San Antone. V. J. Banis

did not even mention Lewis, who was not in the house at the time anyway. By now it was understood that any decisions that had to made would of necessity be made by Joanna. It was she who had decided they must have two wagons—one for the family and one for the slaves. She had been adamant in the face of one of Lewis’s increasingly rare objections.

      “They’re not animals,” she had insisted. “I won’t have them walking behind the wagons like dogs.”

      In the end, the quarrel had simply died away; Lewis had had another drink and forgotten it apparently, and Joanna had asked the lieutenant to see to the extra wagon for her.

      Watching her husband sink lower and lower into his drunken abyss, and unable to do anything to reverse his course, Joanna had found herself dreaming of her husband as she had first known him, before they were married. Dashing, reckless, riding pell-mell across the fields at Eaton Hall; waltzing with her at a cotillion, his hand firm on the small of her back, his eyes gazing lovingly down into hers; or, eyes closed, listening to her read the verses she’d written (but perhaps he’d fallen asleep and she simply hadn’t known).

      He’d seemed to promise so much. Or had she written the promises onto the blank pages of his character? That was the tragedy of being young and idealistic: You saw things as ideal, things that never could be.

      She’d forced herself to set those thoughts aside. Like a carriage that you’d driven till the wheels were worn and the seats sprung, Lewis would never be new to her again, or wonderful and shiny. The best you could do was keep it going and hope the wheels stayed on over the rougher stretches.

      * * * *

      The ride with the lieutenant turned into a regular outing. All three of the children were delighted to go. Alice Montgomery sat beside Joanna, her voice rising and falling to the bobbing and swaying of the brougham.

      Joanna had had few opportunities to venture out of the house since they’d arrived, and she savored the salt tang of the air, the noisy commotion of traffic, the potpourri of voices and accents common to a busy port town.

      The wagons they’d come to inspect looked huge from the outside, and cramped when she peered within and saw all that they had been fashioned to accommodate. Most of the cooking and storage facilities had been crowded into the slaves’ wagon. Even so, the one intended for the family had little room to spare, and no promise, it was clear, of privacy or solitude.

      Well, Joanna consoled herself, she’d have solitude aplenty when they reached San Antonio, from all she’d heard.

      They had just returned to the brougham, were about to step into it, when Jay Jay cried, “There’s Mr. Horse!”

      “The Nasoni,” Gregory said in the way of explanation, and followed Jay Jay’s erratic path around the assemblage of finished and half-finished wagons. They slowed their pace as they neared a young man standing some distance away.

      Joanna did not know, really, what she had expected—someone in feathers, perhaps, with bright paint on his face, and little of anything on his body. What she saw was an austerely handsome young man, dressed as most of the men around him were dressed— Lieutenant Price was right, the new dungarees were certainly popular. His skin, to her genuine surprise, was anything but red. Umber, perhaps; actually no darker than many of the “white men” working on the wagons. That and the glossy blackness, like obsidian, of his hair were all that indicated his heritage, so far as she could see.

      “Really, Miz Harte,” Alice Montgomery intruded upon her thoughts, “you oughtn’t to let your boys mix with savages.”

      “There’s only one,” Joanna said, annoyed, “and I can’t say he looks particularly savage. At any rate, I’ve always taught my children to treat everyone with courtesy and respect.”

      “Well, of course, with people. But, my stars, an Indian’s no more human than a nigra is. Why, there’s no telling what your children might get just standing talking to him that way.”

      “Then I suppose it’s better if we all get it; I’d hate to lose just half my family,” Joanna said coolly. “Come along, Melissa, you wouldn’t want to be an orphan anyway.”

      Melissa, who’d been envying the boys, jumped down from the brougham and followed in her mother’s wake, actually rather enjoying Mrs. Montgomery’s horrified expression.

      “You’re Mr. Horse, my sons tell me,” Joanna greeted the young man as she approached. “I’m Joanna Harte. I understand we’ll be traveling together.”

      William Horse stared stunned at the hand she had extended toward him. When it became inescapable that she meant him to shake it, he reached out tentatively and touched the tips of his fingers to hers before snatching them away again.

      “And this is my daughter, Melissa. You’ve already met my sons. I’m sorry my husband isn’t with us. I know he’d be delighted to meet you as well.”

      He recovered his poise than, and bowed formally from the waist. “It is an honor,” he said.

      “I understand that you are from the Na—Na—”

      “Nasoni,” Gregory supplied.

      “Nasoni tribe? And Lieutenant Price tells me you’ve been back east, to school.”

      “In Boston, yes.” He kept his eyes on the ground when he spoke to her.

      “His mother was a princess,” Jay Jay said happily. It was plain he did not share Mrs. Montgomery’s fear of contamination.

      As if to apologize for Jay Jay’s pronouncement, William Horse said, “My father was a white man. I am what your people call a ‘half-breed.’“

      “Well, half royalty is certainly better than none at all, I should think,” Joanna said. “Is San Antonio your home?”

      His answer was a hesitant “Yes.” After a pause, he added, “My father was there. At the Alamo.”

      “Oh. The battle. Was he...?”

      “He died. It was your General Houston who arranged for me to go to school in Boston. But now I wish to see my mother. I am grateful to be permitted to travel with your company.”

      “And we’re very proud to travel with the son of an Indian princess and an American hero,” Joanna said.

      He looked up then, surprised, and wary, as if he suspected her of mocking him. Though he looked fierce and his manners were rigidly formal, Joanna was surprised to find his gaze timid and gentle. A child’s glance, she thought, but a child who has suffered.

      His eyes moved past her, their expression growing wary again. Joanna looked over her shoulder and saw the lieutenant approaching. He was scowling as though angry, and he barely nodded at the young Indian man.

      “It’s time we were going,” he said.

      “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Horse,” Joanna said. “I’m looking forward to getting better acquainted on the trail.”

      He nodded, and bowed again, but made no reply.

      When they were on their way back to the brougham, Lieutenant Price said, “That wasn’t very wise.”

      Joanna turned her head to look at him, surprised. “What do you mean?” she asked.

      “Talking to the Indian that way. Didn’t you see people staring?”

      Glancing about, Joanna saw that several people were indeed looking in their direction, and not with pleasure. “Actually, I hadn’t noticed,” she said. “But I can’t see what difference it makes. Surely I have a right to speak to whomever I wish, even in Texas.”

      “In Texas”—he emphasized the word strongly—“there are a great many people who don’t take socially to red men.”

      “Not even your better breed of Texans?” she asked, and saw his lips tighten and his face grow dark with anger. “I didn’t come all this way,