Rafe Read Free

followed suit. They had seen his opponent, who was even now being led to the platform. The conditions of the bet were intact. Rafe did not know whom he would fight or what weapons he would face. If truth were told, he preferred to fight that way. A real warrior faced his opponent with a clear mind. His father had taught him that, too, but he did not remember the teaching.
    â€œWell, I’m changin’ my bet. My money’s on them!” a voice drifted down from the rim.
    â€œShitfire … me too,” another chimed in.
    â€œPut up or shut up, boys.” The voice was Martinson’s, Clayton’s money-man. “Mr. Clayton stands firm behind his nigger. Two-to-one says he kills them both.”
    Them … them both. Rafe shut his ears to the rest and leaned forward slightly in anticipation. So there were two of them this time. What of it? Hadn’t he fought two before? And won? He had fought forty-two contests and lived while others—forty-six others—had died. His mind adapted rapidly to the facts while he shifted his weight, readjusting his stance imperceptibly, ready now for the assault.
    The A-frame above and in front of him creaked as it took the weight. Only when he heard the spindle squeak and the chain gnash against the sprockets did he look up.
    Two bronze-skinned Creek warriors perched astride the ropes attaching the platform to the chain. Entirely naked—there were no women present for the first outing of the year—their flesh was daubed with raucous designs in red, white and ochre. Their eyes bored into him as the platform descended, jerking and complaining at the weight. Rafe relaxed his hold on the machete and breathed deeply. They would be fast.
    The Indians were small men with long dark hair that hung straight down their backs. They leaped to the pit floor before the platform hit bottom, landing lightly, their bare feet skidding ever so barely. Each held a tomahawk and hunting knife. Rafe’s face was a mask as the warriors shuffled their feet to coat them properly. They were smart, these two, calm and probably well-prepared. He would have to be careful.
    Micara put the finishing touches—the Dresden lamp moved a quarter-inch closer to the gilt-edged portrait, and the doily straightened for the fifth time—to Crissa’s room. The task completed to her satisfaction, she lit a scented taper, walked thoughtfully around the room to spread the orange aroma evenly, then pinched out the flame and replaced the taper in its holder. The delicate aroma would last.
    She stood with her back to the empty fireplace, trying to imagine her daughter in this room again, how she must look after four long years. The northern climate should have done her good. But to come back to Freedom Plantation and spend a life.…
    Her hand fumbled for and missed the crystal goblet behind her on the mantelpiece. She turned, her eyes darting fearfully back and forth, to find it farther to the right than she remembered. She grabbed for it and raised the glass to her lips, then stopped when she caught her own image in the mirror.
    Wrinkles assailed her. The marks of time and pain ran across her forehead and out from the corners of her eyes, which all too often flowed with tears. A brief, mocking fire burned in those eyes as she put the glass to her lips and took a ladylike sip. She mustn’t take too much, of course. Crissa shouldn’t find her mother, the mistress of Freedom Plantation, unsteady and wobbling in the hall. Unbidden, the eyes welled with hot tears. She twisted violently from the accusing mirror and with both hands shaking, raised the cut crystal and drank deeply, greedily, then stumbled to the hall in search of the decanter.
    â€œMay I get you something, Ma’am?”
    Micara turned, startled at the voice behind her. The young housemaid, Julie, waited, caught in a curtsy, an open and knowing smile on her delicate ebony features. Micara slapped her across the