“Pull up your scarf,” Alex said. “Relax. And whatever happens, don’t open your mouth.”

Frank cursed and pulled back on the reins, stopping the buggy in the middle of the intersection. The horsemen slowed to a walk. When they got near enough, the lead rider called out, “Where you boys traveling so late?”

Alex waited till he was closer. He didn’t feel like shouting. He wanted this thing to be as calm as possible. “Heard there might be some excitement down in Brooklyn tonight,” he said, looking the rider in the eye. The rider had no lantern, and the buggy top shielded the brothers from the gaslight on the corner.

The lead rider, joined now by the other four, laughed. “Niggers don’t much like the cold. I don’t reckon they’ll make trouble tonight.”

“We’re on the lookout for the Manlys,” Alex said. “We only have one horse between us, or we’d go mounted, like you. That’s the proper way to hunt blackbirds.”

The riders laughed and blew out clouds of breath. The horses snorted, impatient to be moving.

“We heard they might try to slip out tonight or tomorrow,” the leader said. “We’re on the lookout ourselves.” He peered into the buggy. In the shadows, Frank sat very still. “Hey, you boys don’t have no rifles.”

Alex said, “We heard they wasn’t armed.”

“Just the same, you’ll need more than a buggy whip,” the leader said. “Piner—let me have that Winchester.”

One of the riders drew a carbine out of his saddle sheath and passed it to the leader. “Piner’d rather use his pistol anyway. He’s a gentleman.” They all laughed. The leader passed the Winchester, stock first, to Alex Manly. “Y’all know how to shoot a rifle?”

Alex took the Winchester and, pointing it toward the stars, jacked a round into the chamber, then carefully let down the hammer.

The leader nodded in approval. “That goes back to Tom Clawson down at the Messenger when you’re through with it. Property of the Businessmen’s Committee.”

“We’ll take good care of it.” Alex laid the rifle across his knees.

“Good hunting, boys.”

The horsemen trotted off, and Frank clucked the mare forward. He didn’t speak for a long block as the carriage wheels hissed through the oyster-shell paving. Then he said, “Passing for white. Tonight, of all nights. Goddamnit, Alex—I’ve got to climb down and piss.” The tension broke, and the brothers hooted and giggled for six more blocks.

They struck Castle Hayne Road and in twenty minutes were crossing Smith’s Creek Bridge. “Hold up, Frank,” Alex said. He peered down into the darkness below the bridge and cocked his ear to the sound of running water. Then he flung the rifle from the carriage and listened until he heard the splash. “Drive on, brother. We’ve got a train to catch.”

Nobody had told George Rountree about the meeting. He found out about it when his wife, Meta, woke him at nine, waving a copy of the Messenger in his face. He’d been at the club till after three, and he was groggy and disoriented. “What?” he said automatically. “Mrs. Rountree?”