If a buzzard flies overhead, don’t let him cast his shadow across you or you will have nothing but bad luck for a fortnight.

The wagon rattled and thundered along the rutted road. My head throbbed, achin so deep inside I couldn’t move. I opened my eyes and looked up at the dark night sky. Where were the new sickle moon, and why had my luck run out so fast?

Three bright stars, the ones my grandpa called the three-corner hat, glistered above. I felt some comfort seein how they follered along, lookin down, watchin over me like old friends.

“Grandpa, where am I? Grandpa, the stars.” His voice come to me, singin deep from his heart:

Who are these, like stars appearing,

These, before God’s throne who stand?

Each a golden crown is wearing:

Who are all this glorious band?

I smelt the familiar smoke of a cheroot and heard the clop, clop of horse hooves. The wagon hit a hole and jumped high, then slammed down, rocked, and rumbled on.

“Owww,” I moaned, holdin the sides of my head to keep it from movin. When the road smoothed, I let go. My hands felt sticky and wet. I held them under my nose—they smelt of blood. No wonder my head hurt.

I wiped my hands on a pile of dirty straw. I sure didn’t want to get no blood on my fine new dress. Then I reached up to brush wisps of hair off my face. My bonnet, where were my bonnet? I remembered Auntie’s caution to keep my hair covered. I tried to sit up, but the pure pain of it kept me down.

When I moved my hand acrost the rough wooden bed of the wagon, it run into the soft edge of my fancy green bonnet. I pulled it toward me, lifted my head, and slipped it over my hair. Just doin that took most all my might.

I woke again, my head still hurtin. Night had run to dawn, and long wisps of pink mares’ tails streaked the sky. Sunrise soon.

Sleep come again, sleep, hurtin, and a mess of dreams about Zenobia and me runnin, runnin, always a-runnin.

A big jolt shook me awake. It hurt some to open my eyes onto the clear sky and the sun burnin bright and hot on my face. My head felt like someone were tryin to split it open with a maul.

Hurtin or not, I’d spent about as much time as I could lyin down. I turned onto my stomach and looked up at a big, thick man with wide shoulders and long, dirty gray hair. Twin streams of bad-smellin smoke curled behind him.

How had he found me? Where were he takin me?

I poked my head above the rail and saw half a dozen wagons stopped in the shade of trees. Horses drank in a lazy crick, so shallow it didn’t make a whisper.

Five other wagons stood nearby in the full meanness of the summer sun. Shackled and tied to the sides of the wagons were Negra men, women, and children. Some cried; others paced in small circles till there were a rut worn into the dusty ground. Were Zenobia and Brightwell somewhere in the crowd?

I set up slow-like, brushed at my dress, and tucked a wisp of hair under my bonnet. Time to forget about the hurtin and start tryin to think out what I were goin to do. Was Yardley and Asa somewhere behind, follerin on our trail? What if they didn’t find us? I couldn’t hope that anyone else would or could save me from this scrambled-up mess of trouble.

“Whooa!” the dirty man said to his horses. “Whoooa, now.”

“Who are you and where do you think you’re takin me?” I asked, makin my voice sound stronger than I felt. Talkin made my head hurt even more.

He turned, grinned a tobacca-stained, crag-toothed smile, and said, “Don’t act so high and fine with me, girl. I know your kind. Sneakin around, helpin slaves run away from their rightful owners.”

Mama, I thought, help me to not be afeared.

“The idea,” I said. “I would never help slaves run away from their owners. My father and mother wouldn’t never forgive me for that.”

The dirty man jumped over the side of the wagon, grabbed his rifle, and walked back to me.

“Well, look-a-here,” he said. “You’re right fetchy and fancy in all your fine clothes. I couldn’t see last night when I follered you from the railroad house.” His red-rimmed eyes run all over me, bonnet to boot.

“You and them people in that railroad house are hidin slaves and helpin them north,” he said as he walked closer and lifted my bonnet. “I’ll get me a good reward for turnin you in.” He let go of my bonnet, and it slipped down over my hair.

I were boilin up mad. “I weren’t one of them helpin slaves,” I said angrily. “I don’t even know what a railroad house is. I walked past a few houses, then went to the meetin church for quiet afore my mother and father come to take me to Philadelphia. They goin to find you and send you to jail.”

“If you wasn’t one of them, why’d you hide?” he asked, walkin around me, and pokin at me with the barrel of his rifle.

“I were sittin in the church when you come in. I got scairt. Folks been sayin that men are comin in from Rogue’s Holler and stealin from people. You hurt me, hurt me bad!” I shouted. “My father’ll have your hide!”

He shook his head and walked over to a group of men who had turned our way when I yelled.

Purple asters and goldenrod in the meadow to the east of us swayed and bowed in the breeze. A kettle of buzzards glided overhead in wide, lazy circles. As they flew, their long wings tilted and wobbled like they was goin to fall out of the sky. I felt some relieved that they was too far away to pass their unlucky shadows acrost me.

The loop of birds grew smaller and smaller, until one after another landed on the ground and walked acrost the field to a small hump.

“Shag Honeybone,” a tall, ragged man shouted, “you done us no danged good here. The poster said to bring him back alive, but you whipped him to death.”

Whipped him to death. Who had the dirty man whipped to death?

The fat, chuffle-jawed man beside him, called Micajah by the others, were dressed for a Sunday. He shook a sausage finger and said, “We’re not goin to see a penny for that one, but least we didn’t have to bury him. Them buzzards are takin care of the carcass.” He spit a wad of tobacca onto the ground and nodded toward the meadow.

Carcass. The man had said carcass.

I looked back at the meadow. The big buzzards formed a thick black wall. Their heads dipped and bobbed, dipped and bobbed.

“That old Quaker woman ain’t goin to make it either. Might as well haul her out to the field too.”

That old Quaker woman? Did they mean Auntie Theodate?

The men walked to a wagon, let down the back gate, and dragged out the body of a tiny silver-haired woman.

I heard a voice cry out. I’d know that voice anywhere.

Zenobia run toward the wagon, run till the chains round her ankle jerked her so hard she fell to the ground.

One of the men picked up a shovel that leant against a tree. He walked over to Zenobia and swung.

I screamed afore it come down on her.