doubt Raven will have little to say to you but ‘get thee hence.’”
“This isn’t about Raven O’Keefe, you bastard,” Kit retorted. “You abandoned us out there.”
“I wasn’t about to freeze to death waiting for some imaginary British patrol.”
“Imaginary? Tell that to the men I lost fighting them! We could have all been killed waiting for you to bring your men up!” Kit fixed the man in a murderous stare. “Maybe that is exactly what you wanted.”
“Now see here…” Cesar Obregon was taken aback at McQueen’s outburst. He had never believed in the reliability of the Choctaw scouts and had convinced himself that the British were nowhere around. By heaven, McQueen was in the right. But right or wrong, Cesar Obregon wasn’t about to take a beating from any man. “Perhaps I have been mistaken. But do not think to shame me in front of the widow and her guests.” He nodded toward the front of the house, where men crowded the doorway and faces jammed the windows.
“I cannot dishonor a man who has no honor to begin with,” said Kit.
Obregon scowled and reached to his cuffs. It was an odd gesture, one that prompted Kit to take warning. He dropped his hands to the gun butt of the flintlock pistol tucked in the belt on his right side. It was an unnecessary precaution. He had two buckskin-clad guardian angels watching over him. Obregon froze in midmotion as Nate Russell and Strikes With Club materialized out of the shadows beneath the courtyard wall. Their rifled muskets were leveled and cocked and trained on the freebooter. A squeeze of the trigger and he’d be blown in half by the big-bore flintlocks. Obregon grinned and for a moment considered hurling his daggers at the braves and then making a try for Kit. The buccaneer crouched and his whole body seemed to tense, his muscles coiling like a spring. In another second Madame LeBeouf’s courtyard was going to be filled with powder smoke and there’d be blood flowing amongst the barren flower mounds.
At that precise moment, fate intervened in the form of a distinguished but uninvited guest to the widow’s festivities. The courtyard gate creaked open and a tall gaunt officer led a half-dozen other soldiers into the garden. A tremor of excitement coursed through the onlookers at the door. After all, General Andrew Jackson was a busy man these days and had little time for socializing.
Old Hickory hadn’t come to party. It was obvious from his demeanor he was in a grim mood. At a glance from the commander of the American forces protecting New Orleans, Kit dropped his hand from the gun at his waist and his Choctaw allies lowered their rifles. Even Obregon, who felt no allegiance to the general, straightened and left his hidden daggers up his sleeves.
“I sent you men out on patrol. You’re my eyes, watching what the British are up to north of Chalmette. Then reports come in that you both have returned—and not so much as a whisper what you’ve found out.” He ran a hand across his cheeks, then fixed his fierce gray eyes on the widow’s guests. “You gentlemen better see to your ladies, else I may need to press a few of you into service this night to man the breastworks.”
The crowd at the front door vanished as hastily as they had gathered. No man wanted to trade Madame LeBeouf’s hospitality for that of Jackson’s. The general continued down the stone walk between rows of mulched earth where the widow intended to plant her tulip bulbs when the weather permitted. Jackson wore a small leather cap, and his long-limbed frame, emaciated from a bout of dysentery, was wrapped in an old blue Spanish coat trimmed with bullet buttons and a high collar he had pulled up to protect his neck.
“I don’t know what’s between you two—and I don’t care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my own plans. I’ve had lesser men flogged for such dereliction of duty.”
“No man takes a whip to me,” Obregon replied.
“Do not tempt me,
“This isn’t about Raven O’Keefe, you bastard,” Kit retorted. “You abandoned us out there.”
“I wasn’t about to freeze to death waiting for some imaginary British patrol.”
“Imaginary? Tell that to the men I lost fighting them! We could have all been killed waiting for you to bring your men up!” Kit fixed the man in a murderous stare. “Maybe that is exactly what you wanted.”
“Now see here…” Cesar Obregon was taken aback at McQueen’s outburst. He had never believed in the reliability of the Choctaw scouts and had convinced himself that the British were nowhere around. By heaven, McQueen was in the right. But right or wrong, Cesar Obregon wasn’t about to take a beating from any man. “Perhaps I have been mistaken. But do not think to shame me in front of the widow and her guests.” He nodded toward the front of the house, where men crowded the doorway and faces jammed the windows.
“I cannot dishonor a man who has no honor to begin with,” said Kit.
Obregon scowled and reached to his cuffs. It was an odd gesture, one that prompted Kit to take warning. He dropped his hands to the gun butt of the flintlock pistol tucked in the belt on his right side. It was an unnecessary precaution. He had two buckskin-clad guardian angels watching over him. Obregon froze in midmotion as Nate Russell and Strikes With Club materialized out of the shadows beneath the courtyard wall. Their rifled muskets were leveled and cocked and trained on the freebooter. A squeeze of the trigger and he’d be blown in half by the big-bore flintlocks. Obregon grinned and for a moment considered hurling his daggers at the braves and then making a try for Kit. The buccaneer crouched and his whole body seemed to tense, his muscles coiling like a spring. In another second Madame LeBeouf’s courtyard was going to be filled with powder smoke and there’d be blood flowing amongst the barren flower mounds.
At that precise moment, fate intervened in the form of a distinguished but uninvited guest to the widow’s festivities. The courtyard gate creaked open and a tall gaunt officer led a half-dozen other soldiers into the garden. A tremor of excitement coursed through the onlookers at the door. After all, General Andrew Jackson was a busy man these days and had little time for socializing.
Old Hickory hadn’t come to party. It was obvious from his demeanor he was in a grim mood. At a glance from the commander of the American forces protecting New Orleans, Kit dropped his hand from the gun at his waist and his Choctaw allies lowered their rifles. Even Obregon, who felt no allegiance to the general, straightened and left his hidden daggers up his sleeves.
“I sent you men out on patrol. You’re my eyes, watching what the British are up to north of Chalmette. Then reports come in that you both have returned—and not so much as a whisper what you’ve found out.” He ran a hand across his cheeks, then fixed his fierce gray eyes on the widow’s guests. “You gentlemen better see to your ladies, else I may need to press a few of you into service this night to man the breastworks.”
The crowd at the front door vanished as hastily as they had gathered. No man wanted to trade Madame LeBeouf’s hospitality for that of Jackson’s. The general continued down the stone walk between rows of mulched earth where the widow intended to plant her tulip bulbs when the weather permitted. Jackson wore a small leather cap, and his long-limbed frame, emaciated from a bout of dysentery, was wrapped in an old blue Spanish coat trimmed with bullet buttons and a high collar he had pulled up to protect his neck.
“I don’t know what’s between you two—and I don’t care, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my own plans. I’ve had lesser men flogged for such dereliction of duty.”
“No man takes a whip to me,” Obregon replied.
“Do not tempt me,
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