Zachary Todd didn't look at Hank Dixon's body. Hank looked awful in death, lying there on the floor of his cabin. His eyes stared blindly, bulging in a purple face that was frozen into a hideous grimace. His hands rested up near his neck, twisted into claws, doubtlessly raised to pry at the whip—his own whip—which had strangled the life out of him. Zack thought there was something strangely disturbing about Hank's bare feet. Somehow they made him look pathetic. His protruding discolored tongue made him look ghastly. Zack shuddered just thinking of it.

Sheriff Hines was kneeling beside Hank's corpse. He said, "Tell me about this slave that's missing."

"His name is Joe," Zack said. "He's around my age, I guess. Thirty or so. He was born here."

"Is he a big one?"

"Not really. Bigger than me."

Hines nodded. His expression revealed nothing, but Zack felt he could guess his thoughts: Most men are bigger than you.

Hines asked, "When's the last time anyone saw him?"

"Last night, I guess. Hank would have told me if any of the slaves were missing at dinnertime. After that, I don't know. I don't know when he died, so . . ." He faltered as he glanced down at Hank's body again.

"Hank was your only white employee, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

This time Hines's expression made it perfectly clear what he was thinking: he thought that was a foolish policy. Zack knew all the other tobacco growers around here felt the same way. Most everyone in town too. He didn't consort with any of them very much precisely because of how he and they disagreed on such issues.

Hines stood up, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt. "So how do you know this slave's missing? The other slaves wouldn't have told you."

"I counted them myself. When Preacher came and told me Hank was dead, I got them all altogether. I saw who was missing."

"And that's Preacher?" Hines pointed at the cabin's open door. An old slave lingered there, eyes downcast.

"Yes."

"You. Preacher. Come here."

Preacher shuffled into the room.

"When did Joe leave?" Hines asked him.

"I don't know, suh."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Around suppertime yesterday."

"Why did he kill the boss-man here?"

"I don't know as he did, suh."

Hines pursed his lips, as if that was what he'd expected to hear. He turned to Zack. "How would you say Hank was with the slaves?"

"Fine. There wasn't much trouble. He kept order but I never let him be too hard on them." Despite himself Zack added, "as you know."

Hines nodded, then glanced at Preacher again. "They call this one Preacher because he preaches in your slave church, right?"

"Yes."

Hines said nothing more about it, but Zack couldn't help but feel rebuked. Most of the people of Evansburg disapproved of him letting his slaves worship here on the plantation, in the white clapboard church his father had built for them decades ago. People were afraid that left unsupervised, the slaves might stir themselves up to a rebellion. Zack thought it was nonsense. No harm had ever come of slaves worshipping together here on the Todd estate, or anywhere else as far as he knew. He supposed the townspeople were just put off by the boisterous sort of Christianity Negroes favored. He could understand it, to a point. Anyone who'd ever passed a slave church on Sunday morning couldn't help but think how unruly their services were. But he wasn't about to make his slaves walk a mile to town so they could sit quietly in the balcony of St. Luke's when they had a perfectly good church right here.

Hines was turning his gaze over the room again. Zack did likewise. Hank's cabin was modest but serviceable, one neatly kept room filled with plain furniture and a small cast-iron stove. Originally the place had been built to house three farmhands, back in Zack's grandfather's time. He supposed that was partly why Hank had been content to live here the last two years, ever since his wife threw him out of their house in town. The extra space let him live pretty well, certainly better than the slaves in the neighboring houses.

"I'll get a posse together," Hines said. "First thing we'll do is come back and search the plantation. Maybe your runaway's just hiding in a barn or something, though I doubt it. Too bad you don't have more help or you could search yourself."

More white help, he means, Zack thought. They both knew the slaves couldn't be trusted to turn Joe in if they found him. "What if he's not here?"

"Then we'll try and track him. Jed's bloodhound might be able to pick up the scent. If not, we'll just head north. They always go north."

Hines knelt beside Hank's body again and unwound the whip from his neck. It left deep furrows in the skin. He stood and offered the whip to Zack. Zack took it, not quite able to hide his revulsion at touching it.

Hines headed for the door. "Check Joe's quarters," he said over his shoulder. "See if you can figure out what he's wearing."

Zack followed him out into the hot morning sunlight. Hines paused to adjust the fit of his felt slouch hat, gazing north. In the field before them, dark-skinned figures bent at work, bobbing slowly as they harvested ripe tobacco leaves. Beyond the green field stood the old maple forest which bordered the plantation on that side. Hines stared at the trees contemplatively.

The sound of a wagon rattling up the road stirred him from his thoughts. "That'll be Jacob," he said.

As Hines headed toward the road, Zack and Preacher followed, walking single-file between Hank's cabin and the neighboring slave house.

The driver of the approaching wagon was indeed Jacob Crowley, the undertaker. His slave Lionel sat on the bench next to him.

"I'll be back in a couple of hours," Hines told Zack. He turned and walked to his horse, which was tethered to a nearby fence post.

Zack watched him mount up and ride up the road. Anxiety grew inside him as Hines drew away. He could feel the weight of responsibility settling back on his shoulders. News of Hank's death had come as such an awful shock. He still felt a measure of the same dread that struck him as he'd approached the door to Hank's cabin first thing this morning. Just the thought of Hank lying there now made his legs feel a little weak. As he watched Hines and Crowley stop in the middle of the road to talk, he knew suddenly that he couldn't face another look at the body.

He turned to Preacher. "Handle this," he said. "Give Mr. Crowley any help he needs. I'll be in the house."

He started to turn away, then rediscovered the whip in his hand. He thrust it at Preacher.

"Until I find a replacement for Hank, you're the overseer. Understand?"

Preacher gaped at him. "Massa Todd, I can't! I can't be overseer!"

"All right, not the overseer. Just the man in charge. You can do it. You're already in charge of the slaves, in a sense. They look to you for guidance, and you know how everything needs to be done. Heck, you know how the plantation runs better than I do."

"But, suh—"

"Just do it."

Preacher looked down at the coiled whip in Zack's hand. "Please, suh, I can't take that."

Zack pulled it away. "All right. You don't have to take the whip. But you do have to take the job. Okay?"

"Yes, Massa Todd."

Zack heard the trundle of Jacob's wagon again. He hurried toward the house.

As Hines had predicted, they didn't find Joe on the plantation. His posse looked everywhere, inside every structure right down to the smallest shed. Most of the plantation's buildings were set in two rows that formed a V, one row consisting of the barns where the harvested tobacco was cured, the other of Hank's cabin, the slave houses, and the church. Where the two rows converged, the redbrick manor house stood. The posse searched that last. Zack stood in the parlor and listened to them clomping through the house, opening doors, and calling to each other. A few of them climbed up into the attic while Hines himself checked the root cellar in front of the hearth. They found no sign of Joe.

Afterward Zack stood on the front porch and watched them all mount their horses. Jedidiah Graham's bloodhound paced eagerly at the end of its leash. The men seemed just as restless as they sat in their saddles. One of them called up to Zack, "You want I should stay here? I could watch your slaves for you, so you can join the hunt."

"No, thanks."

The man smirked at him, as did a few others. At the front of the group, Hank Dixon's brother Wade sat beside Sheriff Hines, scowling openly at Zack. Like many of the others, he had a rifle in a boot on his saddle. Beside it was a coil of rope.

Without comment, Sheriff Hines turned his horse and led the group away.

Once they were gone, Zack went around back to check on the slaves. As he stood gazing out at the north field, a part of him wished he was riding with the posse. It wasn't like he felt comfortable here, even after all this time...

Be sure to read the exciting conclusion in our September issue, on sale now.
"Runaway" by Eric Rutter, copyright © 2009 with permission of the author

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