Niggers couldn’t travel alone in them days without papers. I left her where she was and she trotted on ahead while I moved on foot, staying off the road. I was a mile from Dutch’s Tavern when I heard a wagon coming. I jumped into the thickets and waited. The trail curved around and dipped before it hit an open wood area near where I was, and around the curve, up over the dip, came an open-back wagon driven by a Negro. I decided to take a chance and hail him down. I was about to jump out when, around the curve behind him, a posse of sixteen redshirts on horses in columns of twos appeared. They was Missourians, and traveling like an army. Sunlight was laying across the plains now. I laid in the thickets, crouched behind a row of bramblers and thick trees, waiting for them to pass. Instead, they halted at the clearing just a few feet from me. In the back of the wagon was a prisoner. An elderly white feller in a beard, dirty white shirt, and suspenders.
What do You think about The Good Lord Bird (2013)?
