Читать книгу Behold, this Dreamer - Charlotte Miller - Страница 12

The landscape that passed outside the open doorway of the rail car that Sunday afternoon in January of 1927 was a mixture of green southern pines and red Georgia clay. Janson Sanders sat just within the open doorway of the boxcar, his back against the wall, feeling the train rock and sway beneath him as it moved along the tracks. He had no idea where the train was taking him, and in that moment it did not much matter—anyplace was fine, anyplace that was not Eason County.

He shivered with the cold and tried to pull his coat closer about himself, but knew there was little use. The frigid January wind that numbed his face, his hands, and bare feet, also cut straight through the worn old coat, his faded workshirt and dungarees, and even the old newspapers he had stuffed down inside his shirt against the cold, to leave him shivering anyway. He had considered for a time moving back into the recesses of the car, away from the freezing wind that blew in the open doorway, but had already decided against it—the cold was far preferable over the stench that filled a space usually occupied by cattle, far preferable, and also probably far safer.

He eyed again the two men who rode the rail car with him, glad again of the distance between him and where they sat. They stayed at the far side of the car, seated against the wall, away from the air and the light. They had been here, sitting much as they were now, when he had swung himself and his few belongings on board those hours ago as the train had been picking up speed pulling out of the depot in Pine. They had looked at each other, and then had begun to stare at him as he settled down with his back against the wall—as they stared at him even now, returning his look with hard eyes that showed little concern for him, or for the remainder of the world.

Some instinct born within Janson warned him to be on guard as he met their eyes. They seemed hard men, neither too clean, and neither with less than several days growth of beard on his face. The youngest was at least twenty years older than Janson’s nineteen and one-half years; he was a big man, with huge shoulders bulging beneath a dirty coat, and huge hands and thick wrists extending far beyond the ends of his sleeves—but it was the older of the two who put Janson even more on guard. He was somewhere in his mid-fifties, with a body already going to fat, and a broad nose that looked as if it had been broken and poorly mended several times. He sat apart from the other man, drawing his looks on occasion without saying a word. His head was bare, the greasy black hair thin and sparse over the top of his large skull, but growing in thick mats down along the backs of both his broad hands—and somehow he made Janson even more wary than did the other, staring at him, squinting even through the darkness inside the car, never taking his eyes away even as the hours passed and the miles rolled by the train.

Janson returned his stare, knowing somehow that the two men were together, just as he knew they were not friends, for men such as these had no friends—rather they simply traveled together, as any predatory animal might travel in a pack. And, as Janson watched them, he felt as if all his instincts were on guard.

He turned his eyes out the open doorway of the car, some part of him still watching and alert for any movement one of the two might make, just as it had been from the first moment he had swung himself on board the train those hours ago—he wondered again where the train might be taking him. The land they were passing through seemed at times almost as red as the Alabama hills he had been born to, but it was flatter land, rolling only on occasion into the hills and curves his eyes were more accustomed to. There were pine woods, broken for broad expanses by winter-barren cotton fields; small towns, and what once seemed to him to be the edges of a big city, though he could only guess at that, for he had never been in a big city in all his life. From the height of the sun in the west, and the direction the train had been traveling, he knew they must now be somewhere in Georgia—Georgia, that seemed as good a place as any to start earning the money he would need to buy his land back.

He continued to stare out the open doorway, feeling the old leather portmanteau against his thigh, his shoes not far away. His stomach was growling and empty, but the smell of manure, urine, and sweat within the car, and the constant swaying motion of the train, had already combined to replace his hunger with nausea. The white-wrapped bundle of food his gran’ma had given him those hours ago before he had left Eason County had long ago grown cold, and it sat, still unopened, atop the portmanteau at his side, his hand resting on top of it. He knew he would have to eat soon, but not here, not in this stinking, swaying car. Once the train stopped, he would get off, find someplace warm, someplace the air was fresh and the ground steady, and then he would eat—besides, he had to urinate badly, and he could not bring himself to stand and relieve his strained bladder against the wall as he had seen one of the other men do.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, exhausted, numbed from the cold, sick from the smell. He had never felt so alone, been so alone, in all his life—but perhaps alone was better. No one to worry about. Nobody else to think of. Alone.

He was tired. There had been little sleep the night before, the decision to leave Eason County sitting heavily on his mind, taking the badly-needed rest from him—for a moment, he thought of home, of the white house on the red acres; the fields so rich, green with plants in the summer, white with cotton in the fall; the tall green pines, the rolling red land. He thought of his pa’s booming laugh, his mother singing softly as she worked at the old foot-treadle sewing machine in the parlor, his gran’ma coming by to make sure he ate two messes of polk sallet each year to purify his blood, and the time she had drawn the fire from his arm when he had burned it so badly on the old wood stove several years back. For a moment, he could almost see it all, almost touch it all—home, his parents, the white house as it had been in years past, just as if nothing had happened. Just as if—

There was a sudden movement across from him, quick, furtive, and Janson realized with a start that he had been almost asleep. His eyes sprang open, and his muscles tensed, ready—

The younger of the two men was half raised onto one knee, the dark eyes above the tangled beard set on Janson’s face. For a moment, the man stayed as he was, staring at Janson, then he slowly lowered himself back to a seated position, his eyes never once leaving Janson’s face—they were hard eyes, eyes that put Janson even more on guard. He would not fall asleep again.

It was not long before the train began to slow, coming into a small settlement, then finally coming to a halt with a shudder and a high-pitched screech of metal just outside an old depot. Janson cautiously looked out, hearing the two men shift even farther back into the darkness within the car. He knew it was not safe to stay so close to the open doorway, there being too great a chance the railroad police might spot him with the train stopped here at the station, and even Janson had heard of what often happened to the transients found riding the rails, how they were often beaten, sometimes to within an inch of their lives, before they were thrown off the train—but something inside Janson told him even that could be far preferable to what could happen to a man even deeper within the darkness of that car. At least the railroad police were the law. There was no law alive within that rail car.

The old depot building was run down, the once-white paint on its walls now peeling and gray from the smoke of the many trains that had come through. There were several sets of tracks, going in several different directions, but few buildings, and even fewer people—probably a freight stop, Janson told himself, staying hidden as best he could at the edge of the doorway. This was not the sort of place he had thought to leave his free ride, but both the smell, and the companionship, forced the decision on him—there were other empty cars on this train, other trains going other places if he chose. He could get out into the fresh air, stretch his cramped muscles, maybe find someplace warm where he could eat—but he had to get out of here.

He gathered up his things, the portmanteau and his shoes in one hand, the bundle of food in the other, and glanced back at the two men. They did not move or speak, but only continued to stare at him from the darkness as he got to his feet, the muscles in his back complaining at the position he had been sitting in against the inside wall of the car for such a length of time. He looked out again, checking cautiously for any sign of the railroad police as well as for any people from the train or station house who might know he should not be here; then he jumped down into the loose dirt alongside the tracks and knelt there for a moment, waiting to make sure he was unobserved before hurrying on toward the woods that stood at a distance behind the depot—he did not know why he looked back, but he did, turning back as he reached the edge of the woods to see the two men jump down from the boxcar only seconds later, wait there for an instant, then hurry off in another direction. Janson stared after them for a moment. And for some reason he shuddered.

He made his way into the woods, stopping for a moment to make sure he had not been followed. He stood still, his eyes moving through the trees, his breathing quiet as he listened to the silence. Then, satisfied, he turned and made his way even deeper into the pines.

The temperature had fallen, the damp, chill ground uncomfortable now even to his toughened and calloused feet—but the air was clean and fresh, and the ground steady, and he decided to stay here rather than to risk going back toward the depot where he might find a warmer place to rest and to eat his food. He took the time to relieve his strained bladder, then happened on a rusting tin water bucket left discarded and forgotten beneath a tree, filled now with rainwater, and topped by a thin layer of ice and dead leaves. He knelt and brushed the leaves aside, then broke up the ice and washed his face and hands in the frigid water, washing away the stench from the rail car, and hissing through clenched teeth as the icy water hit his skin.

He settled down beneath a tree and unknotted the bundle of food his grandmother had given him those long hours ago, his appetite returning now at the sight of the biscuits and cold fried chicken wrapped in the white cloth. It had been sometime late the day before when he had last eaten, a supper of dry corn bread, cold turnip greens, butter beans, and fatback as tough as shoe leather, and he thought now that he had never been so hungry before in all his life as he greedily bit into a fried chicken leg and picked up one of the large buttermilk biscuits.

“You gonna hog all that food t’ yer’self, boy?” a voice came from behind him, and Janson immediately froze, almost choking on the food in his mouth as he turned in the direction from which the voice had come, finding the older of the two men from the rail car staring at him. Janson moved into a low crouch, the food and his hunger both immediately forgotten—the man was alone, but Janson knew the other would be nearby. His eyes quickly scanned the woods near the man, his ears straining for any sound of movement through the underbrush.

“Ain’t you gonna be neighborly, boy, an’ offer t’ share some ’a that food with a hongry man—”

A movement came from the woods to Janson’s right, and his eyes quickly darted in that direction, then back again, as the older man quickly moved so there was no way he could keep his eyes on both men at the same time. He remained in a crouch, a nervous knot of fear constricting his stomach—he knew what sort of men these were, and he knew there was no mercy within either one of them.

“Why don’ you let us get a look at what you got in that suitcase, boy?” the older man said, beginning to move forward, his dirty hands moving down along the thighs of his greasy trousers—Janson rose quickly to his feet, his muscles tensing, his back to the tree so the other man would not be able to get to him from behind. The older man froze, eyeing Janson cautiously. “You do what I say, boy, an’ it’ll be a mite easier on you—”

“Like hell I will—”

“We should’a took keer ’a him back there on th’ train—” The voice came from the woods behind him, making Janson turn quickly in that direction—but the older man shifted, moving closer, drawing his attention back. There was a sudden, quick movement at the corner of Janson’s eye, and he started to turn back—but it was too late; the big man was already on him, twisting his arm up behind his back, turning him to shove him chest-forward against the tree. His ribs impacted the hard wood with a pain that drove the breath from his body, and he struggled to breathe again, his cheek against the rough wood of the pine as the older man moved closer to stare at him.

The man looked at him for a moment, then down at the chicken and biscuits now scattered out over the ground. “Jus’ look what you done, boy,” he said, then bent to take up a fried chicken breast, making only a bare attempt to brush away the dirt and bits of dried leaves that adhered to it before biting into the flesh. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, staring at Janson, cold grease shining now on his mouth and chin. “What you got in th’ suitcase, boy?” he asked, then squatted cumbersomely at Janson’s feet, holding the chicken breast between his teeth as he unbuckled the straps of the portmanteau and laid it open on the ground.

Janson struggled against the man holding him, having his arm forced even more painfully up behind his back as he watched the dirty hands go through his things, his clean clothes being shoved aside, the Bible thumbed through in search of anything of value—then there was a grunt of satisfaction as the man found the little money Janson had knotted into a handkerchief among the other things. The man spat out the piece of chicken and pushed himself to his feet, unknotting the handkerchief and counting out the few coins into one greasy palm.

“I tol’ you he had some money, th’ way he was holdin’ ont’ that there case—” the man behind Janson said, but the older man only grunted in response, shoving the money into one deep pocket of the dirty coat he wore. He turned to look at Janson again, and Janson started to struggle anew, only to have his struggle halted by the question the big man behind him asked. “We gonna kill him, Hoyt?”

For a moment, Janson could only stare at the older man, the muscles in his stomach knotting again—men such as these could kill him without a thought, and leave him here in the woods where it might be days, even weeks, before his body was found. But it was something more than that. He stared at the man, feeling a chill move up his spine.

“Meby—meby not—” the man said, and Janson heard the big man behind him start to laugh—but there was no humor in that sound; it was cold, deadly, something less than human.

“You always did like ’em young—” And suddenly Janson understood. He started to struggle against the big man holding him, feeling a sharp pain stab through his right shoulder with the pressure on his arm. He twisted to one side, bringing his left elbow into sharp contact with the man’s ribs, twisting farther to land a hard punch to his jaw. He lashed out with a foot into the groin of the older man, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling backward, clutching his crotch.

Janson stumbled as well and almost fell, his right shoulder hurting as he grabbed up the portmanteau and his shoes, trying to capture as much of his things as possible as he slammed the case shut and began to run, holding it against his side. He could hear the two men behind him, crashing through the underbrush and cursing—but he did not take the time to look back. His sense of direction was gone, but he could hear a train in the distance, and he ran toward that sound, hoping to reach the area of the depot before the men could catch him—but he had misjudged, coming into the clearing at a place he had never seen before, the tracks before him, and a slow-moving train gathering speed from the station blocking his way.

There was no choice. The men were coming closer, breaking into the clearing behind him. He ran toward the train, trying to match its speed, but failing—there was an open rail car doorway ahead—but the train was moving too fast. Too—

“Get him! Goddamn it, don’t let him get away!” He heard the shout from behind him, the anger. He threw his shoes and the portmanteau in through the open doorway of the car, seeing the portmanteau open and his possessions spill out over the dirty flooring, his shoes bounce off the far wall of the car. He pushed as much speed from his legs as he could, demanding even more, feeling sharp rocks and bits of glass cut into his bare feet. He grabbed for the edge of the doorway, almost catching hold—if he lost his hold, or was unable to swing himself on board, he knew he would end up under the wheels of the train.

But he was dead to stay here anyway.

He grabbed for the edge of the doorway again, feeling his hands close over the wood and metal, feeling the power and momentum of the train jerk at his body as he finally caught hold. He swung himself forward, grabbing for the bottom of the doorway with his feet—for a moment, he lost his footing, hanging in mid-air, his hands slipping—then he was inside, landing with a hard jolt on his side on the wooden flooring.

He lay there for a moment, his heart pounding, the sound of the train loud in his ears. He forced himself to breathe, to think, to know that he was safe; then he moved to look out the open doorway of the swaying freight car, seeing the two men left far behind him now as the train gathered speed moving into the pines.

After a moment, he moved to sit with his back against the inside wall of the car, closing his eyes, and leaning his head back—for a while he could think of nothing more than that he was alive.

It was not until later that he realized what little money he had possessed in the world was now gone.

Janson was sore and bruised by the time he woke on the hard floor of the rail car the next morning. It was not even daylight yet, and the car seemed damp and cold and lonely around him as he sat up in the darkness, trying to pull his coat closer about himself, seeking warmth he knew was not there. He had never been so cold or so hungry before in all his life, or so stiff and sore—but he knew he was lucky to even be alive this morning, lucky to have survived the day he had just seen.

He moved back out of the chill air that washed over him from the open doorway of the car, and sat cross-legged against a wall, closing his eyes against the darkness. The constant rocking and swaying motion of the train only increased the nausea that was already inside of him from his gnawing and empty stomach—he was so tired, having slept so little in the hours he had spent on the hard floor during the night. He had no idea where he was now, no idea in what direction the train was traveling in anymore without the sun or stars to use as a guide.

As light finally came, he moved to look out the open doorway of the car, finding the land the train was traveling through to seem strange and flat to his eyes already longing for sight of the hilly red land of Eason County. There were wide expanses of winter-barren fields, broken by woods, houses, towns, and settlements, but it all seemed strange and new and unknown to him. He wondered what he would do now, with the little money that he had had now gone. He could not ride the rails forever, living like the tramps and hobos, hopping boxcars from town to town, begging, stealing, barely even getting by. He had to find a place to start, work he could do to earn money, a place to sleep, food to eat—and, at the moment, food seemed of the most importance. It had been more than a day now since he had last eaten, and he knew now as he sat staring out the open doorway, his arms folded over his empty, complaining stomach, that he had never been so hungry before in all his life.

Soon the train began to slow, coming into the outskirts of a small town. There were neat rows of white houses alongside the tracks, stretching for streets away through a village, the large, brick cotton mill at its center belching lint and smoke through the quiet town. Even though this land was much flatter, it reminded him too much of Pine, too much of the Easons’ cotton mill and the village, and memories came flooding back over him, renewing the hatred, and the determination—he would go back. The Easons had not beaten him yet, would never beat him. He would go back.

The train began to slow even further, drawing nearer to the depot—he would stay here for only a few days, find work that could give him food and a place to sleep, maybe even a little money. Then he would move on to some place less like Pine, some place that would bring fewer memories of a home he could no longer touch. Only a few days—

The train slowly came to a standstill at the depot, then rolled forward before finally stopping with a shudder alongside the platform. Janson moved back into the darkness within the car, not wanting to risk being seen before he could have the chance to leave the train. He gathered together his shoes and the portmanteau, then moved toward the doorway to risk a look out—but he quickly moved back. A man was making his way down the length of the train, checking cars as he went, pulling himself up to look inside each, and then moving on. He held a thick cudgel in one hand, which he pounded into the open palm of the other as he walked—only a few cars, and he would be at the one where Janson crouched hidden in the darkness. Only a few cars—

Janson risked another look out, seeing the man pull himself up into a car only a few distant. He knew he would be certain to be seen once the man reached this car, for there was no place to run, nowhere to hide. In a fair fight he knew he could hold his own with any man—but the cudgel changed the odds, and Janson Sanders would not easily submit to a beating at the hands of any man. He had only his two fists to defend himself with, but, even if there had been a weapon for his own use, he knew they were too close to the station. Others would come, and he would be beaten anyway.

He looked toward the woods that stood at a distance on the other side of the depot. There was a lot of open ground in between, but it was the only hope he had. He waited until the man had pulled himself up into the next car, then jumped down and started to run, holding his shoes and the portmanteau against his side. There was a shout and a curse from behind him, but he did not look back, keeping his eyes on the woods ahead as he ran, determined that he would not fall to that cudgel, determined that he would not—

He broke into the woods, low branches slapping at his face, brambles sticking his feet, vines almost tripping him—but he continued to run, hearing the man come crashing into the underbrush behind him. His side began to hurt with the effort, and he lost his shoes once only to have to stop and grab them up again, thinking that it seemed the man would never give up, that he would never turn back. A branch released too early lashed at his face and almost caught his eye; his left knee began to hurt again as it had not hurt since the night of the fire, threatening to fail him, threatening to end the flight—and then the sounds from behind him stopped.

Janson paused for a moment, listening, making certain, a cautious relief flooding over him as silence filled the woods. He limped over to a tree and dropped his things, leaning against its rough bark to catch his breath. After a time he looked around himself, realizing that he had no idea how to find his way out of the woods, or even how to find his way back to the depot. Then he sighed, picked up his things, chose a direction, and started to walk.

It began to rain long before he found his way clear of the woods, a cold, chilling rain that became a steady, icy downpour by the time he came to a clearing and found himself back at the edge of the town. He was soaked through to the skin, chilled, hungry, and hurting—and he already hated like hell this place he had found himself.

That was the longest day Janson felt that he ever lived through. He tried for hours, through the day and long into the evening, to find work he could do in exchange for a meal and a place he could spend the cold night ahead. He stopped at first one house and then another in the town, offering to chop wood or do chores, to do anything that might need to be done in exchange for food and dry shelter for one night—but at one house he was run off with a shotgun, at another a pan of dirty dishwater was thrown at him, chilling him only further. As afternoon came, he headed out into the countryside, believing that among the farm people he would surely find work, food, and a place he could rest—but dogs were set on him at one place, the door closed in his face at another. Sharecropping families said there was work to be done, but that they had trouble enough to feed their own. The more well-off farmers looked at him suspiciously and ordered him from their land. By evening he was tired and angry. It had been much more than a day now since he had last eaten, and he knew he would have to do something before darkness fell. He could not sleep out in the open tonight; the air felt chill and sharp, and the late afternoon sky looked right for a rare snow. He had no intention of freezing to death during the cold night ahead, not even if that meant having to put himself up in some farmer’s barn for the night without the owner’s knowing—but he had to do something about food. He would have to eat, and eat soon, and it would not be long before dark—

The house he chose was large and white, with dark-painted shutters on either side of its many windows. Electric light shone from within, and Janson could dimly hear the sounds of a radio playing as he crouched in the darkness, his eyes on the lighted windows. It was a big place, two stories, with six, tall white columns in the front, six matching ones in the rear, and a covered walkway leading to a large kitchen standing separate and apart at the back of the house. It was this latter structure that he watched now, seeing people go earlier to-and-fro over the walkway to the back veranda and in through a door to what had to be the dining room, a heavy-set woman in a dark dress with a bun of hair pinned at the back of her head, hurrying through the chill air with platters and bowls of what had to be steaming food. He could smell meats and gravy as he slipped closer to the house and spied in through the dining room windows—bowls and plates and serving dishes sat on the heavily-varnished table, heaped high with potatoes, beans, and corn. Nearby sat a platter covered with meat, another with what looked to be fresh-baked bread and creamy yellow butter; there was the smell of coffee, the sight of a deep-dish pie for dessert—his mouth was watering, and his empty stomach aching as he moved back into the darkness away from the house and waited for the lights to go out and the place to quiet down. He had come to a decision, a decision he had not wanted to make. Never once in all his life had he ever stolen from anyone—but tonight he would. Tonight he would steal food because he had to eat to live. Tonight he would become a thief.

He waited in the darkness, his resolve becoming easier with the passing minutes and with the smell of good food that came to him from both the house and the separate kitchen. He had known what he would have to do, had passed by the houses of the small farmers, and the shacks and shanties of the sharecroppers, until he had come upon this place. If he had to steal, then he would steal from someone who could afford it, from these rich folks, and not from some poor farmer or sharecropping family. These people, with their motor cars and their fancy clothes, their electric lights and running water and big table covered with fine china and silver—folks like these would hardly miss the little it would take to fill his stomach.

He crouched in the darkness, listening to the faint sound of a radio from somewhere within the house—no one should have so much, he told himself. Not the Easons, not these folks, not anybody. Not when all he wanted was those red acres back in Eason County, the old house, things to be like they used to be. Not when he was hungry and cold and tired and only God knew where.

After a time that seemed to him to stretch into forever, the big house grew still and quiet, and the electric lights downstairs shut out. He continued to watch until the light went out in the kitchen as well, waiting until the dark form of a woman emerged, and then blended into the greater darkness leading away from the house. Then he cautiously crept closer to the kitchen, listening, wary. He knelt for a moment near the back veranda, his eyes moving through the darkness, then he quickly moved up the few steps to the covered walkway and hurried toward the door to the kitchen. He paused for a moment, his hand on the doorknob—then he was suddenly inside with the door closed behind him, safe and alone.

He stood there for a moment, looking around the room in the darkness, thinking again of what it was he was doing—but the smell of food that still hung in the air spurred him to action. He made his way across the bare wood floor, past the kitchen table and some kind of fancy stove, his eyes on an open doorway at the rear of the room—he could see shelves of glass canning jars gleaming in the bare light that filtered through the single window beyond. There were barrels nearby, the smell of apples coming from them, bins of flour and meal, sacks of onions, and strings of dried pepper hanging from the ceiling. He closed the second door behind himself and made his way toward the shelves, kneeling in the darkness and taking up first one of the glass jars, and then another, trying to discern the contents: tomatoes, corn, jelly, what looked to be preserves, sweet pickles, relish, pepper sauce, peaches. His empty stomach aching, he tested the lid on one of the jars, straining against it, and finally feeling it loosen and unscrew in his hands. He stuck his fingers in the jar, smelling the scent of the peaches inside, taking out one of the halves with his fingers and shoving it greedily into his mouth—I’m a thief, he told himself, so hungry that he did not care as he licked the syrup from his fingers. I’ll be damned if it’s right for any man to go hungry, he thought, and stuck his fingers back into the jar for another peach half. I’ll be damned if—

There was a sound from the kitchen, a creaking of the floorboards, and then the door flew inward, rebounding off the wall nearby, and then caught and held in a firm grip. Janson turned quickly, almost dropping the jar in his hands, almost choking on the food in his mouth. There was no way out—he knew he was caught.

“You put that jar down an’ come on out ’a there where I can see you!” the woman demanded, her broad body effectively blocking the doorway into the kitchen, a large, black cast-iron skillet held raised in one hand as if she were intent on using it as a weapon. “Come on out ’a there, I tell you!”

Janson stood slowly, setting the jar of peaches down on the shelf nearby, his eyes moving to the room beyond her—he’d never make it. Even if he could shove her aside and get past her, she would yell and bring help from the big house. He would be caught, treated as a thief, when his only crime had been to—

She cautiously backed away as he moved forward, then again, moving toward the center of the room as they entered the kitchen. One of her hands moved upward, feeling in the air for something and finally hitting it, then pulling on a drawstring to flood the room with electric light from the bare lamp that hung suspended there at the end of a long cord from the ceiling. Janson raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring light, and blinked painfully, trying to adjust his sight to the sudden brightness in the room. When he could see again, he looked at the woman—she was tall and sturdily built, with a mass of iron-gray hair drawn into a heavy bun at the back of her neck. Her dress was loose and dark, pinned at the throat by a simple brooch; her coat plain and shapeless, hanging to within inches of the ugly black shoes on her feet. She stared at him as he lowered his hand, something in her eyes clearly saying that she did not trust him any more than the thief she thought him to be.

“I knowed I saw somebody movin’ aroun’ outside in th’ dark,” she said, lowering the skillet only slightly. “What you got t’ say for yourself, boy? What’s your name?—I don’t know your face; you ain’ from aroun’ here.”

When Janson did not answer, she raised the skillet again. “Speak up, boy, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Janson Sanders,” he said, raising his chin slightly.

“‘Janson Sanders’, sayin’ it all kind ’a prideful like—ain’ nothin’ prideful ’bout bein’ a thief.”

“I ain’t no thief.”

“Ain’ no thief!—when I caught you in th’ storeroom myself! It’s a good thing I forgot my pocketbook an’ had t’ come back for it, or you’d ’a likely stole us out ’a house an’ home! What you got t’ say for yourself, boy, stealin’ from good, hones’ folks like—”

“Somebody like you’d ’a never missed what it took for me t’ eat.”

“Somebody like me! It don’t matter who you’re stealin’ from, stealin’s still stealin’—an’ this place ain’ mine; it b’longs t’ Mist’ Whitley, like most everythin’ else aroun’ here does. An’ you better be glad it was me that caught you, an’ not him; he’d ’a been likely as not t’ shot you first—why didn’t you just knock at th’ door an’ ask t’ be fed if you was hongry?”

“I don’t take no charity!”

“Don’t take charity!—stealin’s better ’n charity t’ you, boy? That don’t make too much sense!” she said, but Janson did not answer her, angry—he did not know whether more at her, or at himself. “Looks t’ me like a strong young man like you’d be workin’ for his way, ’stead ’a stealin’ what other folks—”

“I tried all day t’ find work I could do for food an’ a place t’ sleep, an’ all I got around here was dogs set on me an’ guns pulled on me an’ I got run off folks land—” The words came out in an angry rush, and he immediately regretted them, seeing the look of pity that came to her face. She lowered the skillet and stared at him, but Janson only returned the look, lifting his chin defiantly.

“Where’re you from, boy?” she asked. When he did not answer she raised her voice. “Don’t do no good havin’ a chip on your shoulder so big that folks can see it a mile away—now, where’re you from?”

“Alabama,” he answered her shortly.

“Folks ain’ always like they ought t’ be, are they boy?” she asked him, not seeming to expect a response. After a moment, she sat the skillet down on a nearby table and moved toward the fancy electric icebox that sat in one corner of the kitchen. “Miz’ Whitley ain’ never turned nobody away from her door hongry yet. You set down an’ I’ll see what I can fin’ t’—”

“I done told you I don’t take no charity!”

She turned an angry gaze back on him. “You better jus’ decide real quick which is more important t’ you, boy, your pride or your empty belly—”

For a moment he almost walked out of the kitchen, for he knew now that she would let him go. Then he heard her words, spoken back over her shoulder as if they were nothing: “Seems t’ me like a man’d be a fool t’ choose against a full belly, though.”

Janson thought for a moment, and then moved to sit down at the kitchen table. When he looked back up at the woman again she smiled and nodded, then turned back toward the electric icebox without another word.

Her name was Mattie Ruth Coates, and she had been on the Whitley place for almost longer than she could remember, she told him a short while later as she sat watching him greedily sop up gravy with half an eaten biscuit. Within an hour Janson found himself accompanying her through the woods to the small house that she and her husband, Titus, lived in on Whitley land. He was offered their barn as shelter for the night, even given one of her hand-pieced quilts to use against the cold, and introduced to a thin, badly balding man—but by then he was too tired to even remember the name. He crawled onto a pile of hay in the barn and pulled the quilt over himself, and was asleep almost before he knew it.

He woke the next morning even before daylight, the air cold and chill around him, the warm quilt a welcome cover against the dampness inside the old barn. He got up and went out into the yard before the structure, wanting to see this place he had found himself, for he had been too tired to remember much of anything he had seen the night before.

The house sitting not far distant was small and unpainted, its rough boards weathered to silver-gray. The yard was bare and simple, swept free of grass and leaves, with rock borders marking where flower beds would bloom again in the spring. There was a well-tended winter garden behind the house, its rows of turnip and mustard greens stretching almost to the woods beyond, and fields of dry cotton plants going off into the distance. Janson looked until he found the well near the back porch of the house, and he drew a bucketful of water, then returned to the barn to bathe there in the chill air as best he could, using the frigid water, and a torn pair of underdrawers from his portmanteau as a wash cloth. He dressed and then rinsed out the clothes he had worn and slept in for the past two days, and slung them over a stall in the barn, to dry, possibly even to freeze, in the frigid air; then he went outside.

By the time the family was about, he had swept out the yard and begun to clean out the barn as repayment for the food he had been given and the shelter he had enjoyed for the night—as he had told the woman, he accepted no charity. He was served breakfast at the table just as if he were kin, and later, as Mattie Ruth and Titus Coates were off doing whatever work that rich folks like the Whitleys could find for them to do, he busied his hands again—chopping wood and stacking it near the back wall of the kitchen to dry; repairing a broken hinge on the barn door, and several shutters on the house; and was just completing the work on several chairs he had found on the back porch in various stages of being re-bottomed when Mattie Ruth Coates came home from the big house that afternoon to fix her husband’s supper before returning to prepare her employer’s meal.

When she saw all the work that had been done, she shook her head with amazement and looked up at him. “Lord, boy, your hands ain’ been still a minute, have they?” she said, settling herself in one of the newly re-bottomed chairs to test it. “There ain’ no reason somebody like you ought t’ have t’ steal t’ eat, not hard as you work.”

Janson looked at her, but did not respond, knowing there was reason in life for many things.

After a moment he said: “I was wonderin’ if I could stay th’ night in your barn again. I’ll be gone by first light t’morrow—”

“You’re welcome t’ stay long as you want. I kind ’a hate t’ see you go. It’s nice havin’ a young man aroun’ th’ place again, after both our own boys bein’ killed in th’ War—you goin’ back home t’ Alabama?”

“There ain’t no reason for me t’ go back. My folks’re dead, an’ my land’s gone. I guess I’ll just be movin’ on; I got t’ find work—”

“Well, if it’s work you’re lookin’ for, you ought t’ go talk t’ Mist’ Whitley. He wouldn’t take you on t’ crop, since you ain’ got no family t’ work as well, but he’s always takin’ on men for wages, farmhands an’ th’ like. If you want, my Titus’ll walk up there with you after supper t’night—”

Janson looked at her for a moment, thinking—one place was as good as any other, he supposed, and a rich man like Whitley might even pay better than most. Besides, he still did not have any money, and he knew he would have to eat. He had already failed miserably at being a thief once; he did not want to be reduced to trying it again.

“I’ll talk t’ Whitley,” he told her after a time, telling himself that it would not be for long. Once he had some money, he could move on to some other place. All he needed now was the money.

As Janson started toward the big house that evening, he found himself wondering at the older man who walked at his side. Titus Coates had spoken hardly a word to him since they had met the night before, just the barest “Mornin’—” or “Evenin’—” as they had passed, but there was something about the man Janson found he instinctively respected, something he liked and trusted, and he found himself wanting Titus Coates’ respect as well. Titus would have to know that he had been found stealing, for his wife would have told him that—but there was nothing in the older man’s manner to show he even thought of it as they left the bare-swept yard that evening and started up the road toward the big house.

“Th’ folks’ll be finished with supper by now,” Titus said, staring at the point where the red clay road twisted darkly between winter-dead cotton fields ahead. “Mist’ William’ll say he’s busy when we ask, but he’ll talk t’ us. He let a man go jus’ th’ other day an’ he’ll be needin’ somebody.”

“What’s he like t’ work for?” Janson asked.

“Well—” Titus fell silent for a moment. “He kin be a hard man t’ work for, but he’ll be right fair with you if you’re doin’ your job like you’re suppose t’ be doin’ it. He’ll pay you jus’ like he says he’ll pay you, an’ he’ll ’spect t’ get his money’s worth out ’a you in turn. Keeps my missus up there ’til all hours, cookin’ an’ cleanin’ an’ seein’ after th’ family; an’ he keeps me runnin’ here an’ yonder, goin’ int’ town or all th’ way up t’ Buntain, an’ even t’ Columbus some, totin’ packages for Miz’ Whitley when she goes shoppin’, or keepin’ an eye on them two little gals when they’re ’roun’; doin’ chores an’ keepin’ th’ cars runnin’ an’ fixin’ things ’roun’ here—he’ll keep you busy, but you know how rich folks are—”

Yeah, I know—Janson thought, but said nothing.

“Now, Miz’ Whitley, she’s a gentle-like lady, givin’ t’ jus’ ’bout everybody. She’d give th’ last bite ’a food off th’ table an’ th’ clothes right off her back t’ somebody needin’ ’em, if Mist’ William ’d let her. Folks’ll take ’vantage ’a that sometime, as folks’ll do—’specially them four young’ns ’a hers. There ain’ a one of ’em got a mind t’ listen t’ nobody, ’cept maybe Mist’ Stan, ’a course, th’ youngest. Th’ two oldes’ boys, Mist’ Bill Whitley an’ Mist’ Alfred, now they do pretty much whatever it is they take int’ their minds ’a doin’, an’ there ain’ nobody that kin stop ’em—it comes from bein’ spoil’t all their lives, I’d say, always gettin’ what they want. A good switchin’ like th’ ones I use t’ give my boys’d done ’em both a heap ’a good a few years back. They both jus’ like their daddy anyway, stubborn an’ set in their ways, with tempers like shouldn’t no man have; ain’ scared ’a God Almighty or nobody else, I’d say—it’s th’ Whitley in ’em, same as in their daddy an’ in his daddy ’afore him. Mist’ Alfred’s still young, but it’s that Bill Whitley I sometime wonder about—”

For a moment Titus fell silent, and Janson glanced over at him. There was a peculiar look on the old man’s face even in the darkness, and something of it stayed there even as he shook his head and continued.

“There ain’ much I’d put past that Bill Whitley, boy,” he said. “You jus’ stay clear ’a him whenever you can. That one loves money, maybe even better’n his daddy does, an’ he likes t’ boss folks ’roun’, tell ’em what t’ do, even when he ain’ got no business doin’ it. Got a streak in him that—well—” Again he fell silent, and Janson looked at him. There was a sigh from the darkness, and the old man shook his head again. “Mist’ Alfred, now that one’s only a boy, even if he does think hisself full-growed a man. ’Bout your age, thinks he’s real sharp with th’ town girls, always dresses hisself up like a real dandy, an’ he’s got th’ one reddest head ’a hair you ever did see in your life, an’ a temper t’ match it. Fancies all th’ news ’a them gangsters on th’ radio—that ain’ good for a body, I’d say, listin’ t’ all that talk ’bout them crooks an’ crim’nals bootleggin’ liquor an’ totin’ guns an’ sech way up North. You don’t hear ’bout sech goin’s on down here in Georgia where decent folks live, now, do you?”

His words paused for a moment, as if he expected Janson to respond, but Janson could think of nothing to say. He did not know anything about gangsters, or about criminals bootlegging liquor up North, and had heard a radio only once or twice in his life in the country stores back home. He knew that moonshiners and bootleggers operated stills in the backwoods in many areas; he and his father had even happened on a bootlegging operation once while hunting, and he had long ago been initiated to corn liquor himself—but he knew very little of the world the old man was talking about, of speakeasies and gangsters and the Prohibition agents everyone called “revenuers.” He had not been raised in a world of radios, or even of electric lights and running water and telephones, and he realized for the first time in his life how very different the world was becoming now, a world where someone in Georgia could know what was going on up North, or anywhere else in the world, just by turning a radio dial.

After a moment he realized that Titus was waiting for a response, but he could still think of nothing to say. He glanced over at the old man, saying the first thing that came to his mind. “You said th’ youngest boy ain’t too much like th’ other two.”

“No, Mist’ Stan ain’ too much like nobody else in th’ family, ’cept maybe he looks a good bit like his mama,” Titus answered, seeming to be satisfied. “He favors Mist’ Bill, too—but I’d say ways makes lots ’a difference in folks, an’ Mist’ Stan’s shore different from th’ rest ’a them young’ns in his ways. He’s quiet an’ all ’til he gets t’ know you, but then he kin talk your arm right off, wantin’ t’ know th’ whys and what-fors for everythin’—kin drive a body t’ distraction sometime, but he’s a good boy. Always got his nose in some book; don’t never cause no trouble t’ nobody. I doubt he’s ever give his mama cause for one gray hair in all his life—not like them other two boys an’ Miss Elise. With them three, it’s a miracle Miz’ Whitley ain’ done white haired a’ready. An’ Miss Elise ought t’ know better, but she’s spoil’t an’ all, like th’ only’st girl’s libles t’ be in any family. She’s pretty as a picture, with red-gold hair an’ pretty blue eyes—but she’s a Whitley through and through, stubborn like Mist’ William, an’ spoil’t; an’ that Phyllis Ann Bennett don’t help matters none. She’s always fillin’ Miss Elise’s head with all kinds ’a nonsense since she come back from spendin’ a couple weeks in New York City with some cousin ’a hers back summer ’fore last. She even got Miss Elise t’ bob her hair off—Lor’, but Mist’ William almost took th’ roof off th’ place over that!” The old man sighed and shook his head. “That Phyllis Ann ain’ no kind ’a girl for Miss Elise t’ be runnin’ ’roun’ with, her wearin’ her skirts up t’ her knees an’ rollin’ her stockin’s down t’ where anybody kin see th’ tops of ’em, smokin’ right in front ’a grown folks. I don’t think her folks say anythin’ t’ her about her ways anymore; I don’t guess they can—”

Again he fell silent as they walked along, and Janson found himself shaking his own head this time, imagining for a moment how William Whitley must have felt the day his daughter had come home looking like some city flapper, with her hair bobbed off and her skirts too short—he could almost feel sorry for the man, rich or not.

“Mist’ William ain’ too happy with Miss Elise bein’ friends with that Phyllis Ann no more, but they ain’ too much even him kin do about it. Them two little gals ’s thick as thieves, an’ they have been since they was jus’ babies. After Miss Elise went an’ bobbed her hair off, he packed her up an’ sent her off t’ some girls’ school up in Atlanta where Miz’ Whitley went when she was a girl, but th’ next thing you knowed that Phyllis Ann was goin’ too—not even Mist’ William kin find a way ’roun’ that daughter ’a his when her mind’s sot on somethin’—” he said as they rounded a bend in the red clay road and came to within sight of the big house at a distance beyond the magnolias and the oaks that stood in the wide front yard. “I doubt if Miz’ Whitley’s had even one minute’s peace in her mind since Miss Elise’s been gone off up there with that little Bennett gal, worryin’ about her even more’n when she was here. They ain’ no tellin’ what them two little gals ’s liables t’ get int’ off up there on they own—” he said. “Ain’ no tellin’—” And then he fell silent as they approached the house.

Janson stared up at the lighted windows before him, thinking of rich folks and their ways—what the world needed even less of, he told himself, was more fancied-up, bobbed-haired women, Miss Elise Whitley and her friend Phyllis Ann Bennett included.

He and Titus passed through the yard, trodding over the now winter-brown grass, and, as Janson stared down at it, he thought again of how much more pleasing to the eye the yards of the regular country-folk seemed: hard-packed clay swept free of grass and weeds, with uneven borders of rocks marking where the many flower beds would stand again in the spring and summer. There was absolutely no sensible reason, he told himself, for a man to sow grass in his yard, only to have to tend and cut it in the warm months—it could not be sold or eaten or made into clothes; all it could do was create more work for a man who had work enough already. It just did not make sense.

As they neared the house, Titus led him around toward the rear of the structure, and Janson went, though he felt his pride ruffle—for the first time in his life he realized there were front doors in this world he could not go to, houses he would not be able to enter as a man; that this was one of them, one of many.

The rear door of the house swung inward as they stepped up onto the back veranda, Mattie Ruth’s ample form framed in the open doorway by the light falling from the wide hall behind her. “I seen you comin’ from th’ front parlor while I was straightenin’ up,” she said and stepped back to let them enter. “Everybody’s done finished eatin’ now; Mist’ William’s in th’ library—”

Janson followed Titus in through the doorway, blinking to adjust his eyes to the brightness of the glaring electric light there in the hall. Very few times in his life had he ever been in houses lighted by electricity, and he did not like it, preferring by far the more-familiar muted glow of kerosene lamps, or even simple firelight, to the white, glaring brightness electricity created.

Once he could see better, he stared around himself with surprise at this place before him, from the waxed wooden flooring, to the walls papered with floral designs, to the heavily lacquered hall table against one wall, and the richly brocaded settee tucked in just opposite beneath where the staircase rose toward the back of the house and the floor above. At the far end of the wide hall stood double doors that opened out onto the front veranda, and, as Janson stared toward them, he noticed for the first time the transom of colored glass just above, as well as the matching glass panels on either side of the wide double doors, all inset with designs of blue and gold, and the frosted glass inserts in the doors themselves etched, he could tell even at that distance, with flower designs.

There were two identical crystal chandeliers of electric lights hanging from the carved ceiling at equal distances from the front and rear doors, and many doors opening off each side of the hallway, as well as a second, narrower hallway breaking off to one side of the house—Janson had never before in his life been in such a house as this, had never even believed that people could live in such a place. He stood just where he was, his eyes moving to the heavily framed paintings on the walls, the gilt-edged mirrors, and, at last, to the delicate what-nots of crystal and porcelain that sat on the hall table. He was almost afraid to move, afraid that he might break or damage something here in this fancy room.

“Y’all wait right here. I’ll tell Mist’ Whitley you’re wantin’ t’ talk t’ him,” Mattie Ruth said, then moved down the hallway, stopping at a door to the right and tapping lightly. A gruff voice answered from inside, the words unintelligible, and she opened the door and entered the room, closing the door again quietly behind herself.

Janson followed Titus toward the center of the hallway, still amazed that people lived in such a place. He could hear a radio playing from one of the rooms at the front of the house, jazz music from an orchestra, finally interrupted by an announcer’s voice, and, as he listened, he marveled again that he was hearing something from someplace far off, maybe even something from as far off as cities or even states away. After a moment, a young man of about his own age walked out the doorway to the right of the hall, stopped and stared at them for a moment, then walked toward where they stood near the center of the hallway.

Alfred Whitley looked at them for a long moment, his blue eyes moving from Titus, to Janson, and then back again, and Janson knew without having to be told who he was—the red hair and the fancy clothes left little doubt in his mind. “Titus, what are you doing here?” Alfred Whitley asked, his eyes settling on the older man.

“I come t’ see ’bout findin’ work for this young man here with Mist’ William—Mist’ Alfred, this’s Janson Sanders: Janson, boy, this here’s Mist’ Alfred Whitley—”

Janson nodded his head, but the young man only stared at him in response. “Well, you’ve chosen a bad time. You’ll have to come back tomorrow,” the boy said, his voice taking on an authoritative tone as his eyes moved back to Titus. “My father is busy, and I just don’t—”

“Turn that confounded radio down like I told you to an hour ago!” A tall, stoutly-built man in his sixties stood now in the open doorway to the library, Mattie Ruth just behind him. His mouth was set in an aggravated line, a disapproving look on his face—a look Janson sensed was often there. Mr. William Whitley looked from his son, to Janson, and then to Titus, making a point of taking his watch from his vest pocket and checking the time, as if to tell them all there were much more important things he should be doing. Alfred stared at his father for a moment, then, with a clear look of anger on his face, he retreated to the parlor without another word. After a moment the music from the radio died away.

“Titus, man, what in the name of God do you want at this time of night?” William Whitley demanded, clear annoyance in his voice and manner as he replaced the watch in his vest pocket and stared at the two men before him, an unlit cigar held securely between the index and middle fingers of one hand. “Well, speak up man!”

“Mist’ Whitley, this here’s Janson Sanders. He’s needin’ work, an’ I was wonderin’ if you might be needin’ a extra hand ’bout now?”

Whitley stared at him for a moment longer, then turned his gaze on Janson, placing the unlit cigar in his mouth and clenching it firmly between his teeth. Janson felt as if he were being summed up with that look, assessed, and he did not like it—damn rich folks, he told himself, returning the stare.

After a moment, Whitley turned and walked through the door and back into the library, speaking back over his shoulder. “Make it quick, boy. I’ve got work to do—”

Janson waited for a moment, and then followed Titus into the library. He only hoped to hell he was not making the worst mistake of his life.

William Whitley sat down at the cluttered rolltop desk in one corner of the library, shifting papers and a ledger that sat on the desktop before him, then turning back to the two men who stood near by—they would not be seated unless he told them to, and he would not tell them. He looked instead at the tall young man who stood at Titus Coates’ side, impressed somewhat by what he saw. The boy was lean, but seemed powerfully built, without even a spare ounce of flesh on him. He looked as if he were accustomed to hard work, from the calloused hands, to the faded and patched overalls, to the thin but muscular frame that showed from beneath the old and tattered coat—but he met William’s eyes with a directness that was unsettling.

William stared at him, his stare being met in return from pale green eyes that seemed oddly out of place in the dark face. He chewed down on his cigar, sensing a spirit of pride and dignity in the boy that he did not like—proud, independent men had a tendency to be trouble, and trouble was something that William would have none of.

He looked at Titus, deliberately speaking to him as if the younger man were not even in the room. “He sure is dark,” he remarked, glancing again at the boy. “Looks like a Gypsy. I don’t hire Gypsies—”

“I’m half Cherokee,” the boy responded, just as if he had been addressed. “My ma was Indian, my pa white—I ain’t no Gypsy.” Then he fell silent again, continuing to meet William’s gaze through the strange green eyes.

The boy doesn’t know his place—William thought, staring at him. “Are you trying to get smart with me, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“And you better not, boy.” William continued to stare at him, unsure as to how to deal with someone such as this. Pride had no place in such a person. There was no reason for pride in faded overalls, sunburned skin, and calloused hands, no reason for pride in poverty—only in money and power and family name was there any reason for pride. This man had none of that, and yet there was as much pride in him as in the wealthiest men in Endicott County, of which William knew himself to be one—he owned more land, more property, worked more sharecroppers, produced more cotton; the Whitleys had been in Endicott County for generations, had carved this place out of the virgin forests, had held onto it through war and Yankees and carpetbaggers. The Whitley name meant something in this and the surrounding counties, and few men possessed such power, such prestige, as did William Whitley—Hiram Cooper did, perhaps Ethan Bennett, but few others.

William stared at the young man before him. “You’re not from anywhere around here. I know everybody in this County.”

“I’m from Alabama, Eason County—”

“That’s a long way off—you in some kind of trouble, boy? Running from the law or something?” He peered closely at the boy; it paid to be careful.

“I ain’t in no trouble. I just moved on.”

“You’re just passing through, then?”

“I aim t’ stay, if I can find work.”

“Do you have a family? A wife to help you crop, children you can put to work in the next couple of years—I expect my sharecroppers to have their children in the fields soon as they’re old enough, boy, and I expect a good return for my half of the crop every year.”

“I ain’t married, but I been farmin’ all my life. I can do most any kind ’a work around here that needs doin’.”

William leaned back in his chair, considering. He could make use of the boy. It seemed as if he were strong and healthy and accustomed to hard work, and, as William questioned him further, he found him to be knowledgeable about cotton farming and the chores that had to be done about a place—but that air of pride bothered him.

William stared at him, making a decision. He had run a man off only a few days before, having caught him stealing, and had also had to deal rather strongly with several others. He needed a good man right now, a dependable farmhand; there were two new fields to clear, land to break up for cotton planting in a few months—and this boy could be handled, William told himself. There was not a man alive that could not be handled.

“Boy, I don’t take no back talk and no trouble out of nobody—you get that through your head right now. I pay my hands good wages, and I expect good work out of them in return. You do what you’re told to do, and you do it with no sass; and you remember your place and show respect where it’s due—you got that, boy?” he asked, watching the man closely.

“Yes, sir, I got it—”

“All right, boy, you be out at the barn at sunup tomorrow morning and I’ll give you a chance. I pay wages every other Saturday at quitting time—you got a place to live yet?”

The man shook his head.

“Well, there’s a good room off the barn where you can sleep. It’s got a cot and a wood stove and some furniture in it—the rent’ll come out of your wages before you get them, so will the money for the store charge. I run accounts at the store for my people—I don’t cotton to people who work for me doing their buying in town—” He stared at the man for a moment, seeing that he understood. “I’m good to my people, boy, and I expect them to show their appreciation in return—”

The man only stared, increasing William’s irritation.

“I’m going to give you a chance, boy, but you give me one reason and you’ll be sorry you ever showed your face around here, you got that?”

“Yes, sir, I got it—” the man answered. “I got it—”

William stared as the door closed behind the two men a few minutes later, satisfied that the boy understood what was expected from him. He turned and looked at the open ledger on the rolltop before him, then reached to shut it, needing a smoke very badly. He got up and crossed the room, going past the deep shelves of books that lined the walls, out into the hallway, and then through and out onto the front veranda of his home.

He lit his cigar and drew in on it heavily in the chill night air, watching the shadowy forms of the two men as they made their way down the long drive and toward the dark clay road that led away from the house. He was pleased with the decision he had made to hire the boy, though still disquieted by the look of pride and dignity that had been so apparent on the dark face. Proud men so often proved to be trouble—but William Whitley knew how to deal with trouble. He made sure it could never bother anyone again.

Titus was quiet as they left the big house, Mattie Ruth having quickly told them goodbye at the back door, saying she would be home as soon as her work was finished. Now there was nothing but silence as they walked along, broken only by the occasional sound of their feet shifting in loose dirt and rocks alongside the hard-packed clay road, or the night sounds from the dead cotton fields, and then the woods, as they drew near, and Janson found that he was glad for the quiet.

He did not like William Whitley, of that much he was already certain. He did not like the man, or anything there was about him—but Whitley was a rich man, and all rich folks were alike, Janson told himself. Eason or Whitley, it did not much matter. They were all the same.

There was a sound from the large house behind them, a door opening and closing, and Janson paused for a moment and looked back just before the curve of the road could cut off sight of the house. Whitley stood on the front veranda of his home now, a bulky shape framed by the light of one of the parlor windows. There was a brief flame lighting his features for a moment as he lit his cigar, then he walked to the edge of the veranda, folding his hands behind his large buttocks for a moment and drawing in heavily on the cigar, the red glow of its ash dimly visible for a moment even over the distance.

Janson stood for a moment and watched him, thinking of the reasons he had to stay here, to work, to earn and save money—thinking of that white house on those red acres back home; of a tall, brown-haired man and a small, gentle woman he could never fail—and thinking of people like the Easons and the Whitleys, and somehow damning them all to hell somewhere in the back of his mind.

He knelt in the red dirt of the road and unlaced and removed his shoes, gathering them into one hand, and then straightening to meet Titus Coates’s eyes. Neither man spoke. They just turned and started down the red clay road again, away from the brightly lighted house behind them, and into the chilly darkness of the January night.