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"Yes, son?" said Mr. Graves.

"Them earbobs are the real thing. They come from New Orleans, and when they were new, they cost three hundred dollars."

I said, "Frank Brereton, how did you get hold of such a thing? Who in the world would give those to you? If you picked them up on the street, you have to return them to their rightful owner!"

"I didn’t pick them up on the street. I an’t a thief."

"I am not a thief."

"I know you an’t. I an’t, either."

I pursed my lips in frustration, while Mr. Graves said, "Let me see those again, boy. I need to get a feel of them."

Frank pulled out the kerchief and untied it. Now all three of us looked shamelessly at the earbobs. All I could tell was that the gold had a clean look. Mr. Graves took them up and cradled them in his hand. After a moment, he put them back, his expression sober, and said, "You young people have taken a great risk coming here. There were Missourians here all night last night."

"Then," said Frank, "you must be clear out of whiskey."

Mr. Graves turned on his heel and walked into his cabin, closing the door behind him.

We sat there for a long time, but the door didn’t open. At first we were quiet, but then Frank plucked my sleeve and said, "Mrs. Lacey gave ’em to me. She said they were nothing to her. If Mr. Lacey was to get killed for having no ammunition, she could never wear’em, anyway."

Jeremiah shook his head, rattling his harness, and I was impatient, too. Though we were standing in the lee of the cabin-store, the wind whistled around it and seemed to swirl into the buggy and drive out all possible warmth. I said, "Well, we can’t wait all day for nothing. It’s past noon already."

I threw off the quilt I was wrapped in and got down from my seat. I was going to turn Jeremiah around, but too many items—cases, barrels, and kegs—were stacked in the way, so I led him forward and saw that the easiest way was around the cabin. I pulled my shawl more tightly around my face and ducked my head. Jeremiah rattled his bit at having to go into the wind, and we stepped forward.

Behind the cabin, sitting on some stacks of hay, were three kegs of powder. I murmured, "Hey, Frank," and pointed. He jumped off the buggy seat and ran over to the kegs. I was amazed they stood there in full view. Mr. Graves could have hidden them behind a stove he had also stored there, or covered them with pieces of sailcloth and wagon wheels. Those, too, were near at hand. On the one hand, Mr. Graves’s store was five miles from Lawrence. On the other, the "war" had been going on for almost a week. "This one’s mostly empty," called Frank. And then: "But this one’s full." It weighed some twenty-five pounds, probably a quarter of Frank’s weight. He hefted it out of the hay and carried it over to the buggy. After a moment, I helped him lift it onto the seat. Then we unwrapped the keg of whiskey and, together, carried that over to the spot where the powder had been. I looked around carefully, but I didn’t see any evidence of balls. I even peered through a chink between the logs of the cabin wall, but there was nothing to be seen—the space had been well mudded and papered over on the inside. There was no sign of Mr. Graves.

Now that we had made our trade, we quickly wrapped the keg of powder in the quilt. The day was far gone past noon. I led Jeremiah the rest of the way around the cabin and out into the prairie track. I’d forgotten about bands of Missourians, but now I remembered them and thought that I saw some men and horses some distance away. We jumped into the buggy, and I whipped Jeremiah into a gallop. The cold wind made our eyes tear up so that we could see nothing and had to trust to Jeremiah’s sense of direction. Nor could I see whether people were following us, but I acted as if they were. I never looked back to see if Mr. Graves came out of his cabin, but I knew I had given him two boons, and they were a barrel of highly rectified whiskey and the right to say that we black abolitionists had stolen his powder—he hadn’t aided us of his own volition. Jeremiah was all the horse