"You bet," said Bowie. "The Spanish hate the Mexica worse than they hate Cavaliers. I reckon it has something to do with the fact that King Arthur never tore the beating hearts out of ten thousand Spanish citizens to offer as a sacrifice to some heathen god."

"Well, good luck to you."

"Seeing you in the market here, I got to say, I'd feel a lot better about this expedition iffen you were along."

So you can find a chance to stab me in the back and get even for my humiliating you? "I'm no soldier," said Alvin.

"I been thinking about you," said Bowie.

Oh, I'm sure of that.

"I think an army as had you on their side would have victory in the bag."

"There's an awful lot of bloodthirsty Mexica, and only one of me. And keep in mind I'm not much of a shot."

"You know what I'm talking about. What if all the Mexica weapons went soft or flat-out disappeared, as once happened with my lucky knife?"

"I'd say that was a miracle, caused by an evil god who wanted to see slavery expanded into Mexican lands."

Bowie stood there blankly for a moment. "So that's how it is. You're an abolitionist."

"You knew that."

"Well, there's folks who are just agin slavery and then there's abolitionists. Sometimes you can offer a man a good bit of gold and he don't mind so much how many slaves another fellow owns."

"That would be someone else," said Alvin. "I don't have much use for gold. Or expeditions against the Mexica."

"They're a terrible people," said Bowie. "Bloody-handed and murderous."

"And that's supposed to make me want to go fight them?"

"A man don't shrink from a fight."

"This man does," said Alvin. "And you would too, if you had a brain."

"The Mexica won't stand up to men as knows how to shoot. On top of that, we're bound to have thousands of reds from other tribes join with us to overthrow the Mexica. They're tired of having their men sacrificed."

"But you'd restore slavery. They didn't like that either."

"No, we wouldn't enslave the reds."

"There's lots of black former slaves in Mexico."

"But they're slaves by nature."

Alvin turned away and picked a half-dozen melons to put in his poke.

Bowie poked him hard in the arm. "Don't you turn your back on me."

Alvin said nothing, just offered a couple of dimes to the melon seller, who shook his head.

"Come on now, this is for kids in an orphanage," said Alvin.

"I know who it's for," said the farmer, "and the price of melons today is ten cents each."

"What, it took so much more work to raise these? They plated with gold inside?"

"Take it or leave it."

Alvin pulled some more money from his pocket. "I hope you're proud of profiting from the neediness of helpless children."

"Nobody helpless in that house," murmured the farmer.

Alvin turned away to find Bowie standing in his way.

"I said don't turn your back on me," Bowie murmured.

"I'm facing you now," said Alvin. "And if you don't take your hand off your knife, you'll lose something dear to you- and it ain't made of steel, no matter how you brag to the ladies."

"You don't want me as your enemy," said Bowie.

"That's true," said Alvin. "I want you as a complete stranger."

"Too late for that," said Bowie. "It's friend or foe."

Alvin walked away with his poke full of melons, but as he went, he hotted up the man's knife blade. Also the buttons on the front of his pants. In a few moments, the threads around the buttons burned away and Bowie's pants came open. And when he reached for his knife, the sheath burst into flame. Behind him Alvin could hear the other shoppers laughing and hooting.

That was probably a mistake, he thought. But then, it was a mistake for Bowie to show his face near Alvin again. Why did men like that refuse to accept defeat and keep challenging someone they knew had the better of them?

Arthur Stuart woke up in the middle of the night with his bowels in a state. It felt sloshy, so it wasn't something that could be relieved by the soundless passing of gas and then pretending to be asleep if Alvin noticed. So, resigned to his fate, he got up and carried his boots downstairs and put them on by the back door and then slogged on out into the sultry night to the privy.

It was about a miserable half-hour in there, but each time he thought he was done, he'd start to get up and his bowels would slosh again and he'd be back down on the seat, groaning his way through another session. Each time of course, thinking he was through, he'd wipe himself, so by the end he felt like his backside was as raw as pounded flank steak. At least the cows are lucky enough to be dead before they get turned into raw meat, he thought.

Finally he was able to get up without hearing more sloshing or feeling more pressure, though that was no guarantee he wouldn't reach the top of the three flights of stairs and have to go clomping back down. He worried, of course, that maybe this had something to do with yellow fever, that Alvin might not have made him healthy enough, that it was coming back.

Though when he thought about it, he reckoned it probably had more to do with the street vendor who sold him a rolled pie this afternoon that might not have been cooked as much as it ought.

He flung open the privy door and stepped outside.

Someone tugged at his nightshirt. He yelped and jumped away.

"Don't be afraid!" said Dead Mary. "I'm not a ghost! I know Africans are afraid of ghosts."

"I'm afraid of people grabbing at my nightshirt when I come out of the privy in the middle of the night," said Arthur Stuart. "What are you doing here?"

"You're sick," she said.

"No joke," he agreed.

"But you will not die this time," she said.

"And just when I was beginning to wish I could."

"So many people are going to die. And so many of them blame me."

"I know," said Arthur Stuart. "I went out to warn you, but you and your ma were gone."

"I saw you go there and I thought, this boy is coming to give warning. So tonight I think, maybe you're the one who can give us some food. We're very hungry."

"Sure, come on in the house," said Arthur Stuart.

"No no," she said. "It's a strange house. Very dangerous."

Arthur Stuart made a disgusted face at her. "Yeah, so the stories they tell about you are lies, but the stories they tell about this house are all true, is that it?"

"The stories they tell about me are half true," said Dead Mary. "And if the stories about this house are half true, I won't go in, no."

"This house has no danger for you, at least not from the folks that live there," said Arthur Stuart. "And now I've been standing outside the privy this long, I'm beginning to notice how bad it stinks here. So get your ma and come on inside where the air is breathable. And make it quick or I'll be out here in the privy again and then who's going to feed you?"

Dead Mary considered for a moment, then picked up her skirts and scampered off into the wooded darkness near the back of the property. Arthur Stuart took the opportunity to move farther away from the privy and closer to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he had a candle lighted and Dead Mary and her mother were gobbling slightly stale bread and bland cheese and washing it down with tepid water. Didn't matter how it tasted, though. They were swallowing it down so fast they probably couldn't tell bread from cheese.

"How long has it been since you last ate?" said Arthur Stuart.

"Since we hid," said Dead Mary. "Didn't have no food in the house though, or we would have took it."

"All the time flies bite me," said her mother. "I got no blood now."

She did have a few welts from skeeter bites, now that Arthur Stuart looked at her. "How you feeling?" he asked her.

"Very hungry," she said. "But not sick, me. That all done. Your master, he make me well."