They done took me to a damp cellar in Cincinatti, told me wait here, you be safe til the lawyer comes morning. I looked about me, small window up near the ceiling. Cold as a witch’s tit, cold as rain freezing on snow, cold as frozen gray ground.
Looked out that window. Saw nothing but barren trees, barren as the missus who had no children, sure made the master mighty sour. It snowed two weeks at Christmas, bless baby Jesus, then done rained another solid two weeks, no let-up, no stop. Where the good earth not frozen solid, it sure is muddy, muddy as after plowing a field after a thunderstorm.
I’m hiding here, waiting til the lawyer he comes. Maybe he comes tomorrow, maybe he comes in a few days. But they can still get me back, sure as gun’s iron, they can still get me back. Those Kentucky farmers, they got the Cincinatti police in their pockets, John Brown and Abe Lincoln, don’t matter if them Republicans run the land. Got to get out of Cincinatti, soon as the underground opens up a path. Waiting here in the cellar, who comes in next? Lawyer or police folk?
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