It was Sunday morning and he had been sitting on the porch of his Pa’s cabin back up in the Alabama hill country strumming his guitar and singing to himself.

“You Lonnie Stephens?”

“Yeah, I’m Lonnie.”

“Then come with us, an’ if you come peacable, you won’t get hurt.”

Lonnie stood up in surprise and they took it for assent, but when they tried to put handcuffs on him he fought hard. It was not until they subdued him that he found out why they were here.

“We know you done killed her and you mought as well make a clean breast ’a it.”

“Killed who?”

“Cordelia. Ain’t that your girlfriend?”

“Dead? She can’t be!”

“It was your gun what shot her. We done identified that and it wan’t no trouble ’cause you dropped it in the woods right near her body.”

Lonnie lifted both arms to bring the handcuffs down on the head of one of his captors but the other lawman saw his intention and butted him in the side so that he lost his balance and fell to the ground. “He resisted arrest all right,” the man who had very nearly worn handcuffs on his head later testified at the trial. “He was like a wounded bobcat struggling to get shed of a trap! Scared me, he did.”

Lonnie was brokenhearted over the murder of his sweetheart, but the law would not believe him. He hadn’t killed her, he loved her and they were planning to get hitched come summer. How could the law convict him for something he hadn’t done? But it was his gun and his girl and that was enough for the sheriff. When the judge delivered the sentence it was fifteen years on the chain gang. Lonnie was enraged for he knew that the real murderer was out there free as a mountain rattler while the best part of his own life would be gone. Sticks and stones can break your bones but words, he thought, yes, words can hurt you just the way you’d take a sharp knife to core an apple and throw the core on the ground to rot. That’s what had happened to his life.

It was almost a matter of hours from that courtroom to the chain gang.

He could scarcely get out of the big metal cage at the prison camp because of the chain and the steel cuffs around each ankle; and he almost pitched forward on his face when he took his first step. His smile made you feel like smiling back. His eyes crinkled up at the corners when he was amused and his parents never had a lick of trouble with him. If anything he was almost too softhearted and would expend hours trying to nurse an animal back to health when it might just turn out to be a sickly critter at best. Lonnie Stephens didn’t act like a killer.

It was his first day on the Alabama chain gang. Gripping the calves of his legs were leather straps meant to hold the steel cuffs up but they still scraped his ankles. The chain between the cuffs was shorter than a man’s steps and was designed to keep him from running, but for Lonnie who was a tall fellow with a long stride, every step he took was like being in a sack race with a midget. Alabama had lots of rocks and all he could think about was that he had lots of time ahead of him.

When the man in the next cage passed the chain to him the first night to put through his cuff and hand to the next man he whispered as he turned to him, “Settle down mountain boy. This is a ‘hard rock camp’ and you just goin’ to make it tough for yo’sef.” He couldn’t sleep well at first because each time a man moved during the night the chain tugged everybody else on the line. But he got used to it and to getting up with the men before daylight.

He tried to join the others as they sung—“Waa-ater boy. Where are a you hidin’. If you don’ ’a come, gonna fetch yo’, mammy.” And then the faster chorus. “Gonna hit that rock, boys, from here to Macon, from heah to Macon….” At first he didn’t join in but soon he knew why the caged men sang. While they were working on the roads, singing was the only thing that seemed to ease the feeling of hurt inside.

In the middle of the day the guards handed out cans of beans and the water boy came around with a dipper. The sun moved higher and higher overhead as he broke rock with the sledge hammer and rolled it to the pile with his bare hands. His shirt was drenched in perspiration and began to stick to his skin. Late that afternoon he left his sledge hammer where he was breaking rock and went over for a drink of cool water.

“Hey! You biggety mountain boy. Don’ you know to ask for water? See that stake? Get over there!” His hands were tied high near the top of the stake and he saw one of the sunburned, stubble-faced guards standing spread-legged in front of him with a wide leather belt that had holes in it. “Take that shirt off’n him,” ordered the guard. Sometime during the whipping Lonnie fainted. When he came to, the water boy was throwing water on his face and his back hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before.

He moaned throughout the night. As soon as his back got well enough and he could think about something besides the pain he made up his mind he was going to either escape or be killed trying. While they were working on the road they could look down in the valley and along the sides of the mountain and see the cabins with their blue chimney smoke drifting up. His friend, Vester, said “Them ain’t like other folks. They’ll look out after us an’ holp us ef we can git there.”

A week later Lonnie was in his cage trying to read the only thing he had been able to bring with him. It was a small Bible Cordelia had given to him after he had declared his intention to marry her. A guard named Guthrie entered his cage and he looked up in surprise. “Take your dirty hands off’n the Bible. You ain’t fit to touch it, you murderin’ bastard,” said he and he kicked it out of Lonnie’s hands. Lonnie didn’t say anything out loud but his mouth moved as he cursed Guthrie wordlessly and he reached to pick it up.

Guthrie promptly sent him to the “hole.” Some of the prisoners called it the “box” because it was the severest form of punishment reserved for those who defied a guard. The box had a hard, rough, wooden floor and was fitted inside with chains. It was less than five feet by five feet—too short to stand in and not long enough to lie down in. Twice a day they brought Lonnie a slice of bread and a cup of water. The only thing he knew he could do to keep from going crazy in the horrible discomfort and darkness was to put his mind on something else. Lonnie thought about Branch Corey. He knew Corey had taken a fancy to Cordelia and that the man was infuriated because she had rejected him. Lonnie was sure that Corey had killed Cordelia and set it up so Lonnie would be blamed.

Lonnie thought about somehow tollin’ him down to the creek where Corey had kilt Cordelia and then chokin’ him real slow. Didn’t make no difference if they hanged him for it. It would be better ’n spending the time on the chain gang. Then he began to think more calmly about how he could establish his own innocence and get evidence that would convict Branch Corey.

After that first day in the hole, he calmed down some and knew he could never kill anybody. But if his lawyer and members of his family hadn’t found any clues to convict Corey, he would bring him to justice himself. He knew during his trial that the murder weapon had his initials on it and did look like one of his guns. Branch Corey had admired a gun of his the fall before and asked if he could shoot it sometime. He had offered it to him then. Had he gotten someone to copy the gun and scratched the initials on it himself? If he had only told his lawyer about this during the trial. It was dumb not to think of it for it had happened almost a year ago, about the time he began seeing Cordelia. Ah. That was it! Even then Corey probably began to think about what he would do to get revenge.

He realized now that this confinement with no distractions was ideal for another purpose. He would spend it on something else just as important—figuring out the details of his escape. He could fade back into the mountains and never be caught by the law. Mountain folk were clannish and even if the law suspected he was up there somewhere, they might decide it wasn’t worth the risk to come and get him. One of his own family might be able to track down who made the copy of his gun and indict Corey, powerful as he was in the area.

Gradually his escape plan took shape. Vester and another friend named Thurmond could help. They would be working on that mountain road and one day they would reach the right curve. The right curve would be where the front guard leading the line of fifty or sixty prisoners couldn’t see far behind him. He could see the whole thing in his mind, the guard foreman walking in the middle alongside the men who would be spread out as they went around the curve.

On the hard wooden floor in the pitch black darkness of the hole the days crawled past but by the morning of the seventh day when he was to get out, he had planned everything down to the last detail. They would overpower the guard foreman, take his pistol and then keep him in front of the men. The guard in front wouldn’t be able to shoot for fear of hitting the foreman. They’d shoot the guard in front in the legs if he didn’t throw them his gun right off; and then they’d be gone. It had to happen fast for guards working men “under the gun” never aimed a warning shot, they always shot to kill.

An opportunity came less than a week after Lonnie was out of the hole and back on the chain gang again. The men were out working on Alabama Highway 11. It was late afternoon and Lonnie looked down to see blood on his shoe. The leg irons had begun to cut into the flesh on one ankle but he disregarded it. Each day Lonnie and Vester had managed to station themselves about mid-way along the column. Today, the lead guard happened to be Guthrie whom Lonnie hated and, as usual, the foreman was patrolling about halfway up the line of men

The front third of the strung-out prisoners had rounded the curve when Lonnie gave the signal. Vester who was a big, strong man in his early thirties jumped the foreman. But the blow to the guard’s head did not prevent him from letting out one terrified yell for help.

It was heard by Guthrie but it alerted the prisoners, too, and since they knew the plan they had the advantage and were able to fall back quickly before the startled Guthrie realized what was happening. When he did, he was looking squarely into the foreman’s gun aimed at him by Lonnie.

“I ain’t shot squirrel and deer all my life for nothin’ Guthrie,” he called out. “Throw me your gun.”

Guthrie hesitated, then threw it short of Lonnie and to one side. When Lonnie went for it, Guthrie charged him. There was the sound of a shot and the guard fell back dead. They took his keys. With a desperate, hobbling gait the men reached the prison bus. The old bus sped down the mountain road with Vester at the wheel driving as fast as he used to when he was running liquor. In about fifty miles they were almost out of gas and there was nothing to do but abandon the bus in the woods. Several of the men had files and one of Guthrie’s keys had worked on most of the leg chains except for Vester’s. They needed to fan out to cabins in the area and find a change of clothes. In the truck tool box, Lonnie discovered a file and began using it quickly to free his friend.

Through the trees they could see the highway they had just left and as Lonnie filed hurriedly, they saw the prison camp truck pass. There go the “dog boys” said Vester. These were the prisoners the men reserved their deepest contempt for, the ones who helped the guards run down escapees.

“We better light out and go different ways, Vester. How much time we’ve got depends on how far down the road they let ‘em out. Them dogs are gonna be confused for awhile by all the trails but then they’ll settle down.”

“You still got your prison suit on, Lonnie.”

“Somebody will help me. I may even get a lift,” and with his long legs at last free of the cruel shackles, Lonnie ran off alone through the woods in the gathering darkness.

On the old Model A Fords, the windshield could be opened and pushed forward on a hinge so that a space of several inches at the bottom sucked in the oncoming air and circulated it over driver and passenger. Sandy held her head back enjoying the cool night air flowing across her face. Bob pushed the gas pedal down more, for there were no other cars on the road tonight and he would be glad to arrive at the Reed House where he had made their reservation. They would finally be away from all the festivities, which both agreed had continued for almost too long.

Bob pressed the accelerator and the car gained speed. A mist was rolling in across the highway to give the landscape an almost otherworldly look for even the most familiar objects can be eerie at night when the ground fog rises. Sandy put her head on his shoulder and gave a little sigh of pleasure, for the stress of wedding preparations was over and she was thinking that the rest of the night belonged to them. But her pleasure was short lived. As the Model A’s headlights swung around the curve, they both saw it at the same time.

As his foot hit the brakes Bob knew he had been going too fast and he also knew that if the figure didn’t move out of the road he would hit it. There stood someone full in the path of his car reaching with arms outstretched toward them. As they approached they could see the tall figure of a man dressed in the black and white stripes of prison garb, his clothes tattered as if torn from running through heavy brush. But it was the face they were both riveted to for the expression did not look like that of a criminal. It was young with an imploring look and the way the mouth m...