By Hiram King
Whilst Bodie Johnson returns from the conflict among the States, he unearths his domestic destroyed and his relatives gone--packed up like farm animals and shipped west on a slave teach. With simply that info to move on, Bodie units out to discover no matter what is still of his relatives.
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Sample text
More out of habit than anything else, he shielded his eyes with a palm, looked west down the rails. Nothing. Nothing at all except two narrow ribbons of steel stretching away through a brown carpet of wild grasses as far as a man could see. Turning, he glanced east up the rails and looked again. Movement. Unexpected. He stood still, his eyes fixed on the speck coming toward him along the edge of the rail bed. The speck grew larger, matured into a man. "I'm damned if it ain't," the agent said in a low voice.
The drab unbleached muslin dress she wore didn't cover the fact that she was all woman. Marion was a fair-size town that had sprung up in a shallow valley just south of the train station. Four miles to the west the land was table-flat farmland, the land of cotton; and for that reason, Marion was a farming town straddling the rails that led south. Bodie led the procession down the right side of the rail bed, the town's main street, roving his eyes over the place. The town was crowded with black folks, the boardwalks looking like a great camp meeting, a carnival atmosphere of activity.
He stiffened at the words hurled at him from the bushes. Somehow he had known there would be trouble. He had seen the two white men earlier when they first came prowling under the trestle where he was squatting on his haunches over a cook fire. He wanted no company; he trusted no white man. All he wanted was to finish eating and move on. " Maybe he had been wrong, he thought. Maybe one of them was armed after all. And desperate enough to kill a man for a meal like the other three drifters who had made the mistake of attacking his camp, only to find his bedroll empty, and a pistol covering them from the timbers.