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Imagine it's February 18, 1807.

It's late at night in Wakefield, a hamlet in the eastern Mississippi territory.

You're a lawyer and officer in the local militia,

and you're working late in the sheriff's office.

But he's dozing at his desk.

You stare down at the pile of court documents in front of you and realize you'll need another cup of coffee to get through all this work.

But as you stand up, the sound of hooves stops you in your tracks.

Curious who could be visiting at this time of night, you walk out into the hall and toward the front door of the building.

You open the door and peer out into the moonlight.

A rider trots by without saying a word.

But then a second rider slows and stops in front of you, steadying his horse. He's wearing a threadbare coat, and he looks like he could use a meal. He looks you in the eyes. Good evening, sir.

I'm looking for the house of a local major. I think he lives near here on the Tom Bigby River. Could you point me in the right direction? Well, yeah, I know the place, but I don't believe the major is home. You eye the writer suspiciously, but he meets your gaze with a courteous smile. Well, I'll have to wait for him, I suppose. Um, am I at least going the right way? Yeah, yeah. Just keep following the road you're on. It narrows into a path and the major's place is on the right, but I'm afraid it'll be difficult to get there tonight. Seven or eight miles were bad roads and broken bridges. Oh, well, I'll manage, I'm sure. The roads so far haven't been

much better. Well, we have a warm clean-in here in town. You can spend the night there. Continue on in the

morning. Well, thank you, sir, but I really must be on my way. Yep. Okay. You'd be better off at the end, though.

The major isn't home. You'd be left in the dark. I don't know what you're doing.

...