Behold, this Dreamer. Charlotte Miller

      

      Behold, This Dreamer

      Charlotte Miller

      NewSouth Books

      Montgomery

      Also by Charlotte Miller

       Through a Glass, Darkly

       There Is a River

      And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him. And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh. Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams.

      Genesis 37: 18-20 (KJV)

      NewSouth Books

      P.O. Box 1588

      Montgomery, AL 36104

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      Copyright 2000 by Charlotte Miller. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by NewSouth Books, a division of NewSouth, Inc., Montgomery, Alabama.

      ISBN: 978-1-58838-002-9

      ebook ISBN: 978-1-60306-264-0

      LCCN: 00061310

      Visit www.newsouthbooks.com.

      To Justin

Contents

       PART ONE - Eason County, Alabama, 1924

       Chapter 1

       Chapter 2

       PART TWO - Endicott County, Georgia, 1927

       Chapter 3

       Chapter 4

       Chapter 5

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Chapter 24

       About the Author

PART ONE

1

      There was as much pride within Janson Sanders as there was in any man in Eason County, though few people saw in him any reason for pride. Pride had no place in patched overalls and calloused hands, in a remade shirt and sunburned skin, or in the mixed blood that showed so clearly in his face and his coloring.

      He walked beside his father that gray Saturday morning in late November of 1924, the short, brick-paved downtown section of Main Street in Pine seeming to him choked with traffic and noise such as he was little accustomed to. Black and gawky Model T Fords rattled by, Chevrolets of varying colors, a Packard, an expensive-looking Stutz blatting its horn to get out into traffic—they were all dust covered, red from the Alabama clay, for this was the only paved stretch of road in all of Eason County, other than the short, brick-paved strip of Central Street just in front of the county courthouse in Wylie.

      People pushed past Janson and his father on the narrow sidewalk as they made their way from the wagon lot at the far edge of downtown, men in blue serge suits and starched collars, young dandies wearing plus fours and pullover sweaters, Janson meeting the eyes of each who passed with his father’s Irish pride and his mother’s Cherokee dignity, though his own overalls were faded and patched, and the shirt he wore had once belonged to another man. He knew that many people in the County looked down on him for the Cherokee heritage that showed so clearly in his face and his coloring, in the prominent, high cheekbones and the black, straight hair, but there was no shame in him for the man he was, or the past he was a part of. He was proud, as both his parents were proud, and he had been raised to know there was no man alive any better, or any less, than he—and he met the eyes of each who passed with pride and dignity, and with the independence born of his blood.

      His father was talking as they walked along, about the recent town ordinance that restricted horse and mule drawn wagons from Main Street any farther down than the wagon lot at the far edge of downtown, past Abernathy’s Feed and Seed and the dry goods store, and about the ugly Model T’s and the Chevrolets that crowded the roads enough already without restricting the short strip of downtown for their use alone. Janson listened, though he had heard the same comments many times before, not only from his father, but also from many of the neighboring farmers and churchfolk, and he started to say something in agreement, for he considered motor cars a luxury that he could see little need or use for—but a car horn sounded and drew his attention instead, and he looked toward the traffic to see a girl in a dark cloche hat crossing the narrow street toward them, the girl running slightly to avoid a Packard whose driver honked irritably for the second time as he had to slow for her.

      The short skirt of the navy-blue dress she wore covered her knees by only a bare few inches, and, as she stepped up onto the sidewalk out of the way of the motor car, Janson fancied he saw for a moment the top of a rolled stocking, and perhaps even a bit of exposed kneecap below the hem of the skirt—he looked away quickly, and