The next day was Sunday, and Bee and I got up early, packed snacks and water, smeared on sunscreen, and met at the barn a few minutes after seven. We brought along a map of Leadenwah Island, and our plan was to ride down every single back road and try to spot the white truck.
As we saddled the ponies Bee said, “You really think that truck is on the island?”
I nodded. “I bet it’s near wherever Yemassee found that white thing she was carrying,” I said. “Probably the men who stole her saw her as she was digging it up. If we just ride around long enough, I bet we’ll spot them.”
Leadenwah Island is about seven miles long and three miles wide, and it forks like a pair of rabbit ears about halfway out, creating two separate points of land that jut out into the river. The point nearest to Reward is called Bishop’s Point. The farther point is called Sinner’s Point.
Like a lot of places in our part of the country, Leadenwah Island had a fair number of people who lived in small houses or double-wides set close to the road. We figured that if the fancy pickup with the double back tires belonged to one of them, it would be easy to spot. But there were also a fair number of folks with plenty of money who lived on much bigger places, and while the two guys we saw hadn’t looked rich, it definitely wasn’t out of the question.
Even before we got to the end of the plantation drive and onto the township dirt road, I could sense Bee already starting to worry. When I glanced over at her, she was chewing her lip. “What?” I asked.
“Most of these big places are set pretty far back from the road,” she said.
I shrugged. “So?”
“Gonna be hard to see a truck if it’s parked all the way in the back.”
“Yup,” I agreed.
“So we’re gonna trespass?”
“Can you think of any other way for us to spot that truck?”
Bee thought about that for a long moment. “I guess not,” she said at last.
We rode out the plantation drive, then turned left on the township dirt road. We went past several of the neighboring properties without even turning our heads, because we knew the people who lived there and the people who worked for them.
When we hit the paved road that ran down the center of the island, we turned left. A big tractor trailer overflowing with a load of freshly dug dirt passed us heading toward the mainland, and we had to close our eyes and turn our heads away from the blowing dust. That was the only vehicle we saw until we came to the Y intersection and went left, heading toward Bishop’s Point. After that we saw an SUV or two and some pickups. None were white, and besides that I recognized the drivers and waved. A tractor with a big cutting bar passed us on its way to mow someone’s fields, and we waved at that driver, too.
Once we were on the point, we stayed on the main road and then turned down the first of the narrow dirt roads that went toward the water and started to search for the white truck. We checked the small places close to the road and skipped past the first couple big places because, again, we knew the owners and the people who worked there. The third large property was one we didn’t know anything about.
Old families still owned a lot of the larger properties on Leadenwah, but increasingly, as people would pass away, strangers from Atlanta or Charlotte or New York would buy them. Some of the newcomers spent a lot of time here and really became part of island life, but there were some, like the owner of this plantation, who didn’t seem to care much about getting to know us locals.
“Ready to do some exploring?” I asked.
“Okay, but if somebody comes out and starts screaming at us, you’re doing the talking,” Bee said.
Bee might have been the worst liar who had ever been born. I’d figured out pretty soon after we’d become friends that whenever we had to fib our way out of a tough spot, I was the one who had to do it. “No problem,” I said.
The property where we stopped had a couple fancy gateposts marking the entrance. A pair of wrought-iron metal gates would have been closed if the owners were away, but today they were open. We turned our ponies into the drive and started down the long allée of live oaks. The branches formed a high canopy over our heads, and Spanish moss hung from them and waved in the breeze.
We rode in silence for a ways, but then Bee asked, “So what are you going to say if the owner threatens to call the police?”
“Easy,” I said. “We’re going to say that we thought one of our classmates lived here.”
“And what if we run into those two men?”
I shot her a sideways glance but didn’t say anything because I’d been worrying about the exact same thing. We were getting farther and farther away from the township road, and I was growing more and more nervous.
Plantation is a Southern word that basically means “big farm.” In my opinion plantations are the most beautiful places in the world, lush and green with fields of crops, and pastures full of animals, and ponds that twinkle in the sun, and pretty houses, and lots of flowering trees. A plantation is the opposite of a suburb. There aren’t any nearby houses or neighbors you can run to for help, and once you get far enough away from the road, people driving past in cars wouldn’t be able to see you at all.
Therefore, if you went riding up the driveway of a plantation where someone wanted to hurt you, it could be real dangerous. It hadn’t even been four months since some bad people had tried to kill Bee and me on our own plantation, so I knew I wasn’t being a weenie.
“Um, there’s one thing I kind of forgot to tell you,” I said.
Bee looked at me and wrinkled up her face like she knew it was going to be bad. “What?”
“I saw one of those men on TV last night. They didn’t just steal Yemassee. They also robbed that gas company.”
Bee’s eyes went wide. “Those guys saw us!” she exclaimed. “And now you tell me they’re also like major criminals? Are you seriously crazy?”
“This isn’t just about Yemassee,” I told her. “It’s about a man named Willie Smalls and Daddy.” And I told her about who Willie was and about Daddy’s bail hearing. “If we can find the men who did all this, it’ll help Daddy out, and he can get back to doing the kinds of things he was doing before, not getting all mixed up in this dangerous criminal stuff.”
She looked at me, and her eyes narrowed. She huffed some air out her nose and shook her head. “I must be crazy to be your friend,” she said.
Up ahead of us the line of live oaks seemed to stretch forever. Cows and horses grazed in the pastures on either side. We had ridden a good quarter mile off the county road before some barns came into view on our left. They were pole barns, the kind with just a roof and no walls, so I could see through to the other side. I looked hard for any sign of a white pickup truck but saw nothing other than tractors, mowers, and assorted farm equipment.
“Is this far enough?” Bee asked, her voice tight with anxiety.
That was when I heard the bark. A second later four or five big dogs came around the corner of an outbuilding and headed straight for us. Judging by their angry sounds, I didn’t think they were coming out to say hello.
“I think this is plenty far,” I said as I wheeled Timmy around. I didn’t even have to kick him, because it was clear he didn’t want any more to do with those dogs than me. Even Bee’s pony, Buck, was fast on his feet for once as we started to gallop down the drive toward the township road.
Ponies are fast, but their legs aren’t as long as horses’ legs by a long shot. For a few seconds it seemed like the dogs were going to catch us because we had to start from a dead stop and they were already running. I felt a twinge of something close to panic as I heard the barks getting closer, and I kicked Timmy hard. The barks stayed close for several more seconds, then finally they began to fade. When I felt like I could risk it, I looked back and saw that the dogs had stopped and were standing with their tongues lolling out as they watched us leave.
Once we were back out on the township road, Bee and I reined in our ponies and let them catch their breath. “That wasn’t overly successful,” I admitted.
Bee gave me a cool look. “I’d say your brilliant plan of trespassing onto people’s property and then claiming to be lost is almost guaranteed to get us bitten or shot.”
I bit back my normal response. Bee could definitely be a bit of a wuss, but in this case I couldn’t argue. Anyplace we trespassed was going to have dogs, or worse, a hothead with a rifle or shotgun. I should have known that in the first place. After all, we were in South Carolina.
“Okay, change of tactics,” I said. “From now on we’ll circle the fence lines and try to find a way in through the pastures. We’ll stay out of sight better and be farther away from the buildings and the dogs, but we still ought to be able to spot the truck.”
Bee mulled over my suggestion for a few seconds then gave an uneasy shrug. “We’ll try it,” she said. “But we stay away from swamps.”
Bee harbored an unholy fear of snakes and any other critters that like to hang out in swamps. Also a few months earlier we’d almost been eaten by a huge alligator named Green Alice.
“Deal,” I said, happy that she was still willing to come along.
We continued down the dirt road. For the next five hours, every time we came to a large property, we skirted the fence lines until we found an unlocked pasture gate. It took longer that way, but we stayed out of sight and managed not to get chased by any more dogs or any crazy owners. We spotted plenty of trucks but not a single new white pickup truck with a set of double back tires.
The day continued to get hotter as we searched. The sky was cloudless, the breeze nonexistent. We found several places to water the horses, but by late afternoon we were tired, frustrated, sunburned, mosquito-bit, out of snacks, and very sweaty.
As we plodded along the dusty road toward home, I got out the map and planned our next day’s exploration. Little did I know what lay ahead. If I’d had any idea, I think I might have given up any hope of rescuing Yemassee and maybe even of trying to help Daddy.