A Deeper Sense of Loyalty (12 page)

After a two-day rest, he purchased a roan pony in Mapletown, thinking he may be able to sell it to Mr. Gilmore when he stopped to pick up his horse and wagon.

 

When he was halfway back the turnoff to the farm, he suddenly realized that he couldn't see the barn roof. Pushing the pony to a full gallop, he continued back the lane until he could see farther ahead. Then he pulled hard on the reins and sat in the saddle, staring in horror. The pretty white house and the big red barn had been burned to the ground. The pasture fence was wrecked and there wasn't a single head of livestock to be seen. James was sure that it was no accident. What had happened? Had his anti-slavery activities somehow been discovered? Or maybe the trustworthy doctor who had tended to the snakebite was no longer trustworthy. James was devastated. With tears welling up in his eyes, he prayed for the goodhearted Mr. Gilmore and his family. And James understood one thing as he had never understood it before: the South was serious about their slaves. He turned the pony around and got away from the place as fast as he could.

 

NINE

 

Serious Suspicion

 

 

James arrived in Dry Branch at about five o'clock in the afternoon. Fortunately, the man at the livery stable was interested in buying the pony that he'd purchased in Mapletown. He actually sold the pony and the saddle for fifty dollars more than he had paid. The extra fifty was at least some compensation for the loss suffered on the rig he'd left at the Gilmore farm.

As always, the livery man was of few words, but James thought that his manner had changed a little. It was something in his expression when he looked at James that was different.

After looking in on Star, he walked up the street towards the house. As he passed by others who were out and about, he couldn't help feeling that he was drawing odd looks from some of them as well. His curiosity was satisfied about two minutes after he'd gone into the house; a very heavy knock was laid upon the front door. When he opened it, he was face to face with the town sheriff, who was pointing a pistol at his stomach. Before the sheriff said a word, he reached out and grabbed James's revolver from his waistband. Then he took three steps forward, forcing James to move back to the table. “Sit down,” he ordered. James complied without objection. The sheriff was evidently in a very ugly mood and James sensed that he was in a difficult situation.

“What's your name, mister?”

“My name is William Mason.”

“William Mason, is it? You're a stranger in town, aren't you?”

“Not entirely. I've been living here for over two months now.”

“That doesn't exactly make you well known. Where are you from?”

Then James made a bad move by offering a bit of resistance. “What's this all about sheriff?” But the sheriff's irritation was growing roots. He leaned a little closer to James and began yelling, spraying spittle all over his face.

“I'll ask the goddamn questions and you'd better be ready to answer them! Now where in the hell are you from?”

“I come from Atlanta.”

“You got family there?”

“No. I was raised in an orphanage.”

“If you grew up in Atlanta, what are you doing in Dry Branch?”

“I don't care for city life. I wanted a quieter place to live.”

“And how do you make your living?”

“I hunt down runaway slaves and return them for the reward.”

“Is that so? Have you caught any lately?”

“It's been a while,” said James. “But the rewards are pretty good, and if you're careful with your money you can make a living from moderate success.”

“Well from everything I've heard about you, I'd say that your activities seem mighty suspicious. The way it seems to work out is that since you showed up in this town, there has been a lot more slaves escapin than there is bein caught. About three months ago four niggers ran off from Silas Turner's farm about five miles north of here. Just over a month ago there was a hell raisin escape from Live Oak plantation. A fire was deliberately set and about fifty slaves ran off. All of them were caught except twenty-three. Owing to all this, a white man was killed; the overseer's head was split open with a shovel.”

The sheriff hesitated for a moment after his last statement, apparently hoping that the serious nature of it would get a reaction from James. It did, but not the kind the lawman was probably expecting. James was supposed to crumble under the pressure and expose a guilty conscience. Fortunately for James, he had not known about the murder and his reaction was the shock and surprise of the innocent. He was genuinely upset about the killing. He wanted to help free slaves; he did not want to be even indirectly responsible for the loss of a life.

The sheriff did not seem as sure of himself, but he wasn't through yet. “After questioning the niggers that were caught, I understand that a white man with a horse and wagon was involved. You rented a rig from the livery about the time those niggers ran off from Turner's farm. You were gone a couple weeks and then came back. Then, just before the trouble at Live Oak, you
bought
a horse and wagon from the livery, you're gone about a month and a half or so and then you come back riding a saddle pony. How do you explain all that?”

“It is true, sheriff, that I often use a horse and wagon in my business. When I make a capture, it is often more than one slave. Sometimes a buck will run off and take his woman and kids with him. I can't very well haul them all on my horse. It doesn't bother me if they have to walk a couple hundred miles while I ride but the owners can become difficult about the reward if their property isn't in good shape. It can get costly, hiring out a rig, so I finally decided to make an investment and buy one. But as far as the time frame of those events you described, and my coming and going, it is purely coincidental.”

“And what happened to the wagon you bought?”

“It was stolen one night when I was camped out in the mountains. I was taking a bath in a stream about a hundred feet away and I didn't even hear the thief over the noise of the running water. I had to walk for quite a way until I found a farmer who was willing to sell me that pony.”

“Where did all this happen?”

“In Virginia.”

“So your wagon was stolen. Another coincidence I suppose.”

“I guess so,” said James. Then he had a thought. When he returned the rented wagon to the livery, he naturally removed all of his belongings from it including the manacles he'd purchased. “Can I show you something, sheriff?”

“What is it?”

Slowly, James got up from his chair and walked over to the bed while the muzzle of the sheriff's pistol followed him. He reached under the bed and pulled out the small wooden box he'd used to carry his things. Then he walked back and sat the box on the table. Extracting the manacles, he dropped them on the table making a loud and purposeful clatter. “If I'm not what I say I am, what use would I have for these?”

The sheriff looked at the manacles for a minute, and then he grew an expression like that of a gambler in a card game who has just been shown a better hand. James was sure that the sheriff was not convinced, but he also knew that he had planted the seed of doubt. “I'm gonna tell you something, boy. I'm lookin at a total of twenty-seven runaway niggers and I'm lookin at a white man whose been murdered in the middle of it all. If I had the smallest piece of hard evidence against you, I'd throw you in my jail and sell tickets to your hangin. But you'd better be careful about what you do. I mean you better be as still as a heavy man hangin on a weak branch over a snake pit cause I'll be watchin every move you make from now on. I'll be watchin.”

Then he got up, tossed James's revolver on the table and walked out, slamming the door on the way. James took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The success he had achieved to that point seemed heavily outweighed by the trouble he'd caused for himself and his operation. It would now be nearly impossible to operate anywhere near Dry Branch. In spite of everything James remained unafraid, but he had no death wish either. He would have to adjust in some way in order to continue. It was funny sometimes, he thought, how misfortune can actually be beneficial. He was glad now for the loss of the horse and wagon. If he had brought it back it may have somehow produced evidence against him. But now he was being watched and he would never know for sure, when, or by whom. The sheriff only had two eyes and other duties as well; he couldn't be everywhere at once, but James didn't know who else might have been instructed to cast a glance his way. He needed to unwind and maybe get an evening meal.

Out on the boardwalk everything was quiet. He headed towards Baxter's wondering if at that moment he was under surveillance. Just as he reached the tavern, the door opened, and who should emerge but Polly. Forgetting his hunger, he removed his hat and said, “Good evening, Polly.” When she looked up she was smiling. When she recognized him, the smile ran away from her face. “Oh, Mr. Mason,” she said dryly.

“I would consider it a privilege if I could walk you home,” he said politely.

“I hardly think that would be appropriate or possible,” she said.

“I just wanted to say that I heard about your mother and I am deeply sorry.”

She seemed to soften a little at his kindness and she replied, “I do thank you for your condolences, Mr. Mason, but I must be going now.”

By then they were walking slowly down the boardwalk, and in spite of herself, Polly didn't seem to object to the fact that he was still by her side.

“At the risk of further damaging your opinion of me,” said James, “I must ask you about the day we met. What did I do to make you angry?”

Now she looked annoyed, as if the answer to his question was extremely obvious. She stopped and faced him, then after looking to see that no one else was around she said, “It might interest you to know, Mr. Mason, that not everyone who lives in the South is in favor of slavery. It might also be of interest to know that some of us are decidedly against it. Now maybe you can understand why I find complete distaste in someone who would chase down those unfortunate souls and return them to captivity for money.”

As surprised as James was by her remarks, Polly would be equally surprised when he said, “So do I.”

“I must say that I am confused.”

“I know . . . I know you probably are. But I don't feel comfortable talking about it here. Can we . . .”

“Yes. Walk me home.”

As glad as he was for the chance to clear things up with Polly, he was also aware of how vulnerable he would render himself by confiding in her. One more mistake on his part and he could be finished.

Polly unlocked the front door and they stepped into a very well appointed little parlor. The furniture was a little outdated, but very neat and in good condition. There were paintings on the walls and pillows placed about; all in all, the décor was very pretty. It rather reminded him of home. “You have a very nice place here,” said James.

“Thank you. My mother was a wonderful homemaker. She liked everything to be just so.”

“That sounds like
my
mother.”

Polly gave him a strange look. Then he remembered he told her that he had grown up in an orphanage. No matter; he was ready to explain everything anyway. “May I sit?”

“Yes of course,” said Polly, waving to a chair. When they were seated comfortably, James began to unveil the true nature of his presence in Dry Branch. He told her everything, including his real identity, and where he came from. When he was finished, she wore an unexpected look of shock. James might have expected surprise but not panic. “I am so sorry, Mr. Mason, I mean James. I'm afraid that I might have done something to endanger you.” Now it was James who didn't understand. “I have to warn you,” she continued, “that Sheriff Wilkes will be paying you a visit. He has been in a crazed state these past few months, like a lot of other people around here. Your activities have put a real scare into them. He came into Baxter's a few weeks ago and was asking everyone if they've noticed any strangers in town lately. I'm afraid that I told him about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just what you told me; your name, or what I thought your name was, and I told him you grew up in an orphanage in Atlanta. I don't remember mentioning that you hunt runaway slaves for a living. Maybe I should have. Maybe he would be less suspicious of you.”

“I think you did just fine,” said James. “The fact is I have already been called upon by the good sheriff.”

Polly caught her breath.

“It's all right, Polly. I told him the same thing that you did. Our stories matched and that is what's important. And if either of us has put the other in danger, I fear that I am the bad guy. The sheriff has assured me that I will be watched very closely from now on. I am sure that he will continue trying to tie me to those two escapes. He is probably aware of my presence here in your house and he will certainly wonder about it.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don't know yet. I need time to think and I need a way to get the heat off me if I can. I guess I should have had a better plan before I started all of this. You might say that I am making it up as I go along. I guess if I was going to live in this town I should have gone elsewhere to free slaves. Maybe South Carolina. After all, a smart thief wouldn't rob the bank in the town where he lives. I could move, but that would only make me look guilty. If I stay and there are no more escapes that might also look suspicious.”

In the midst of a demoralizing situation, Polly said one little thing that reinforced James's spirit like nothing else could have.

“I wouldn't want you to leave town.”

“I'm very happy to hear that,” James said with a smile. “It has troubled me greatly, not knowing why our first meeting went awry. I'll stay and try to find a way to outwit Sheriff Wilkes. In the meantime, we should keep our distance from each other. I don't want you to get any deeper into this. We can talk a little when I come into Baxter's. We can keep in touch that way without attracting any attention.”