Free Saving Grace (The Grace Series Book 2) by Elizabeth Courtright

your horse, boy!”
    Again Herlin did as they said. Buster hee-hawed loudly as he skittered off.
    One of the Klansmen moved closer. “You reach under your coat real slow and get that gun you got hidden. You set it on the ground and kick it this way.”
    “I don’t have a gun,” Herlin lied.
    “Don’t be smart with me, boy! I saw it tucked in your pants. Do what I say or I will shoot you where you stand!”
    “You’re gonna kill me anyway,” Herlin said.
    “Smart for a nigger,” the man sniggered. He raised his weapon.
    Herlin was staring down the barrel of the gun. It was over. He was caught and there was nothing he could do. Silently he whispered to his wife, Martha and his son, Willy. He was sorry, so very sorry. They knew he loved them, but he told them that, too. The only thing left to do was squeeze his eyes shut.
    The shots came—two of them—in rapid succession. Herlin expected the force of the blasts to propel him backwards. He expected pain. But he felt nothing. Instead, he heard two crumpling thumps, and then out of the din, a horse. Its gallop was a steadily increasing rumble of thunder. There was only one man who rode like that. There was only one whose aim was so true.
    Herlin opened his eyes to the see the black-draped figure hurtling through the fog directly toward him. The breath he held came out in a whoosh. The two Klansmen were on the ground—unmoving lumps of white. Their horses were already long gone.
    Acting quickly, Herlin scrambled to retrieve his knife, and then his horse. He needed Buster in order to get the height necessary to cut the rope. But, he wasn’t fast enough.
    “Herlin, get away!” the spook shouted.
    Buster’s hee-haw was fierce. Apparently he wasn’t happy with the shove Herlin gave him. The loud rapport of gunfire spun them both. The rope above the victim’s head split and his body slithered to the ground.
    From watching the spook Herlin knew exactly what to do next. He dropped down, flipped the victim onto his back, uncoiled the rope from his throat and wrenched his head back. Then he leaned over the lynched man, covered his mouth and blew.
    With his attention fully on the task at hand, Herlin was only vaguely aware of the spook stripping hoods from the dead Klansmen. He would have to, to identify them. Moments later, he was hunkered down across from Herlin on the opposite side of the victim.
    They worked on the man for at least ten minutes, if not longer. No matter how resolute their efforts, this victim was not going to recover. There was nothing more they could do.
    A livid curse flew out of the spook as he rose. Then he was pacing, splashing up droplets of mud in his wake. Water dripped from the ends of his cloak to the ground by his feet. More drops fell from the kerchief on his forehead and trailed down his uncovered jaw like tears.
    “Herlin, this has to stop,” he said. “Don’t disobey me again.”
    “I’m sorry, Major. I thought the Klan was gone. I was sure.” Herlin’s excuses weren’t good enough and he knew it. He wasn’t supposed to be out here. It wasn’t safe for anyone, but especially for someone of color. That, however, wasn’t the only reason.
    The spook gestured to the Klansmen on the ground. “Did they see you? Did they recognize you?”
    “They’re dead,” Herlin said, but as soon as the words left his mouth he wished he’d kept it shut.
    “Damn it, Herlin!” The spook was furious and he had every right to be. “What about the rest of them? What if one of them recognized you? As far as the world is concerned you are Kinsley’s driver and errand boy. That’s it. That’s the guise you use to get the information we need. We can’t afford to have your cover compromised. As it is, this operation has been going on far too long. Too many people in the white community can identify you. We can’t afford to make any more mistakes. This mission is too important. And I’ve—” he abruptly cut himself off and turned