Frank said, “All for the white man, and nothin’ for the nigger.”

“Now, there’s no call—”

“It’s not enough,” Alex said. “You’re short by a hundred.”

“It’ll have to be enough,” Clawson said, and climbed aboard the buggy. “Leave a receipt with the press, so there won’t be any trouble about it later.” It had always been a handshake deal. At the time, Clawson had been happy to unload the old press. Who could have figured it would cause so much mischief?

Manly looked up at them. “I can’t decide if you’re trying to cheat me or save my life.”

“Good,” Clawson said. “Giddap!”

Clawson drove home down Market Street to take advantage of the street lamps and the lights from houses. From Seventh down to the Cape Fear, armed men were deployed in pairs on every street corner.

As they passed the Wilmington Light Infantry Armory, Sam heard the sound of men’s voices singing a marching chorus. “They’ll be bunking up the whole lot of them, on alert,” Clawson said. “Hundred and fifty men, or nearly. Makes a body feel safe just to think about it.”

Sam wanted to go home and see Gray Ellen. He hadn’t talked to her all day, he’d been so busy running around. But he needed to see Harry, too. Clawson let him off at Poison’s Saloon.

“Just one thing, Sam,” Clawson said before Sam climbed out. “Where we went tonight? What you heard?”

“I know. None of it happened.”

Clawson clapped him on the back. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”

Sam hopped out of the buggy and turned. “So which was it, Mr. Clawson? Were you saving his life, or just trying to cheat him?”

Clawson smiled and leaned toward him. “Sometimes in life, son, there transpires what is known as a coincidence of interests. Tell Harry I want him sober tomorrow.”

Sam didn’t go into the tavern right away. He lingered in the open air trying to take in all that had happened today. What had Saffron meant?—some girls fancy a preacher man. Just talking, he figured. A girl like that, she was liable to say anything.

Sam inhaled the river, ripe and tangy. The rain had roiled the waters. Low tide, he reminded himself. He checked the piling at the ferry landing: six feet under the high-water mark. The current was stalled. The tide was about to turn. From now on, he could watch the Cape Fear rising.

Chapter Thirteen

Voting was not a right but a privilege, and should be exercised only by qualified people.

George Rountree

C H A P T E R   T H I R T E E N

Tuesday, November 8