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Somewhere, somewhere around here is where it happened.

Somewhere in this beautiful expanse of George Woods, something terrible, tragic and long forgotten, except by those who lived it.

As I walk through the dry leaves of this forest, the sun flickers through the tall pines like a strobe.

We're in Austin, in South Georgia. This land used to be a farm owned by a black family, the Nixon family, three generations of them lived in a wood farm house with a tin roof, somewhere on this property 70 years ago.

It was a pretty good sized farm, 59 acres. They raised crops. They traveled by horse and wagon and they relied on a mule named Della.

And this is where two white men drove up to Isaiah Nixon's farmhouse in the late afternoon of election day in Georgia, September 1948.

They had guns in their hands. They had menace in their voices and they insisted on seeing the farmer.

So Isaiah Nixon emerged from the house. His mother, his wife, his children watched as he stepped down off the porch and walked toward the men.

Understand now, he knew them, he'd grown up with them and they had their guns out.

Their intent became clear when they asked Isaiah Nixon two questions. Had he voted and who for?

Now as I walk this land, I can't help but wonder where exactly. Isaiah Nixon was standing when he answered those two questions, when he refused to take a ride with them.

And when one of the white men shot him, one, two, three times in front of his family.

I'm going to tell you that story and more about what happened on this election day in 1948, the history that led up to it and the history that followed it.

But now, in these silent woods, I hear the voices of people who have shared their memories with me about that time, that day, this place.

...