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?”

“I hated to wake you, George, but the meeting’s in an hour.”

“Meeting?” he said. “There’s no meeting today.” He sat up and rubbed his fatigue-burned eyes.

She handed him the newspaper. “See? All white citizens are requested to assemble at ten o’clock.” She bit her lip. “You told me that part was over.”

“I thought it was. Lay out a suit and a fresh collar.” He sat in bed for a moment longer, rubbing his temples and the bald dome of his head. Hugh MacRae, you son of a bitch, he thought. Or was it Waddell? There were just too goddamn many chiefs and too goddamn few good Indians.