Slave hunters on horseback milled around the Coffin family’s rambling brick house, forming moving shadows in the gloom of a stormy winter evening.
Deborah Wall shivered as she stood next to her older cousin Katy Coffin and peered through one of the parlor windows. Katy’s husband, Levi, kept some of the soul drivers talking at the front door.
Deborah’s pa had left with the runaways only moments ago.
Deborah strode through the candlelit dining room and looked out the window. A narrow break in the storm clouds gave just enough light in the sunset to show that members of the posse watched every door. Her heart thudded, and her mouth went dry. She forgot all about being cold and wet from the ride from home to Newport.
One of them, a tall and lean man, his shoulders broadened by a caped riding coat, turned his horse and studied the side door.
The horse, with its solid build and stylish head and neck, caught Deborah’s eye. A Morgan, a mighty fine animal for someone like that.
What if that wicked man noticed Pa’s wagon tracks? Her father had figured the trees along the creek bank would hide them. They’d rushed into the night for fear the rising creek would wash out the bridge and get too deep to cross.
As if from some invisible cue, the Morgan sidestepped closer to the door. Its rider folded his arms across the saddlebow and leaned down to study the tracks.
Did he see? Did he guess who left the trail?
She heard Levi at the front door, telling the other slave hunters why—under every point of Indiana legal codes and English common law—they couldn’t come in and search his house.
Cousin Katy’s three daughters clustered around their mother and Deborah.
“How long does thee think they will stand and listen to Friend Coffin’s message?” Deborah asked.
“I hope long enough that thy father can take those fellows clean away,” Cousin Katy said. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her normally cheerful face tightened with worry.
Outside, the man on the Morgan put his hand to his mouth and shouted, “Over here!”
Deborah felt blood drain from her face, leaving her dizzy. He must have seen Pa’s wagon.
Time. They needed more time to get away.
The horse pivoted and took a few strides, following the wagon tracks down to the creek.
Deborah prayed for boldness then grabbed her black cloak and bonnet. “I’ll try to delay them.” Her mouth felt dry as sawdust and her voice cracked.
“How?” Cousin Katy gasped.
Deborah glanced over her shoulder and grinned, which lightened her fear. “As I feel led.” She took a breath to steady her nerves.
Cousin Katy stepped toward her. “Truly?”
Deborah paused, her hand on the latch. What if she was wrong? No time to waste. She opened the door.
The cold wind took her breath away and sleet stung her cheeks.
The Morgan tossed its head as its rider turned toward the house and gazed up at Deborah standing in the doorway. Light from the house spilled over him. He’d be a handsome man but for his harsh countenance.
“I caution thee,” Deborah said, “to beware of the water.”
He stared at her. A Southern drawl slowed his voice. “Now, why would a pretty little Quaker gal be talkin’ to someone like me?”
Her heart and mind raced. Were her actions so unusual that she made him suspicious? But if she kept him talking, Pa would have that much more time to get the runaways home to the farm, safely under Ma’s wing.
A tart answer came to mind, and she gave him a crooked smile. “I’d given little thought to thee, neighbor. But I would hate to see any harm come to such a likely looking horse.”
His quick grin showed a mouthful of white teeth, like a wolf’s. “Why thank you, miss.” He dropped one hand to the horse’s neck and straightened its windswept mane. Then he looked into Deborah’s eyes. “I know a fine filly when I see one.”
Deborah ignored that. Would she be able to keep him talking about the horse? “It’s a mare, then?”
“Yes, miss. In foal to—well you wouldn’t—”
The storm’s wind cut through her cloak, making her shiver. What else could she say? “I might, if it’s from around here.”
“No, miss, to a racehorse from down by Richmond.”
She thought of the most notable one. “Messenger?”
“That’s the one. She sure is.” He studied Deborah for a long moment.
Deborah stared in awe at the mare. What a valuable foal that would be. “When does thee expect her to foal?”
“Later this spring.”
Deborah edged a little farther out the door, onto the top step. She prayed for the right words. “For that reason, neighbor, thee must be careful with her. I wouldn’t go any farther that direction. We just came that way, and the creek is rising fast.”
“Whose tracks are these, then?”
She must keep him talking. She’d never spoken as much to a strange man, especially one of the world. “Ours. My father brought me here for another week of work. He wanted to hurry home before the creek got too high.”
The stranger leaned forward and studied the mud and snow again. He raised his head and gazed into her eyes. “Lot of footprints there for just you and your dad.”
Deborah inhaled sharply. “We made several trips in and out with firewood. This house uses a prodigious amount.”
He glanced down at the tracks then back into her eyes. “With respect, miss, that’s not what those tracks look like to me. All shapes and sizes of prints.”
The front door slammed, and the mare flung up her head. The other horses and riders sloshed through the mud, joining him. The sharp smell of horse sweat made Deborah’s nose wrinkle. The animals shivered and snorted.
Deborah took a shaky breath. She felt like she was on display.
The man with the Morgan smiled and took off his hat. The wind tangled his long wavy hair. “You must excuse me, miss. Business.”
Before he could say more, another man, lean and predatory like a weasel, urged his horse forward. Octavian Wagner, the notorious slave hunter. He looked down at the hoofprints, tracks, and wagon ruts then turned to the group. “Well looky here. All kinds of sign.”
Deborah clutched the doorframe, reminding herself to breathe. What had she done? What would they do to Pa and the runaways? Why had she said anything?
The man on the Morgan nodded at Deborah. “Little Quaker gal there made a point of sayin’ not to go that way.”
Another man edged his horse forward. “Wonder if we hurried, if we’d catch ‘em.”
Wagner grinned. “I got a better idea. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Deborah fumbled with the door latch behind her. It swung open, and warm air from the house breezed out. Cousin Katy put her hand on Deborah’s shoulder. “Come inside, dear heart.”
Wagner leered at Deborah. “I know you now. You’re that Wall gal. Dad’s the furniture maker.”
“Josiah Wall,” another man said.
Fear crackled through Deborah. These men recognized her? And knew of her family?
The man on the Morgan swung the horse between her and the others, almost protectively. “Go inside, miss.”
Wagner got an evil grin on his face. “I believe I can make them come right to us. Thank you so much for your help, darlin’.”
Such arrogance. Deborah clenched her fists.
The posse rode down the street. A few hundred feet from the house, behind the Coffins’ barn, the horses splashed into the rising creek. “Josiah Wall!” Wagner called. “Friend Wall! I have a message for thee from thy daughter!”