding them on to a conveyor that took the cane into the works.

They came to a dirt road where an ox cart an old one missing a wheel, had been left there to rot. Tyler pulled up. "How far to the house, couple hundred yards?" "About." Virgil squinted. "Or a speck less." "How about if you stay here and cover me?" "I can do that."

"If I come running…"

"I'll be right here," Virgil said.

Tyler watched him get down and lay the Krag across the tilted-up side of the ox cart the barrel aimed at the mill. At sunup this morning Virgil had tested the Krag, firing a magazine of five rounds to see how the rifle behaved and another five to see how fast he could fire and throw the bolt, Tyler watching him. Virgil said he had the eyesight for this work, he could see a mile and find his way in the dark.

Tyler nudged his mount to a trot, toward the mill and the house centered within a sweep of cane fields north to south, streets of workers' living quarters off beyond the mill. He kept his gaze on the house where several horses, four of them, were tied to a hitch rail near the side entrance. Reaching the mill yard he slowed to a walk, then dismounted among the workers pausing to look him over and led his mount toward an open section of the mill. He stood looking in, images of Amelia flashing in the gloom; he could not stop thinking about her-touching her lying beneath the blanket, her eyes closed and then opening, Amelia looking at him as she said, "Do you love me, Ben?"

He stepped into the gloom to look at the machinery pounding, grinding away, the sound of it bringing back the steps he remembered of the process: the shredder tearing the stalks apart, the crusher squeezing out the sweet juice they called guarapo-surprised he remembered that-the husks going into the furnace to make steam, while the juice flowed into the centrifuge to be refined, lime added to produce granulation, the liquid molasses drained off A man's voice in English said, "You have business here?"

Coming toward him, a man who'd be in his fifties, bearded, reserved, sounding more curious than here to stand in Tyler's way. One of the engineers.

"I'm in the horse business," Tyler said, "but my dad ran a central twenty years ago and I visited once. The noise is the same, but I don't recognize much of the machinery." He didn't want to stand here talking and said, "I'm looking for Boudreaux.".

The engineer's gaze moved past Tyler to the house. "Mr. Boudreaux's home. I saw him ride in a little while ago." He looked at Tyler again. "I assume you're not one of the lawless liberators we have around here, though plenty Americans will be joining them now war's been declared."

Even knowing it was coming the man's words surprised him. Tyler said, "When was this?"

"Two days ago, the twenty-fourth. It's going to be interesting. American boys here making war against people we consider our friends. I say that even knowing they represent a medieval autocracy. I'm surprised you hadn't heard."

"I've been on the road," Tyler said, a strange feeling of relief coming over him: the war had begun and he was in it because he was American and he was here. It seemed to simplify his understanding of his role, knowing he liked the idea of being in a real war. He wouldn't have to wonder anymore what he was doing here.

He asked the engineer, "What will happen to this estate?" The engineer said, "What will happen to it?" Sounding surprised. Maybe not understanding what Tyler meant. He said, "Nothing," still with that tone of surprise.

What Tyler wanted to ask was what side he was on; but then realized this engineer was in his own world and it had nothing to do with war.

"I better go see Boudreaux," Tyler said, and moved off, led his mount through the congestion of workers and ox carts and piles of cane stalks toward the house, looking at the four horses now tied to the rail.

One of them was his dun mare.

At the house Tyler dismounted, looking at the open double doors of the side entrance. He took off the dun's saddle and hung it on the rail, loosened the reins, tied them to his saddle horn and looped the reins of the horse that had brought him over the tie rail.

He walked through the open side doors to see three men in gray uniforms, their hats on, two with crossed cartridge belts, at a plain wood table having coffee. They stared at him. A colored woman appeared, skin and bones, wearing a turban, looking at him scared. He said, "I'm here to see Mr. Boudreaux," and that did the trick.

She took him up a staircase that turned once to reach the second floor, through a doorway and there he was at a polished dining table, a bowl of fruit sitting on it, with coffee and a copy of Harper's Weekly open in front of him. He looked up at Tyler's sound, the ching… ching, and they were once again face-to-face. Tyler started right in.

"I'm here to collect what you owe me, and I'll take my mare since she's right outside and wasn't part of the deal. I'll forget wharfage and feed in Havana to keep it simple; so all you owe is one-fifty for thirty mounts, or forty-five hundred dollars. That sound right to you?"

Boudreaux took time to ease back in his chair, still looking at Tyler. He hadn't taken his eyes from him, Rollie sitting there in a tan suit that looked like a hunting outfit, bullet loops in the pockets. What he said was, "You know you're a wanted outlaw."

"Not anymore; we're at war. What do you think of it?" "What do I think?"

He sounded like the mill engineer.

"H1 ask it another way. What side are you on?" Boudreaux raised his eyebrows, like this was something he hadn't thought of till now. He said, "I'm not at war with anyone," with that soft accent of his.