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where I know no one else goes. We want to map uncharted territory.
    Mr. Frank eyes us all there in the room. His eyes look puffy from the fall. He should be more careful when he gets out of bed.
    "You got two days."
    We children scatter, making big plans to chart out our own slice of Smith County.
    ***
    Late that afternoon, Little Bit and me walk home with Mr. Frank. At the creek, Little Bit goes her own way toward her own house. As we near our house, Mr. Frank perks up when he sees who's on the front porch.

    "Well, look who we have here. Addy, come meet an old friend of mine, Tempy." A small-headed, red-haired man and a pretty sand-colored woman sit on the front porch with Miss Irene, sipping coffee.
    Mr. Frank makes the introductions. The pretty sand-colored woman is called Zula and she looks to be full-blooded Choctaw. She looks at me and says, "I know you," and I look back and say, "I don't think so."
    She is expecting a baby and I'm guessing she's this Mr. Tempy's wife. I have never seen nor thought of a white man marrying a Choctaw woman. I think of what Pappy and Momma would say, how they would call her a bone picker, how they would wonder about this Mr. Tempy, but still, I can't help but wonder why such a pretty lady would marry that small-headed, red-haired man.
    No one says so, but it appears this Mr. Tempy has traveled a ways. Miss Irene says he lives in a place on the Leaf River right outside Taylorsville.
    They are on their way to Mobile to drive the fattest hogs I
ever seen and sell one hundred dollars' worth. He has brought sweet potatoes and cornmeal from a barrel marked u.s. He says years ago the federal government put him in charge of distributing federal food because they didn't trust the Confederates, but the food was so slow to get down south, most everyone has forgotten about it by now.

    "If you're not a Confederate," I say, "does that make you a Yankee?"
    Mr. Frank laughs and says the war's over, but he looks at Mr. Tempy to see what he says.
    "I'm neither Confederate nor Yankee, Miss Addy, though I once fought for the feds. Not everyone can be so easily divided into two groups of either-or. Some would call me a deserter, but I believe I've deserted no one. I'm for peace. I'm for family. Period."
    "I think my momma told me about the likes of you," I say. "You one of those Jones County deserters?"
    "Who might your momma be?"
    "She's an O'Donnell," Mr. Frank says, as though this should explain everything, and that gets me riled.
    "She says about three hundred well-armed deserters have a little town called the Free State of Jones," I say. "She says you all are traitors and you all should be shot."
    "Addy," Mr. Frank says.

    "Addy, you're being rude to our guests," Miss Irene says. "You come inside with me this instant."
    "No, no. She's fine," Mr. Tempy says. "Miss Addy, I would love for you to pay us a visit where we live under the tall pines and canebrakes. Be our guest. Besides, most of the folks you call deserters have moved on. Mostly it's a few of us and the Choctaw. We're free of everything there. Free of judgments from family, friends, and foes. Come whenever you'd like. I think you might like it there."
    "Yes, sir," I say. "Thank you kindly. But I have supper to tend to." I go inside and start fixing up the cornbread. I'm flustered, the way I see some chickens are sometimes, and I'm not sure why.
    From inside, I can hear Mr. Frank telling Mr. Tempy about the general store he wants to start. Mr. Frank would have to take regular runs to New Orleans for supplies. Mr. Tempy says he'd be happy to go along with him—safety in numbers, he says. He goes off for a while about the great cities of America before and after the war—Charleston, Natchez, Chicago, and more. Mr. Tempy says traveling now can be dangerous. You have to carry a gun, always loaded. Bandits and thieves are on the road, at the ready, knowing you're
loaded with either cash or supplies. They don't just take. They kill too. I