“Hit it, Miss Dillon,” he said, and laid his bow on the strings.

They listened to each other through the notes. They were allowed here to be absorbed with each other, to speak together in low tones, to look into each other’s eyes. It was almost sexual in its intimacy. He lifted his eyebrows and inclined his head and led her into the bridge once again.

Then Mrs. Twohig came to ask Simon if he would teach somebody how to tune their guitar and Doris cried out in vexation,

“Mrs. Twohig, I have just found a violinist to play these pieces with me and you want to rob me of him! Now leave him alone, I swear, really.” Mrs. Twohig sighed and went away.

They tried a schottische; Doris played it very slowly as Simon had never heard this one before and it led to much bending over the score with their faces close together, with Simon murmuring I see, I see, as if he had never seen 2/4 time before in his life, as if the simple key signature of two sharps was completely beyond him. He said in a low voice, “And so can you see me?”

She whispered, “You are holding up twenty sort of pink objects. I can’t tell what.” And they laughed again in subdued gasps.

He thought of how she was different, her confidence returned now that she was seated in front of a keyboard with music before her. In the pale light coming through the windowpanes his red-brown hair took fire and the good bones of his face stood out in a hard architecture, his eyes deep and half-shut against the glare, his skin so fair and vulnerable in this treacherous world that Doris wanted to reach up to him and pull his stock higher around his throat, as if that might protect him against bar fights and bad weather. As if he needed protection. He did not. She bent her head to the keyboard again and then between them they picked up the thumping oompah rhythm of the “Palmyra Schottische.” Doris made exaggerated predatory motions striking the chords and their laughter threatened to get out of hand.

And then some other girl wanted to play piano and someone had, against all reason, brought a concertina and made the afternoon hideous with its noise, and so the moment passed.

Simon could not find an excuse to be beside her any longer and supposed he should leave, and so stood turning the screw on his fiddle bow to loosen the horsehair, wavering, hesitant, standing near her without looking at her as she spoke politely to some lady named Maverick. Finally he said his goodbyes, thanked Miss Dillon for her music, put the fiddle in its case, snapped the bow into the groove, and closed the case.

But then Mrs. Twohig came to him and said he should join the men in the book room, warm himself at the fireplace, have something to drink before he left.

“Sir.” Simon gave a slight, quick bow when he saw he was to join Twohig and Captain Kidd, both men with white hair. Elders, the experienced ones, the judicious ones with years of hard experience carved into their faces. Captain Kidd wore a worn and faded tailcoat so it was clear he had come on horseback. Old man Twohig was in a thick wool frock coat that was frayed at the cuffs. Simon said, “I was told there would be something to keep a man warm here.”

“There is, fiddler.” Captain Kidd stood up and poured him a tot from a decanter. Both men gave him that swift, appraising glance that occurred between men in these times, looking for indication of a wound or an insignia in a buttonhole, the unspoken question, Who were you with? Kidd handed the thick glass to Simon and sat down again, gestured toward a chair.

Simon sat. He laid his fiddle case down beside the chair and was somewhat shy in such company. They asked him polite questions about his employment, if Pressley paid fairly, what the road was like coming up from Goliad. They already knew he had come up from Goliad on the San Antonio river trail. They were too wise to ask him if he knew this or that tune or to cry out about their favorites. Or to ask him who he had been with.

“I was with Giddings,” Simon said. “Down at Los Palmitos.”

“Ah.” They both nodded. Twohig said, “When Webb decided to attack. For some reason unknown.”

“That he did,” said Simon. And now I am in love with a young woman of his household, who is sitting outside this room pretending to be entranced by a Goddamned concertina. “The reason remains unknown.”

“Speculation rife,” said Twohig. “Now he’s CO of the quartermasters here.”

Captain Kidd said, “Battle honors.”

Quiet laughter from the two old men.

“And now they are setting up those tribunals,” said Twohig. His Irish accent was still with him after all these years.

“Yes,” said Kidd. “We’re under martial law so you’ve got to have a way to try people for stealing a hog or passing counterfeit money. Homicide, breach of promise, making rude noises on a Sunday.”

Twohig said, “Thus it ever is. It was a hard time, we move forward at a snail’s pace. And so, Captain, you are on your way north.”

Simon lowered his drink. “North?”

“I have taken up giving news readings,” said Captain Kidd. “Recently lost my wife. I am at loose ends. Thus I will make my living, like you, fiddler, going from place to place.” He smiled and his face creased like old paper, like parchment. “I have just returned from Dallas, Wichita Falls, Spanish Fort, and I’m going back. Maybe in a month. People are hungry for entertainment up there, even if it is just month-old news from the Philadelphia Enquirer. Keep it in mind.”

“Yes, sir,” said Simon. “You feel it’s safe?”

“No, I don’t, but I long for excitement in my declining years. From your question I assume you’ve considered the same.”

“I have.” Simon tipped up the glass for the last of the whiskey and then held his hand over it to prevent Twohig from pouring him another. “I have to start work here pretty soon,” he said. “Yes, sir, I have put some money on some land up there. From the old Peters Colony land grant.”

They were both silent for a moment and then shook their heads.

“Never heard of it,” said Kidd.

“It’s south of Preston’s Bend. I never saw it, never been there.”

“Preston’s Bend on the Red?”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Kidd considered. “Wait, I know it, it’s at one of the crossings of the Red. A vado. They are moving cattle across at an alarming rate. Apparently the teeming north has an endless appetite for western beef. And the people who supply them are going to have as great an appetite for entertainment. If you keep your hair then you would do well there.”

Simon stood up. “Thank you, I am much encouraged.” He took up his fiddle case and shook their hands. “Good day to you both.”

He said goodbye to Miss Dillon as if they were mere acquaintances, thanked Mrs. Twohig, and walked out into the chill air of a Southern winter. His mind was lighter now, as if he had shed a great burden of worry. He and Doris had picked up the strains of a waltz between them and carried it away together in a private moment, a peerless moment. He had learned there was a way to make a living up north and he felt a great deal better about his land there on that mysterious river called the Red that seemed to have no beginning and its end falling into the Mississippi somewhere in sugarcane country. He put his fiddle case in his rucksack, tucked both hands into the pockets of his black frock coat, and walked in a jaunty step all the way back to the Plaza House.

At home, after talking to the cook and seeing to supper preparations, Doris ran up the stairs to her room. She washed her hands and face in the basin and sat to rest a moment. There was much to do. Mrs. Webb seemed to find household economy beyond her, so Doris had made up the lists for shopping since Ohio while Mrs. Webb and young Jo languished. Here in San Antonio she had arranged storage spaces in the kitchen for the scarce wheat flour, learned from the young maids how to make a salsa verde with tomatillos, mixed the pony’s feed and bound the forage into stooks, caught the dog robber making off with two bags of corn and threatened to report him, made a list of texts that Josephina needed for her schooling, gathered all the worn shoes together, found a cobbler on the other side of the Commerce Street bridge, and made him sign an itemized list and a date to return them. She had learned a great deal out of necessity.

Now, in the silence of her own room, she laid out her fabric scraps, needles, and threads. An embroidered bread cloth to go over the breadbasket would be right. A thank-you gift for Mrs. Twohig. Not too extravagant but thoughtful. Mrs. Twohig would remember her for her playing and for her considerate gift. Allies were vital, especially now, and Doris Dillon was determined to make as many allies as was humanly possible against the trouble to come.