Cross-Pull

Cross-

Pull

Written by James E. Ferrell

Edited by Kathryn H. Clair

Cover design by Jen Remington

Published by:

Grey Ghost Publisher

19431 Highway 30 #36, Shiro, Texas 77876

©2019 James E. Ferrell. All rights reserved.

Second Edition Published by Grey Ghost Publisher,

19431 Highway 30 #36, Shiro, Texas 77876

Distributed by Smashwords

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Ferrell, James E., author. | Clair, Kathryn H., editor.

Title: Cross-Pull/ written by James E. Ferrell; edited by Kathryn H. Clair.

Description: Shiro, TX: Grey Ghost Publisher, 2019.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019913416 | ISBN 978-1-950763-00-9 (pbk) | 978-1-950763-10-8 (Hardcover) | 978-1-950763-11-5 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH Ex-convicts--Fiction. | Texas--Fiction. | Criminals--Fiction. | Love stories. | Detective and mystery stories. | Suspense fiction. | Christian life--Fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Christian / Suspense

Classification: LCC PS3606.E745 E84 2019 | DDC 813.6--dc23

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents 2

Introduction 4

PART ONE - Freedom's Pull 4

C - 01 4

C - 02 16

C - 03 23

C - 04 31

C - 05 36

C - 06 46

PART TWO - The Winds of Change 54

C - 07 54

C - 08 61

C - 09 77

C - 10 84

C - 11 99

C - 12 111

C - 13 121

PART THREE - The Hill Country 140

C - 14 140

C - 15 155

C - 16 172

C - 17 190

C - 18 196

C - 19 200

C - 20 205

C - 21 214

C - 22 220

C - 23 227

C - 24 229

C - 25 246

C - 26 253

C - 27 264

C - 28 269

C - 29 283

List of Fictional Characters 298

Previews 299

Acknowledgment 300

About the Author 300

Also by James E. Ferrell 301

Introduction

The force that all mankind marches to is the CROSS-PULL. Unseen and largely unnoticed, there are spiritual forces that everyone encounters in this life. In the human experience, there is a cross-pull where good and evil do battle for the souls of all men. These unseen forces are responsible for the chaos in this sin-marred world. From the time of Adam and Eve until today, people have made choices without considering the consequences. In this book, as in real life, some make hard choices that define good character, regardless of the cost, while others take the broad path that leads to destruction.

I regret that this beautiful world has been marred by the evil that blinds men and women from seeing the creative genius of God. I can only imagine what the Garden of Eden looked like before the cross-pull. One day I shall see it restored. I hope to see many of you walking through the garden in the cool of the day; that is, unless the dark side of the cross-pull is too great for you to overcome.

James E. Ferrell

PART ONE - Freedom's Pull

C - 01

February 10, 1895------The grey of winter turned black as dark clouds and a distant clap of thunder far out across the valley floor warned of a coming shower. Rolling the back log, Daniel Black placed a piece of firewood in the fireplace. Before resuming his place in his favorite chair, he looked into a crib that sat within warming distance of the great hearth. A small turf of unruly black hair protruding from beneath a blue quilt brought a smile to his face and quickened his heart. Behind him, the soft humming of a woman’s voice carried gently from the kitchen, where the rattling of pots and dishes assured Daniel supper was being prepared.

After a while, a lovely girl of twenty-five with long black hair and dark skin walked from the kitchen and leaned against the door frame. In a hushed voice just loud enough to get his attention, but not disturb the baby, she said, Grandpa, the temperature is dropping outside. I have a pot of stew going. It should be ready when the boys get in. Would you like another cup of coffee before supper? For a moment, Grace Black watched the slender old man. She could see his face gazing intently into the fire; his eyes glistened as the firelight danced across his wrinkled and weathered face.

Quickly Daniel's eyes blinked as if his mind was returning from a faraway place. Grace, I’ve had enough coffee, but a bowl of your stew will be welcome on a cold night like this. If you are through in the kitchen, why don’t you come and sit for a while? Cold winter nights are made for sitting around a fire, he said.

As if to accent what he had just said, a cold gust of wind hit the north side of the house rattling a loose shutter and bringing a shower of raindrops against the windowpanes.

Grace pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulder, and her face could not hide a worried look. The wind was howling outside. Doc, do you think Ben and Nathan will be getting home soon? she asked.

Those two are at home in these hills and have spent many a cold winter night out on the range. Besides, Bugalez Jones is with them, and he is truly in his element in the hills in any weather, Daniel stated.

Just the same, I wish they were home! It’s getting awfully cold, she said.

Grace Black was a stunning beauty. She stood five feet, eleven inches in her stocking feet, only one inch shorter than her husband. Her black hair surrounded a portrait face with large brown eyes. Grace was the newest member of the family, having married Daniel’s grandson, Benjamin Black, two years before.

Arriving at the family estate a few days earlier, Grace had eagerly asked questions of every family member concerning Dr. Daniel Black. Seldom did anyone around the ranch take time from their busy schedule to impart to her what they know of the old grey-haired doctor and the legendary men and women he rode with during his younger years. Much of what Grace knew of Dr. Black’s exploits she had read as a child from the books of Ginny King. Her stories had brought the old west to life.

Grandpa, while you were away today, a mister Jones came by with his son Alfrado. They were headed for Austin and didn’t have time to wait for your return. He told me he would stop by to see you on his way back home, Grace said.

Great, Daniel said. For a moment, his eyes were once again lost in the firelight. Grace, that was Tanner Jones. You may have heard a little about my old friend Tanner. He probably influenced my life more than any one man ever has. Sit with me, and I will tell you of when I first heard of him. In anticipation, Grace curled up on the couch beside the fireplace and pulled a quilt over her legs.

Daniel chuckled, and his easy manner made her feel at home. I can’t think of a better place to be when the snow falls than right here in front of this fireplace. I better start at the beginning, so you will know all about this family you’ve married into! Daniel said with a smile.

Daniel moved around in his old chair. His eyes strayed to a picture above the fireplace. On the mantle, a large picture frame held a picture of several men dressed in tattered confederate uniforms. Oddly enough, there stood with them a tall black soldier dressed in the uniform of a Union soldier. They all stood behind a frail woman and a small boy. It was apparent they all had suffered from the bitter years of war. In the photo, their arms were linked together, and each face held a smile.

Grace saw him looking at the picture above the mantle and quickly moved to pick it up. Grandpa, who are all these soldiers, and how did they come to have their picture taken with a black man that fought for the other side? she asked.

Daniel grinned as he took the picture from her, and his mind seemed far away as he passed his hand over the glass-covered picture frame and said, I always thought the smiles in this picture seemed out of place for people in such an emaciated state. When the war ended, I headed home from Virginia. With me was my surgical nurse of four years and several wounded soldiers. We were traveling in a military ambulance pulled by a team of mules.

This picture was taken the day after we crossed the Mississippi River. We were running from a bad lot that had tried to rob us below New Orleans. After crossing the Mississippi, we made camp in a low river basin where an enterprising peddler came to our camp. He was selling everything from pots and pans to photos. Daniel tapped the photo with his finger. Today, you saw this Union soldier. He is sixty pounds heavier and grey at the temples, but the black man in this photo is Tanner Jones. Daniel rubbed his chin and studied the picture he held in his hands for a moment before handing the picture frame to Grace.

Daniel continued to describe the people in the picture. The one on the far left is me, and next to me is Tommy Franks. He was my nurse and could handle a scalpel as well as any surgeon I’ve ever known. Tommy became like a son to me after my son, your husband’s father, was killed in the war. The taller one next to Tommy is Lane Tucker. The woman standing in our midst is Grandmother Sarah Cabell and her son, Nathan. The child holding the hand of Sarah is your husband, Ben. Grace took the picture and studied the frail and gaunt faces in the picture.

Your right, your appearance doesn’t indicate you all would have much to smile about, she said.

Daniel smiled at the picture and continued his story. Before the war, I had done well. I had a plantation with eight slaves and hundreds of acres of bottomland that grew cotton better than any plantation around New Orleans. My practice as a physician was one of the best medical practices around, and it kept me busy. As he rubbed his hands together, he stared into the fire, and his eyes glistened again. I left the running of the plantation to the oldest family member, Moses. Moses…was my slave. The fact that I considered one so loyal and trustworthy a slave, is something I will always regret.

Standing, he moved to the hearth to replace the picture and placed another piece of wood in the fireplace. All of these people you will learn about as we talk. They are all pieces of my life, and they influenced many others throughout their life.

Grace ran to stir the pot of soup and quickly returned to resume her place on the couch. Daniel stared in the fire a moment longer and gathered his thoughts before speaking. The first time I heard of Tanner Jones was when my first wife Emma and I had taken a trip to a town in Alabama called Fletcher. My main purpose in visiting the town was to find a way to gin my cotton quicker. I had heard that a man in Fletcher had been able to speed the ginning process up considerably. Daniel paused and then said, Let’s see, that was in February of 1848."

I had no idea that a person I had never met nor heard about for the first time on that cold February day, would show up seventeen years later on my plantation in New Orleans. Daniel continued, Well, that cold winter day in Fletcher opened my eyes to a storm brewing in the south that would forever change things. While in Fletcher, I read in the local paper about a young runaway slave by the name of Tanner Jones. He had run from his master’s plantation a few days before. It caused a great stir in that part of Alabama. At the time, I remembered wondering why in the world he would pick the coldest day of the year to run. I remembered that thought years later when I met him and asked him that very question. He told me that he figured the soft white folk would rather sit in front of their fireplace on a cold day than go traipsing after a young black boy in the Alabama countryside.

As the two talked, the soup began to send a delicious aroma from the kitchen. Grace scrunched down under the quilt as the warmth of the fireplace gave off a feeling of peace and security as the story unfolded before a warm fire.

February 27, 1848-----Dr. Daniel Black adjusted the collar of his coat and quickly buttoned the row of buttons down the front against the early morning cold. Fletcher, Alabama, was waking after a cold winter night. Activity along the street was brief, as only a few braved the elements on such a cold morning.

Daniel and Emma Black emerged from the restaurant along River Street, where they had shared an early morning breakfast. Emma lifted her dress slightly as she stepped through the door, just enough to keep the edge of her petticoats from hanging on the splinter worn threshold. Quickly she pulled the fur collar tightly around her neck and stepped close to her husband to block the chilling wind from her face. Daniel pushed his hat down a little tighter on his head and placed the paper he had been reading under his arm.

That was a good breakfast, my husband! Now, if your business here is complete, I’m ready to go home. What thoughts have you so perplexed this morning? Emma asked as she pulled her fur-lined gloves over her cold hands.

Daniel responded, I was just thinking about a story I read in the local paper yesterday. There was more about it in this morning’s paper. Emma remained silent, knowing that in his own time, her husband would let her know all that was on his mind. For a while, they walked along the storefronts gazing each window they passed. Her mind was on the latest fashions while he pondered the story.

Emma, there is very little conversation along the streets of this town that does not center around the escape of a young slave a few days ago. Evidently, he has been able to elude capture and make good his escape. He is being blamed for a killing that happened along the river about the time of his escape, and that has the county up in arms. Emma placed her shawl over her head and held it snugly around her neck before asking, So what does that have to do with anything? There is nothing in this dreary town of importance!

It has nothing to do with anything if the latest fashions are all you are interested in, Daniel said sarcastically. Most of the talk is hype, conjured up in the imaginations of local men. Since that slave escaped, there have been several attempts by other less fortunate slaves to gain freedom. From what I have read, all attempts have ended in the unfortunate death of those slaves, Daniel said.

Well, in a few minutes, we will be leaving Alabama, and I don’t care if I ever come back. Their dress shops are poor, and the dresses I have seen are out of style. Must we talk of such depressing things on such a gloomy, cold morning? Emma asked.

As you wish, my dear, he said. The two walked along the street headed for the wharf where a stern-wheeler loaded cargo and passengers for a trip downriver.

Across America, the slave issue had become political. Nowhere did it inflame men’s conversations as in the Deep South. Daniel Black was a slave owner, and as they walked along, he considered what this local trouble could mean to the rest of the south. Cotton plantations depended on slave labor for the cultivation of their crops. Southern white men feared the loss of jobs should the slaves ever be free to compete with them in the job market.

Their trip home took several days by riverboat across Mobile Bay and out in the Gulf of Mexico. On the fourth day of the journey, they heard music from the dock in New Orleans. Later that evening, the Blacks took a short trip by carriage, which delivered them to their manor nestled alongside the mighty Mississippi. For Emma, this plantation was the place where she lived a peaceful existence, and she quickly forgot the outside world.

February 10, 1848-----A few days earlier, a young slave pulled an old worn quilt up tightly under his chin and scrunched back in the hay, trying to find as much warmth as possible. The thin quilt was too worn and frayed to provide much warmth, but it was all he had. His eyes watered from the cold north wind that blew in through the chinks of the loft door. Winter was almost over on the Sanders Plantation. The brown fields of Alabama would turn black once the rich delta soil took the plow.

In just a few more weeks, the spring floods would cover this bottomland. As the water restored and refreshed the land, a carpet of wildflowers would spring up, giving color to a new season. Each year Tanner’s mother had explained the flowers to her young children by telling them, These flowers were planted by the very hand of God for my chillen to see.

When the plow cut long furrows in the black delta soil, it turned the flowers under along with grass and weeds. Next, a sea of white cotton would begin waving in the wind and circling the big oak. That very oak was where in years past many a slave had sought a few moments of shelter from the hot summer sun.

Because the boy in the hayloft had been born and raised as a slave, he had never known freedom. Tonight, however, Tanner Jones would be free from the plantation where he had lived and suffered. His life had been harsh, and the scars on his back and shoulders attested to the many lashings he had received from the tip of the black snake whip. Whether the cost of freedom was death or a life of poverty, it was still much preferred to the struggle of living the rest of his life as a slave.

As he lay buried in the hay, Tanner remembered the events of the day. At daybreak on that cold February morn, the last remaining reason that had kept him from becoming a runner had taken her last agonizing breath. With a pick and shovel, Tanner had dug his mother’s grave, and to the soft, melodic voices of his fellow slaves, her frail body had lowered into the cold earth wrapped in a tattered quilt that she had made.

Comin’ home...Comin’ home...never mo’ to roam. Open wide dose arms of love, Lawd, I’s comin’ home.

The soft, deep melody of the Negro voices wafted across the dreary landscape, driven by the cold wind. Each mournful note filled with sorrow and despair for a dead friend. The raw wind bit at Tanner’s eyes as he looked about, taking in the cold winter scene. This time of the year, with its barren landscape, a soul would yearn for the warmth of spring and the vibrant colors of life’s returning.

The great oak under which they had stood would serve as the only tombstone for his mother, for the master would not allow his slaves to place the tombstones of their loved ones on his property. Under the old oak tree, Tanner had learned to read by sitting beside the wife of the plantation owner. Each Sunday morning, she read to a circle of black children. It had been a special time for them; during those times, there were no slaves and no mistress. They were all just children of God partaking of His Word. Mr. Sanders never approved of his wife’s reading the Bible to the slave children, but they were all safe on Sunday mornings because up on the hill, the master slept a drunken sleep.

His mother had asked that they bury her under that tree. Remembering the serene setting, Tanner thought, maybe that was not a bad place to bury Mammy after all. He had placed heavy stones on the grave to make sure the body would not rise as the river overflowed the low delta lands in the coming months.

As Tanner gathered more hay around his body, he thought how he had looked forward to those Sunday mornings when Bible stories leaped from the tattered pages of the Holy Book. This morning as he had stood over his mother’s grave with tears streaming down his face, he tried to give words to the loss he felt, but tears choked away his voice.

Tanner, may I read for you? a gentle woman’s voice said from behind him.

Looking back toward the plantation home, Tanner knew the master would not approve of his wife’s standing at the graveside of one of his slaves. Miz Amy, you know de massuh would get mighty mad iffen he knowed you wuz down here. You best get on back to de big house.

Amy Sanders stood with her shawl covering her face against the north wind. Strands of grey hair whipped in the cold wind as her small white hands reached for the worn Bible.

Miz Amy, you ought not be coming down here. De massuh not gonna be pleased wit you, Charlene said.

Charlene, I’m too old to start fearing the darkness now, Amy Sanders replied.

Amy Sanders had no children of her own. A fact her husband reminded her of as often as he had gotten drunk. If you cannot have children, what good are you? You are not even a pleasure to me, he had raved. As his words raced through her mind, the thought sent a bitter chill through her. The lines on her face showed years of sorrow and sadness that was the result of darkness and light living together. In her heart, there had always been tenderness for the black children of the plantation which had always infuriated her husband.

Nodding his head, Tanner stood quietly and released his grip on the Bible while Amy read passages of hope from the scripture. Looking around at the poorly dressed slaves, she closed the Bible and said, It is a fine thing that God has done for those of us who are living on hope. One day God will lead us each into a new world without grief and sorrow. The very place where he has taken our precious Mammy. She is happy now, and we must not be sad for her. We should direct our sorrow to those who will not attain the heavenly peace that Mammy has found. Smiling sympathetically, she turned and walked across the brown fields back to her lonely existence behind the walls of the plantation house.

The massuh he sho’ not’ gonna’ prove of Miz Amy comin’ down here, no he surely ain’t, Charlene said, shaking her head. That Miz Amy she as much a slave to the massuh as we all is.

Slowly the small group of slaves dispersed for the warmth of their shanties. Boots, a stocky young slave, hung back until the rest of the slaves were out of sight. You still plannin’ on runnin? he asked.

Tanner nodded affirmatively and softly said, You is still welcome to come along.

I would if it wuzn’t fo the chillens. They needs me, and you knows we wouldn’t make it wit them along. One day I’m gonna’ run. I’m hopin’ you make it; I surely do. Sighing deeply, he walked away with his head hung, the desire for freedom burning deep in his soul.

The loft door swung open with a startling bang and brought Tanner’s thoughts back from the events of the day. The barn loft was his favorite hideaway, and many a summer night, he had slept here, preferring its secluded peacefulness to the hot shanty. It gave him a small sense of freedom, looking from the loft into the star-studded heavens. Rubbing his callused hands together to generate some heat, he contemplated what he was preparing to do. He had survived the hard years of service by sheer will. More than once, he had felt the whip on his back and the harsh tongue of his master.

Pulling more hay up around himself for warmth, he began to have second thoughts as fear crept into his weary mind. Suddenly he sat up, realizing it would be quite easy to fall asleep and hours would be lost. Shaking his head, he tried to clear the weariness that had settled into his tired body. As the night wore on, he sat watching the canopy of the heavens awaken with the brilliance of a million stars. His burning desire to be free was kindled anew as he looked at the expanse of the heavens.

Leaning against the bundles of hay in the hayloft, Tanner let his mind wander back in time. For as long as he could remember, he had gazed into the heavens from this very loft watching the stars and yearning for freedom. The tranquil starlit nights had been his time of peace and tranquility away from the hard life of a slave.

At first, there had been brothers and sisters. Then after the demanding work of the day, his mother would gather them all in the master’s field under the canopy of stars. Laying them out under the stars side by side, she would say, The Lawd is up there lookin’ at all my chillen. You is all on display tonight fo Him to look over. Giggles would arise from the small ones as they lay looking into the heavens, their beautiful dark eyes glistening in the moonlight

The Good Book sez you be stars in my crown. I knows how proud of you the Lawd is. Jest look at how He be makin’ the stars sparkle for you. Jest you wait! One day I’s goin’ home, and the Lawd and me’ll be lookin’ down here at all the chillen I done left behind. I’s tellin’ you that all the Lawd’s chillen are free in heaven. Mind you be sure an tell your chillen when they is lonely jest look up, and Mammy’ll be lookin’ right back down at ’em!

Violet and Sunny were the two children next in age to Tanner and the first in the family to stand on the auction block. His mind raced back to the morning Mr. Sanders had taken them to town to be sold. His mother had cried and grieved deep in her soul. He could still remember his helplessness in trying to console her.

He had just turned fifteen that Saturday morning and had raced through the woods to the small town of Fletcher. Moving up behind the buildings that surrounded the town square, he had climbed up in the hayloft of the livery stable and lay hidden above the crowd standing in the street. Looking down on the scene, he watched as his brother and sister stood on the auction block. Their eyes had met over the heads of the crowd, and he had waved a last good-bye. After the sale, they had left town on a train, chained together with other slaves that they had shoved into a freight car of the train. Tanner never saw them again.

In the years that followed, the three remaining sisters had all stood on the auction block and were never seen again. William Sanders, however, had kept Tanner because of his colossal size and strength. The muscular black man was tall, nearing six feet five inches. Every hard, bulging muscle on his body resulted from heavy and exhausting labor, for Sanders expected Tanner to produce much more work than any other slave.

Now he lay alone only hours after he had laid his mother to rest. Without his mother to care for, he could try for his freedom, and this was the time for which he had waited. At worst, should he fail, he would be in heaven with her.

Behind the barn, he heard the jingle of the dogs’ collars as the master’s bloodhounds scratched and occasionally bayed. He had fed these dogs daily. Sanders kept them as a warning to any slave who would try to escape. Once Dixie Bell and Bo were on his trail, he would have little chance of escaping.

Twice he had made rafts and hidden them along the creek banks, planning to steal away. Both times massive flooding and discovery of the rafts had thwarted his plans. Now his third raft lay waiting for him in a cove, miles away from the master’s fields. Stealing away from their shanties at night, he and Boots had constructed the raft.

All was quiet now as he rolled his quilt and stuffed it in the oilskin pack, which he had kept hidden for months below the planks in his shanty floor. After fashioning the packs from deer hides, he had waterproofed them by working lard into the skins. Tanner had meticulously cut leather straps, just the right size for him to use in sewing the packs together. He cast a glance at the main house to make sure all the lights were out. Then he lowered the heavy pack to the ground and followed it down. Slipping from the barn, he raised his face towards heaven as tears coursed down his cheeks, and he whispered a prayer. The consequences of failure flashed through his mind, and fear rose up in his heart.

Running into the cold north wind, Tanner quickly made his way across the plantation fields. With his adrenalin pumping and being lightheaded from the thought of freedom, he ran on and on into the darkness. All too soon, this could end, but for now, the decision to be free exhilarated him and gave him courage. After an hour of running, he stopped long enough to put on the old boots he had carried tied across his shoulders. Altering his direction slightly, he started again with his boots on. During the rest of the night, he stopped frequently and either put on his boots or took them off. Finally exhausted from his run, he stood on the banks of a creek that emptied into the Alabama River further downstream.

In Tanner’s mind, he could almost hear Dixie and Bo baying as they came down the road in hot pursuit. He stepped into the cold, fast-flowing stream where he removed and sank his coal-oil soaked boots. This time he headed south. Tanner stayed to the center of the stream, being careful not to leave a footprint in the shallows or to brush against a low-hanging tree branch.

Tanner had fashioned the pack with boat-like ribbing that served as a backpack when he wore it and floated like a boat when he dragged it in the water. His forethought made him smile as the heavy pack bobbed along behind, tethered to a rope around his waist like a boat on a string.

For the next few hours, he moved along the stream. Treading the shallow stream slowed his progress, but he dared not step out of the cold water. Finally, he found the raft as he had left it. Climbing aboard, he sat rubbing his feet with a dry cloth from his pack until the circulation returned.

The raft was a well-made craft. Tanner had put much thought into its construction as well as his plan for freedom. In past years, he had delivered his master’s cotton to the river docks. On every occasion, he had seen larger rafts moored along the riverbanks. While loading the cotton bales onto the riverboats, he would look longingly at the river and the freedom it gave those aboard the boats and rafts that floated on its surface.

Tanner had taken particular notice of the means of construction and steering for the crafts. This knowledge had aided him in the creation of his latest raft. One thing he had not considered was that while the raft sat in the secluded cove, its timbers had become waterlogged. Now it sat much lower in the water than he had expected. As quickly as he could, he uncovered and maneuvered the heavy raft out into the stream, his legs and feet aching from the cold water. With the heavy oak pole he had cut for a rudder, he had to push and maneuver the craft along the shallow creek. He had fastened a cradle to each end of the raft for the pole; in case the awkward craft turned in the swift-moving river, he could steer the raft from either end.

Using the pole as a pry bar, Tanner worked the raft through places too shallow to float it. He had anticipated shallow areas in the stream and had brought along a shovel. However, he had not figured on the creek being this low. The spring rains had not come yet. The year to date had been an unusually dry time. In the moonlight, he worked at a feverish pace, digging away the sand and rocks that kept the raft from floating down the creek.

Early morning found him still a mile away from the river. Fear crept into his mind as the predawn light found him continually working through the shallow spots in the creek. A wagon road that was out of sight ran along the high bank above the creek. Occasionally, he could hear a wagon moving along the roadway in the predawn darkness. As the morning light increased, Tanner intensified his effort. Casting aside the need for silence, he made an all-out effort to get the raft down the shallow creek. The big slave had not been able to examine the creek this far from the plantation, and he had expected it to be deeper as he grew closer to the mighty river. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

The break of dawn brought fear to the slaves on the Sanders Plantation. By full light, they stood in a line on the front lawn. They cowered in fear as William Sanders paced back and forth in front of them, holding in his hand his dreaded black snake.

Oscar Burch, the plantation overseer, stood at the end of the line and said, Mr. Sanders, my boys will get the dogs ready. We need to get after him!

Burch, I should have expected somethin’ like this after he buried his mammy, Sanders stated in anger. With a flick of his wrist, he let the leather braided whip unroll in front of the scared slaves. Years of practice with the black snake--for the express purpose of inflicting pain and fear upon his slaves--had made it a formidable weapon in his hand.

Working the handle of the whip in his hand, Sanders caused the end of the whip to roll and flip across the grass like a snake. It produced the desired result, evidenced by the fearful stares of the slaves.

I want him hangin’ from that tree by noon! Sanders yelled as he paced up and down on the plantation lawn. I don’t suppose any of you knew anythin’ about this, did you? Just in case any one of you has a plan to run, I want you to see what will happen to Tanner when I get him back.

Suddenly the whip lashed out, and a young slave of thirteen screamed in pain. Blood trickled down the side of his face as he fell to his knees. The other slaves shrank back from the stricken youth, keeping their heads down. Fear of the whip and the wrath of their master kept them in line.

Don’ hit me no mo, massuh. Please don’ hit me no mo, the young slave pleaded. Tears of rage came to Boots’ eyes as he watched his younger brother take the whip. Only the menacing rifles held by the white men constrained him from trying to avenge his brother.

A few minutes later, Oscar Burch, followed by his two sons, led several saddled horses around to the front of the mansion. Oscar frowned and pulled his hat brim down over his brow. He hated to see Sanders upset, for he knew his boss could be cruel when he got this mad. He didn’t like his employer, but a job was a job, and being overseer of the Sanders Plantation paid better than most.

Oscar, get one of your boys in the saddle and head him north to the Estes Plantation. The dogs have the scent, and Tanner is headed north. Get Estes and his dogs out on his trail. Tell Estes we’ll catch up as soon as we can! Sanders bellowed.

Mr. Sanders, if he’s headed north, he had to have passed their place last night. Why don’t we just ride hard for the Estes place? Oscar questioned.

No, we might miss him if we get in a rush. Besides, we might as well enjoy the hunt, Sanders replied. In his hand, he held up two silver coins. Looking at Oscar's two sons standing around him, he said, Boys, I will give the man that gets him a ten-dollar coin, one for each of his ears.

As the boys shifted uncomfortably in front of Sanders, Oscar held his tongue. He did not like his boss tempting his sons in such a way. He hoped his boys would find repulsive the idea of gaining money by killing the young slave they had been friends with and had coon hunted with many a night.

Oscar knew that this day would hold death for Tanner and quickly decided his job on Sanders’ plantation cost his family more than he was willing to pay.

Hours later, Bill Estes stood in the middle of the main road, waiting for the dogs of the Sanders Plantation to catch up. His sons stood around him with rifles and dogs, impatiently waiting as the men from the Sanders Plantation came down the road.

Estes was a man, much like Sanders, and sat in his horse impatiently waiting. Do you have a piece of clothing or something we can bait my dogs with Sanders? he asked.

No! This is a smart one; we couldn’t find anythin’ that belonged to him that the dogs could get a scent from. The shanty where he lived had been wiped down with coal oil. I don’t need your dog’s Estes. My dogs know him; he feeds them every day. They’ve already found his scent and lost it a hundred times. I don’t know what he’s doing, but he surely has kept the dogs confused! Sanders stated.

Sanders, you got yourself an educated slave. I have heard that your wife has been teachin’ those slaves of yours to read and write! Givin’ them a white man’s education. It is bad enough when a white woman gets an education, but that does not give them liberty to be educatin’ the slaves. Keepin’ them dumb and workin’ the livin’ hell out of them is what I say will keep slaves in line! Estes barked.

Estes, I intend to take my woman to hand as soon as I get this slave caught. There will be no more schoolin’, and you can count on that, Sanders angrily replied.

Rubbing his chin, Estes said, Tanner was a two thousand-dollar slave, but now he’s a runner. There isn’t a man in the entire state who will want to buy him from you now.

I’m not plannin’ to run him through the auction. After the good care I have given him all his life, I plan to make him regret doing this to me! All he will get after the beatin’ I’ll give him is a shallow grave the hogs can root up! Sanders replied.

For several hours, the men tried to work a trail by moving the dogs up and down the road and fields heading north. Occasionally Dixie Bell or Bo would hit on a scent only to lose it again. The dogs were obviously getting tired while the men were getting madder and more frustrated at not being able to find the runaway.

Estes, this is not workin’. These dogs know Jones, for he feeds them every day. I think they would have hit on him by now if he were not in the water. If my dogs can get the scent of him, they will surely run with it. I am bettin’ he took to water, and Willow Creek is the only stream of any size around here…I bet he took to it and is makin’ a run north. Why don’t you take Bo with you and head north along Willow Creek? I’ll take Dixie and follow the creek south for a ways; maybe he isn’t headed north at all. If you get a strong scent, fire a shot in the air. We will do the same. Now let’s run this buck into the ground! Sanders yelled.

ααααααα

Tanner lay across the raft, exhausted from the exertion of moving it down the stream. Lifting his head, he could barely see the river. Through the low hanging foliage, he watched the muddy river flowing past. Occasionally he heard men’s voices, knowing that meant they were workers on the river. Tanner had planned to be miles down the river by now, sleeping in a secluded cove and making ready for another run by nightfall, but now he would have to travel in broad daylight--that is if he could get the raft in the river at all.

Taking up the shovel once again, Tanner went to the front of the raft and shoveled the loose gravel away, trying to float the heavy raft. For several hours he worked doggedly, knowing his very life was at stake. Exhausted, he sat down on the front of the raft, and anxiously looked up at the sun above his head. It looked like it was past noon. He had several hours of work yet to do.

He worked for another hour and again rested on the raft, still a distressing distance from the river. Suddenly, fear coursed through his body as he heard something. Straining his ears, Tanner heard the distant baying of bloodhounds and the firing of signal shots. The dogs had found his scent, and they would soon run him down. All his efforts at hiding his scent had not bought him enough time.

That dog be a trailing you, boy? The words hit him like icy water thrown in his face. Rising from where he had been lying on his raft, he looked around and saw an older man and five younger men standing on the bank of the creek. They were poorly dressed but all armed with rifles and pistols. Fearfully, Tanner looked from right to left, yet he saw no way to escape. He had failed, and all the prayers he had offered had not helped. Not wanting to be taken alive, he stood and faced the men on the bank.

That’ll be Dixie my massuh’s hound a comin’ fo me. I ain’t gonna let ‘em take me back alive, ‘cause I knows what’s gonna happen iffen they do, Tanner stated.

Tanner looked longingly at the river, hoping for a quick and merciful end from the strangers. He thought as he braced himself for the men to begin firing, the exhilaration of freedom was worth the cost. The slender man tilted his head and listened to the distant baying of a bloodhound coming closer and closer down the creek.

Sounds like that dog got your scent, and they shore is comin’ fast. Boys, get down in this here creek and help him git that raft over the shallows, and be quick about it! At their father’s command, the young men leaned their rifles against available trees and scrambled into the creek. The five boys and Tanner positioned themselves around the raft.

A worried half-smile crossed the old man’s face, and he looked at Tanner and said, We be a-runnin' too...running across this crazy country that be readyin’ itself for war! I didn’t raise these boys of mine to see their blood spilt so’s a few rich men can keep their slaves.

With the help of the boys lifting the raft, it was easy for Tanner to maneuver it down the creek and into deep water. I be mighty beholdin’ to you and your sons, mister. You and them would probably get a reward iffen you killed me and gives me to them men comin’ ahind those dogs, Tanner offered.

Son, we be a-lookin' for a much greater reward than any man on this earth can give. I suppose this situation would cause many a man to do the wrong thing and justify it in his own mind, but I don’t hold with slavery, and it ain’t a thing God approves of. You best be on your way, cause you ain’t out of these woods yet. Maybe us helpin’ you will give you a runnin’ chance. Anyways me and my boys will be a prayin’ you make it to safety. the man said.

Iffen that bunch chasin’ me figures out you done helped me, then you best be ready to do some fightin’. That be a mighty mean man followin’ them dogs. Tanner said.

I’ve kinda’ figured that out already. We’ll fight if we have to. Helpin’ you wuz the right thing to do, and we try to do what’s right. Rubbing his whiskered chin, the man mumbled mostly to himself, Doin’ right can be downright harmful to a fellow sometimes.

Tanner studied the lanky man and his sons for a moment. He had an abiding hatred for all white men, but this bunch confused him. They weren’t what plantation folks called white trash—men who were poor, mean spirited and spiteful because they envied the lives of plantation owners but were too lazy to do anything to improve their lot in life. These men wore clothes that were old but clean, and they carried themselves with dignity. Taking one last look at the six white men that had helped him, Tanner shoved the raft out in the river and jumped aboard. The river took hold of the raft, and the strong current took it swiftly downstream and out of sight.

Boys, said the old man, let’s get away from here so’s we don’t get tied in with helpin’ a runaway slave. We need to put some miles between us and this country by nightfall.

Above the river’ bank, a grey-haired woman and a small girl sat on a wagon seat watching her men folks as they climbed back to the road where their wagon waited. Smiling an approving smile at her boys and husband, she watched through the trees as the raft went out of sight around a bend in the river. Looking the wet boys over and touching her husband with a gentle smile, she said simply, We best be on our way. Casting worried glances back in the direction the dogs were coming, the family headed west once more.

The baying of the dogs got stronger until they had reached the river. A mile westward, the old man and his boys walked alongside the wagon, watching their back trail.

Boys, the men that were chasin’ that slave be a-comin' this way; keep your rifles ready and spread out. Lester, you and Marvin, make yourselves scarce in the trees once they come up to us. Sounds like a lot of men mounted, so be ready to fight if we have to, the man said.

A few minutes later, two slaves came into view, each running behind a large hound tethered by a long leash to the slaves’ hands. William Sanders was riding the first horse that came into view, and upon seeing the wagon, he held his hand up to slow the other four men behind him.

Worn out from running with the dogs, the slaves moved to the side of the road and collapsed in the tall grass. Sitting astride his horse, Sanders looked over the slender man and his three sons. Behind Sanders, Oscar Burch rode his horse up to the lanky man who stood behind the wagon. Hoping to keep things as pleasant as possible, Oscar touched the brim of his hat and acknowledged the poorly dressed woman who had stepped down from the wagon to stand by her husband. Ma’am, Oscar said.

Resting his rifle across his arm, the slender man took an old pipe from his mouth and said, You fellers look like you are in a powerful hurry to catch up to someone. What be the matter?

Shifting his weight in the saddle and looking at the small family with contempt, Sanders pointed his whip at the old man and said, We’ve been trackin’ a runaway slave. From the looks of that creek back there, I figure you and these three boys with wet britches legs might know somethin’ about this.

Well sir, my boys do love to wade in a crick’ like most young boys do, and as far as the slave you say you are a following, we ain’t seen hide nor’ hair of one.

I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I had a look in your wagon then? Sanders said.

Removing the pipe from his mouth, the slender man said, Well, sir, there ain’t no slave in my wagon, and you will have to take my word for that because I don’t care for you stickin’ your big nose in my wagon.

Mister, you don’t know who I am, but I fully intend to inspect that wagon...every inch of it, Sanders hissed.

Oscar had had enough of Sanders foul language, and the looks of the slender settler made him decide it was time to stop this before his boys were in the middle of a shooting war.

That will be enough of that kind of talk, Sanders. If Tanner was in that wagon, the dogs would be all over it, Burch said.

Sanders turned his hard look to his overseer and said, "Burch, I