I loaded all my fishing tools up, threw the stringer of fish over Old Flap’s rump, and started riding back to the stable.

’Twaren’t long afore the steady rocking of the mule had me wondering if I should sleep or think. Thinking won out ’cause I was still mighty sore ’bout having only six fish. I couldn’t figure out exactly how the Preacher’d done it, but something with this tithing business stanked real bad. And that got me thinking that lots of what the Preacher did waren’t right.

I’d heard Pa call the Preacher a jackleg man of the Lord once when he didn’t know I was listening. I couldn’t ask Pa what that meant without him knowing I’d been eavesdropping on growned folks’ conversations, but I was catching on that it waren’t a good thing to be.

And then lots of other things the Preacher did came rushing into my mind. Like him promising again to let me shoot that mystery pistol. We’d gone out two times afore and I still hadn’t even touched that gun. The first time he’d ran out of bullets when it came time for me to shoot it, and the second time ’stead of shooting that silver-plate pistol, he gave me a old rusty one to fire. It got so hot after I shot it twice that it burnt my hand and I throwed it down.

All that did was make me want to shoot that mystery pistol off even more.

Folks did lots of speculating on where that gun came from, but that was ’bout the only thing the Preacher didn’t do a whole lot of talking ’bout. I got real disappointed when he finally did tell Mr. Polite, ’cause ’stead of telling one of his usual interesting truth stretchers, he came up with the same story near ’bout any dull child would have. He said he found it in the woods. That disappointed me ’cause if the Preacher’d put his mind to it, I knowed he’d have come up with something a lot more exciting than that.

The gun first showed up in his hands ’bout three years ago when I was ’round eight. I got a real clear memory of it ’cause it was tied up with the last time we had slave catchers come to Buxton from America.

We’d been in the middle of Latin lessons when Mr. Brown came and knocked on the door of the schoolhouse and called Mrs. Guest outside. When she came back in I started fretting ’cause whilst she tried to keep her voice calm so’s not to rile no one, I watched her eyes and saw the way she wrunged her hands whilst she talked and I knowed something was terrible wrong.

She said, “Children, we are going to postpone the rest of classes today. I want all of you to make certain your homework assignment is written down and your books are gathered. Then I want Rodney Wills, Emma, Buster, and Zachary to line up quietly at the door. Kicknosway, James, Alice, Alistair, and Bonita, you are to leave immediately and go directly home.”

Near everybody but me was giggling and clowning and thinking this was something good, but I knowed growned folks waren’t going to call off school ’less something powerful bad was ’bout to happen or had happened already. And why was Mrs. Guest sending all the white children and the Indian children home right off like that?

I quick looked out the window to the west and saw the sky was blue and sunshiny. That meant waren’t no bad weather coming. That meant it was something worst, something dealing with people.

Another knock came on the door and Mr. Brown stuck his head in and said, “Ready?”

Mrs. Guest told him, “Yes,” and said to us, “You will be taken home in groups of four. Those who live farthest from the school will go first. Your parents have been called in from the fields and will be waiting for you at home. They will explain what is happening. I will entertain no questions and I will tolerate no noise. Sit along the walls in the boys’ cloakroom and keep away from the windows. Wait until I tell you to move. You have nothing to worry about.”

Now even the children that waren’t particular sharp-minded got nervous. Ain’t too much that’ll get you worrying more than a teacher telling you that you shouldn’t, and we all knowed just about nothing could make growned folks cut out their work in the fields early.

Mrs. Guest opened the door and Little Rodney, Emma, Buster, and Zachary went out behind her and Mr. Brown. Mrs. Guest stuck her head back in the cloakroom and said, “I will be right outside. I want no talking and no moving about.”

Soon’s the door shut after her, Sidney Prince whispered, “I wonder what’s wrong. This here’s real peculiar.”

Cooter whispered back, “Whatever it is, you’s lucky Emma Collins left, ’cause she sure would’ve told Mrs. Guest you’s in here talking.”

Sidney said, “Well, you’re talking too, Cooter.”

Cooter said, “It don’t count, I’m just trying to …”

Philip Wise said, “Y’all both need to hesh. I know what it is.”

Everyone but me asked him, “What?”

Philip pointed at me and said, “It’s him.”

I felt myself getting warm. Me and Philip Wise didn’t agree on near nothing.

He said, “Frederick Douglass is up in Chatham and told the growned folks he ain’t coming down to visit in Buxton ’less they locks Elijah and all the other babies up. The man say he caint stand the thought of getting throwed up on again.”

Most of ’em laughed but Cooter said, “Philip Wise, you ain’t nothing but a fool. Everyone know you’s just jealous ’cause Eli was the first child borned free in Buxton and you waren’t nothing but third. Even Emma Collins beat you!”

Philip started to answer but the door came back open.

Mrs. Guest rounded up Philip, Cooter, Sidney, and Big Rodney, and they left. I was in the last group to go. Soon’s we were outside I knowed I’d got afeared for a good reason. Mr. Brown and Mr. Leroy were standing on both ends of the schoolhouse holding on to double-barrel shotguns and looking ’round like they were ready for trouble!

If seeing the guns waren’t scary enough, the sounds I was hearing were worst. The Settlement was quiet like it was for only a few minutes every day afore dark. You couldn’t hear no trees being chopped nor no mules nor horses being pushed on to pull harder, nor no sounds from the road. You couldn’t hear that big fifteen-horsepower engine that runs the gristmill and the sawmill thumping away. You couldn’t even hear Mr. Leroy’s axe!

The only sound was birds, and you wouldn’t never think that birds singing would be something to make you skittish, but hearing ’em singing all by theirselves like that, they might as well’ve been haints or ghosts singing.

Pa and our neighbor, Mr. Highgate, both were carrying rifles and told us to walk in line.

I knowed right off what it had to be. I knowed there was only one reason they’d let the white children and the Indian children leave without no one watching ’em. I said, “Pa, there’s slave catchers here, ain’t there? Is that why everyone’s toting guns?”

Pa said, “Don’t fret, son. We’s just being cautious. Ain’t no one seen nothing for sure yet.”

Pa told me that one of the Settlement’s white friends from Chatham had come busting in on horseback and warned that there were two American scallywags with pistols and shackles and chains asking questions ’bout the best way to get to Buxton.

We all looked ’cross the fields and watched the edge of the woods, fearing that the American kidnappers were gonna come out firing, trying to snatch someone into slavery.

A little ways from home the Preacher came running at us holding on to a long sharp blade from off a scythe. He said to Pa, “I heard there are two of them. I’m going to check south.”

Pa said, “Hold up, Zeph, they was supposed to be up in Chatham, that means they gunn come from the north. ’Sides, you shouldn’t be out there without no gun, someone with a firearm should go with you.”

The Preacher said, “If it was me, I’d circle around and come from the south. You all go look north. I’m not expecting any trouble. These are my woods, I know what’s what out here.”

Then he ran off south.

Didn’t nothing come from all the excitement we had. The worst thing that happened was we had twice as many Latin verbs to study at school when we went back.

The Preacher waren’t seen for the next couple of days and that did cause some folks to worry, but everybody knowed he disappeared all the time so didn’t no one pay it too much mind.

Two nights later I tiptoed out of my bedroom and peeked ’round the corner of the parlour to see if Ma and Pa were up. Waren’t no candles nor lamps burning so I looked up the stairs to check their bedroom next. It was dark there too. I went up a few steps and heard Pa snoring, they were sleeping for sure.

I slipped out of my nightshirt, put some clothes on, then crawled out my window and dropped on the ground. I waited a second to make sure waren’t nothing disturbed, then started running through the truck patch toward the trees.

I hadn’t got ten yards into the woods when all the sudden my heart quit beating and my blood ran cold! Something tall and white and ghostish, like a giant haint, came walking slow out from ’mongst the trees.

My mind acted like it was gonna get all fra-gile but it didn’t take much time afore I knowed it waren’t nothing but a horse, a stranger horse. It didn’t even take that much time for me to scat back home and jump into my bedroom window.

I slipped back into my nightshirt and ran up the stairs to Ma and Pa’s room. I called out, “Pa?”

Everybody was still a little jumpy what with them paddy-rollers ’round somewhere and the Preacher not being seen for a while so Ma and Pa were up in a flash!

I told ’em, “I couldn’t sleep and was looking out my window and saw a horse come from out of the woods!”

Pa said, “White folks?”

“No, sir, the horse didn’t have no rider.”

Pa said, “Were it one a our’n? You think someone leaved the barn door ajar?”

I told him, “No, sir. ’Twas a big white stallion with a saddle, nothing like none of ours.”

Pa snatched on some trousers, ran downstairs, grabbed a torch and his rifle, then ran outside barefoot.

He hadn’t said not to, so I followed close behind him.

Pa lit the torch and we started searching for signs of the horse. Pa picked up his tracks and we found him just down the road.

The horse had camped hisself in front of the Highgates’ home. His head was leaned down over their picket fence and he was chawing on bunches of flowers, uprooting most of Mrs. Highgate’s black-eye Susies.

Pa handed me the rifle and torch and walked up on the horse slow. He patted the horse on the neck and said, “There, boy. There now.”

The horse’s eyes had a wild roll to ’em but he didn’t seem to mind, so Pa picked up his reins and pulled the horse out of the flower garden.

I pointed at the horse’s haunch. “Pa! Look! He’s hurt!”

A big patch of dry blood was all over the horse’s right-hand flank.

Pa checked the horse over good. He even pulled the saddle off and said, “Ain’t him, but something’s done bled bad here.”

Pa gave me the horse’s reins then went to Mr. Highgate’s door and knocked loud.

Mr. Highgate’s window rose up and his shotgun poked out.

“Who there?”

“It’s me, Theo. Come on out, there’s a hoss what ain’t got no rider in your yard. Maybe someone’s afoot somewhere.”

Pa and Mr. Highgate stirred everyone and they lit torches and searched high and low but didn’t come up with nothing or no one.

The next morning, since his hand got hurt at the sawmill and he caint work, Mr. Highgate took the horse and saddle to the sheriff in Chatham so’s no one would say we stoled ’em. Some of the white people ’round here are always trying to blame everything that goes bad on Settlement folks and we waren’t looking for no trouble.

Three days after that, the Preacher showed back up with the fancy holster and the mystery pistol. After ’while he told Mr. Polite he’d found them whilst he was out in the woods near the river. He said he went into Chatham to see if the gun belonged to anyone there but it didn’t, so he was laying claim that it was his own.

People had a hard time believing the Preacher’s story. They said someone might find a white man’s pistol that had bounced out of his saddle or his jacket or his holster, but it waren’t likely they’d find a pistol and a holster all together. They said ’bout the only way to get a white man away from his gun and holster was to take it off of him whilst he was at rest in his coffin.

Ma was right when she said people that use to be slaves love to talk, ’cause soon after that folks started prettying up some of the wildest stories you could think of ’bout why that horse came to Buxton. Stories started getting told that the Preacher had stoled up on those two white men with the blade from that scythe and slit their throats and cut ’em into hunks then throwed their earthy remainders in Lake Erie.

They said there’d been two white twins from America riding ’round Chatham on two white stallions whilst toting two of the fanciest pearl-handle, silver-plate pistols just like the one the Preacher said he found. They said whilst the Preacher was killing those men, one of the horses spooked and bolted and that was the one that wandered into the Settlement. Then, they said, the Preacher rode the other white stallion to Toronto and sold it and the second pistol in the market there.

I thought this waren’t nothing but gossiping and story pretty-upping.

The way I figure, if the Preacher had took those guns from those men, how come he only said he found one pistol?

That don’t make no sense, that don’t make no sense atall. It’s mathematics and I ain’t real partial to that, but seems to me that as much as he enjoyed showing off the one gun he’d found, he’d’ve enjoyed showing off two of ’em twice as much! And everybody knowed it would be near impossible for the Preacher to keep a story as rousing as that all to hisself.