The Color of Your Skin Ain’t the Color of Your Heart (31 page)

A
HORSEMAN ENTERED GREENS CROSSING, North Carolina, early in the year 1867 carrying legal documents that he hoped would establish his claim to one of the large nearby plantations.

The meeting several months before at a Charlotte garden party had been as accidental as it had been, in the rider’s view, fortuitous.

Marvin Taylor had been but a passing acquaintance when he was just getting started in the financial business years before. That had been long before the war. From a prominent Charlotte family, he and Taylor were of similar age and their paths had crossed on several occasions. He had not thought of Taylor in years and had had no idea that he was now managing the bank of the small town near where his brother lived some twenty miles northeast of the city.

Then they chanced to meet at the garden party, had shared a mint julep or two followed by a glass of bourbon. Gradually the talk between them had turned in the direction of their mutual acquaintance. That’s when the conversation had become interesting.

The man’s name was Burchard Clairborne. His first stop would be at the bank.

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