The Adventures of Shawn and Gus

Summary: When young Shawn Spencer overhears that his dad might sell one of their slaves—his best friend Gus!—he hatches a plan to escape to the Free States, where his abolitionist mother lives. But the journey is a lot harder than they thought it would be. Luckily they make friends along the way!

Rating: T, for offensive language and racial slurs, as well as some violence.

Disclaimer: I own neither Psych nor The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

IMPORTANT NOTE: There are going to be plenty of anachronisms in this piece. The setting is c. 1830 California. At this time, the territory was still under Mexican rule, and slavery had been abolished in 1829. Most slave-owning white settlers didn't go to CA until the 1849 gold rush, so the fact that Santa Barbara (which was founded by Spanish Franciscan missionaries in 1786) is populated by slave-owning, English-speaking whites is a big stretch. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, on which the premise of this story is based, still holds true, as the setting is around the same time as this one. The Northern States had all abolished slavery by 1804, so getting there would essentially free a slave. The Fugitive Slave Law wasn't established until 1850.

The Adventures of Shawn and Gus

Chapter 1

"You're a nigger lover!"

Shawn flushed. "You take that back!"

But Jimmy Nickels only sneered, cracking his knuckles. "How 'bout you make me, Spencer? Nigger lover."

The group of boys standing round laughed meanly.

Shawn clenched his fists, glaring up at the bully, who was nearly twice his size. "If you call me that one more time…"

"You'll what? Run and tell your daddy?" Jimmy took a step forward and jabbed a finger into Shawn's chest. "Nigger. Lover."

The sheriff's son snapped. With a roar, he lunged forward, arms flailing. Jimmy hadn't been entirely prepared, so both went down into the dust, rolling and shouting. The ring of their schoolmates cheered and whistled, shouting encouragements and insults alike.

Somehow Shawn wound up on top, landing punch after punch.

"Take it back!" he said, grabbing a fistful of torn shirt. "Take it back!"

"Uncle! Uncle!" Jimmy cried.

"Not 'til you take it back!"

"I do! I take it back!"

Satisfied, Shawn got up and took several steps back with his fists still raised in case Jimmy decided to recover. The boys cheered. The young Spencer wiped his chin with his sleeve. It came away red.

Glancing up, he saw the object of his ridicule standing a few feet away, nearly hidden in the shadow of a tree.

Shawn shouldered past the others, who were taunting Jimmy for losing to baby Spencer (they made sure not to call him a nigger lover anymore), and made his way over. His friend looked slightly queasy and ashamed, but Shawn paid that no mind. He grinned, puffed up with pride. "Did you see the way I tackled him, Gus?"

Gus licked his lips nervously. "You're dad's gonna be mad, Shawn. He said no more fighting."

"No, he said no more starting fights, Gus. It was Jimmy's fault, not mine."

"I don't think…"

"Come on, let's go to the beach."

Gus followed obediently, despite his protest: "But your dad said to go home after school and do your chores."

"Gus, don't be a slimy magic hairball. My dad knows I'm not gonna be 'sponsible." Shawn stooped and picked up a stick, which he proceeded to drag across a neighbor's whitewashed fence, creating a racket.

The little slave winced at the streak left behind; the paint had been fresh. He didn't say anything else. Shawn had made up his mind already, and the kid was an unstoppable force.

"Hey, Gus," Shawn said thoughtfully.

"Yeah?"

"Wanna go fishing?"

"Well…I mean, I have to do my chores, Shawn."

"Not if you're with me. Besides, your parents will do them for you, won't they?"

"Yes, but they have to do their own work, too, Shawn."

Shawn pursed his lips. "But grown-ups are supposed to work. Kids are supposed to play."

"It's different for me. I'm a slave. Slaves are supposed to work all day, as long as their master tells them to." Gus kicked a pebble ahead of him.

"Well, I said we're going to fishing."

"You're not my master, Shawn. You're only the son of the master."

"Whatever. My dad treats me like a slave, too. If he tries to get you in trouble, just call him an old bald meanie and that's why my mom went away. That'll shut him up."

"I can't say that to my master, Shawn!"

"Tsk."

"Tsk!"

"TSSSK-uhh!"

They continued along the walk in silence for a few minutes.

"Well," Shawn said. "I'll be your master when I turn eighteen. So I'll just set you free in seven years. Problem solved!"

"Thanks, Shawn." Gus sounded touched, but not particularly convinced.

"I mean it, Gus! When I'm eighteen I'm going to give you your freedom. Then we can do whatever we want, whenever we want."

"Everyone will still call you a nigger lover, Shawn."

"I'm not a nigger lover," the sheriff's son said fiercely.

The other boy wisely shut his mouth and followed his friend down to the beach. Shawn immediately kicked off his pinchy shoes, flung his already soiled shirt over his head, and stepped out of his pants, running naked into the blue waves. Gus shook his head, marveling at Shawn's blatant indecency, and sat in the shade to watch him splash around and cool off. He shouted for Gus to join him, but the slave steadfastly refused, knowing it was not his place.

Despite the circumstances, Shawn and Gus were the best of friends. Shawn's father, Sheriff Henry Spencer, was a kind master—he never punished the Gusters, and made sure that they were fed and clothed comfortably. Henry even let Winnie have some maternity leave, and Joy, Gus' older sister, was allowed to be the housemaid, which was much easier work than tending to the wheat field and other outside chores. Recently, Henry had delegated Gus to walk Shawn to and from school so as to make sure he actually came home. Shawn had a bad habit of running off and finding trouble.

Too bad Gus couldn't control the master's son, either, because Shawn was dragging slimy seaweed onto the sand and generally making a mess.

Curiosity got the better of him, and the young slave walked out from his shade. "What are you doing?"

"Gus! Come on, help me get a bunch of this stuff. I'm going to put it in my dad's bed."

"Shawn, no! Your dad is going to be mad at both of us. We need to go home before it gets late."

"Don't be the tiny rock that gets baked into the bread, Gus," was his reply. Shawn stood akimbo with the pile of seaweed at his feet, proudly displaying his bronzed skin. Gus had a hard time not looking down, but he managed it, crossing his arms over his fully-clothed chest.

"Shawn."

"Fine, then," Shawn said stiffly. "I'll go home. But only if you can spell aggiornamento."

"Fine! A – G – G – uh, O…?"

"Wrong! Wrong, wrong. Now help me with this." He stooped to gather up the smelly plants.

"Nuh-uh! First of all, that word was way too hard. I'm on a first-year level, Shawn, and let's face it: you're not the best teacher. Secondly, I am not helping you prank your dad, especially after my mom just washed this shirt. And, lastly, please put your pants on."

Shawn rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "We'll go home so you can do your chores, Gus. But tonight, we're going fishing—for the Kraken."

"The Kraken doesn't exist, Shawn," Gus sniped, keeping his back turned so that Shawn would have some privacy as he stepped into his trousers. "It's a creature from Greek mythology."

"How do you know?" Shawn groused back, voice muffled as his pulled his sandy shirt over his head.

"Your mom told me about it."

"Humph. Well, my mom says a lot of things that don't mean nothing."

Gus said nothing more on the matter. The bitter divorce had been a couple of months ago, and he knew how much it had affected his friend. Shawn had been left sobbing in the street, watching the carriage bear away his mother and all her belongings. The next morning he pretended nothing had happened, and life went on as usual. No one ever talked about Madeleine Spencer anymore.

They started off together back to the main street.

"Why don't we just go fishing in the morning?" Gus suggested.

"Boring," Shawn grunted. "Besides, when it's dark no one can tell who we are, so we don't have to pretend to be doing something important."

Gus sifted through Shawn's roundabout way of talking and gathered his true meaning: If it's dark, no one can see you're black. He nodded slowly. "Okay."

The boys continued on in amiable silence for a few minutes, stopping briefly so Shawn could empty some sand out of his shoes. Once he'd gotten his foot situation all sorted out, the young Spencer declared a race: "Last one back's a rotten egg!"

For a moment Gus was startled, but then he recovered and shot after him like a musket round. In seconds he was right on Shawn's heels. The sheriff's son glanced over his shoulder and spotted him. With a swift grin, he veered off course and burst through a neighbor's hedges—a dangerous shortcut. Gus pushed himself harder. Almost there!

He rounded the corner, shirt coming untucked and billowing behind him like a cape. The whitewashed, beachside house with the red roof belonged to the sheriff. Gus was elated. He'd won the race! His shoes pounded against the wooden steps as he ascended them victoriously. Panting, he turned to look for Shawn, who still hadn't made it back.

"Hey, Gus."

Gus jumped, startled, and whipped around. Shawn, standing in the threshold of the door, grinned around the apple he was biting into. "What?! How did you—?"

"Oh, Gus," Shawn sighed, shaking his head. "Gus, Gus, Gus. You poor rotten egg."

The slave scowled. "Whatever."

Shawn glanced over his shoulder, then stepped out to pull the door closed behind him. His face turned serious. "My dad has a guest over," he said. "He looks mean. You go and do your chores for now. I'll come get you tonight so we can go fishing."

Gus nodded, shooting a concerned glance toward the house. He couldn't be caught being idle, especially when Henry had guests over. He left Shawn on the porch and ran off to see what needed to be done. His dad would probably have him water the garden.

Shawn watched him round the corner of the house before turning and going back inside. The apple in his hand tasted bitter, so he set it down next to his father's armchair in the sitting room, then wandered on to the kitchen. His father and guest were talking out back, since Henry had been working on a wood project when his friend had come to visit. They would probably come in soon, but for then Shawn had free run of the house.

"Hey, Joy," he greeted.

Gus' older sister turned from the counter, where she was peeling potatoes into the sink. "Hello, Shawn."

Shawn idled by the island, dragging a finger through a layer of fine flour that she had used to season fish. When he didn't leave, Joy looked inquisitively over her shoulder at him. He offered her a smile. "Is there any sliced pineapple?"

"Well, what you gonna give me for it?" she teased.

Shawn pursed his lips thoughtfully, then pressed a finger to them. "I got some sugar," he mumbled. They'd shared a kiss once in the closet, and he swore that he'd never let her forget it—though he'd never tell, lest they both land in trouble.

Joy turned away, and Shawn knew she was rolling her eyes. "Yes, there is some in the cellar. Just a minute, and I'll go and get it for you."

"No, I can get it!" he said. Before she could protest, Shawn was flouncing off toward the steps that led down to the basement. He clomped noisily downstairs, leaving the door open so as to let in some light. There were rows of shelves, organized meticulously by purpose: tools were dedicated to one side of the wall, extra linens, boxes of old family things that were too ugly (or scary, in the case of his grandmother's old dolls) to be let up into the main part of the house, sealed jars of preservatives and pickled things, and even a few remnants of a wagon—supposedly the very same the Spencer ancestors pioneered in.

Shawn ignored all of this and went straight for the pineapple. Joy often sliced a few up into a cloth-covered bowl and set it down in the cellar to chill. It was the best kind of pineapple there was, in the kid's opinion. He stuck his hand in and gathered several pieces up. The strong juice would overpower the salty fishiness from the sea.

Above, he could hear the floorboards creak as the men moved inside. Their low voices rumbled indistinctly. Shawn quickly stuffed the fruit into his mouth and chewed. If his dad caught him sticking his hands where they didn't belong, he'd get in big trouble. He tiptoed back up the steps, licking the sticky juice from his hand and wiping the excess on his pant leg.

They were too close for Shawn to safely sneak out of the cellar, so he paused just behind the door and eavesdropped. After a moment, he recognized the guest's voice: it was that sleazy factory owner, Harris Trout. The hairs on the back of Shawn's neck rose. He hated that guy ever since they first met, when Shawn and Gus had tried to play with some of the slaves' children. Trout had chased them off, waving a musket at them. Even though Shawn saw it was unloaded, it was still a mean, dangerous thing to do to a pair of kids!

What was a slimy rich guy doing in his house?

"I'm tellin' you, it's gonna be great, Henry," Trout said. "It's a big place, got it for cheap because it's a bit out of the way. But it's nice and big, nice and big."

"And what are you going to make in that nice and big factory?" Henry humored him. Shawn could tell by his tone that he wasn't particularly interested.

"Well, what's the one thing out here in the West that everyone needs?"

Henry, for a minute, didn't say anything. Then, "Money."

Trout laughed loudly. "Oh, that's a good one! But no. It's…guns!"

"Guns," Henry repeated.

"Yes."

"You're going to mass produce guns?"

"Yes, I am. And you, Henry, can help."

"Oh, I can?" Henry asked lightly. That was the tone he used when Shawn tried to make excuses. Trout was in big trouble. "And just what can the old sheriff of Santa Barbara do to help you with your gun factory?"

"I'm looking for a pair of small hands," Trout answered. "There are some machines in my factory that need a bit of touching up once in a while. Oiling, and the like. Adults can't reach those spots, you see."

"What am I supposed to do about that?"

"I understand that you've got a young slave boy," Trout said. "I've seen him around. He looks to be just the right size. I'm prepared to buy him off of your hands."

Shawn's heart suddenly stopped, and he had to clap a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from crying out. Say no, he thought. Say no, Dad! Say no!

"Well," Henry drawled. "Why don't I consider it? We can talk about it again at another time. It's already late."

"Of course, of course!" Trout agreed. "There's no haste, none at all. By all means, think it over, Sheriff. It's a big decision. And if you do find yourself agreeable, just give me a holler and we'll finalize all the details."

"Sure thing."

The footsteps receded as the men moved back through the kitchen to the backdoor, where Trout had come a-knocking. Shawn stumbled out of the cellar and shut the door behind him, mind reeling. His dad hadn't said no. He was going to sell Gus to that evil man!

Shawn could still hear their voices as they said goodbye. He automatically turned and ran upstairs and into his bedroom. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the floor swayed beneath him like the ocean rocked a boat. Shawn gasped for air and stumbled over to his bed, upon which he collapsed.

Gus was going to be sold.

Until that moment, it had never quite occurred to Shawn that his best friend was a slave. Slaves were bought and sold, and toiled under the sun all day, and never smiled. They were no better than livestock. The Gusters were better than most of the white people Shawn knew. They were people, too. Gus was his best friend; Joy was his first kiss, and just as much a sister to him as she was to Gus; Winnie and Bill were always nice to him, and they comforted him whenever his parents fought or his dad punished him for something.

His dad was going to ruin everything. Again.

Henry was going to separate the family by selling Gus. They would never see each other again. And the factory was dangerous work, Shawn knew. He'd met a man with only one arm—who'd lost that arm working in a factory.

If Gus lost an arm, he'd probably die. Nobody cared about slaves. Trout would just bury him out back and buy a new slave boy.

Hot tears stung his eyes.

Gus was going to die.

But what kind of friend would Shawn be if he didn't try to help? Shawn was a master of pranks—his knuckles and his rear could attest to that—so surely he could rig something up. All he had to do was pull himself together and think. What could possibly help Gus escape certain doom?

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his temples. It helped him think. Drawing things out on paper wouldn't do because his father was a snoop, and would surely find whatever plans he made. In this case, no one could know that Shawn had planned this—that is, whatever he did end up planning. Delicate situations such as slave-freeing required diligence and secrecy, which at the best of times Gus was awful at, and Shawn's egotism fared little better when it came down to it.

Bit by bit, the pieces began to come together.

Shawn's mental itinerary was nearly completed when he heard Henry call his name from downstairs. His first thought was that he was being called for supper, but usually his dad would tell him so. Instead, it was "Get down here," which meant Shawn was in some sort of trouble. Shawn was sure it had something to do with his uncompleted chores, but he didn't understand why the fence needed to be red when everyone else's was white. If Henry wanted their house to be different, he could just leave them unpainted. Or it was about his earlier fight with Jimmy, but at this point that was old news.

In any case, the young Spencer couldn't evade his father for long. He rolled off his bed, and, without bothering to change out of his soiled clothes or wash up (the sea salt had made his skin feel crusty, and there was still sand in certain crevices), Shawn clomped downstairs. He spotted Joy in the living room, standing a chair as she washed the windows. He had half a mind to go and look up her skirt (she was fifteen, practically an old woman, and lately Shawn had been feeling peculiar about such things), but there was an immediate danger lurking in the kitchen that had to be dealt with first.

He braced himself for whatever lecture was coming, fighting to suppress his anger at the man who was tearing away everything and everyone Shawn loved.

Henry was seated at the table, open newspaper in hand. Shawn knew that he was only pretending to read it while he waited for his son to show up. He glanced over the top of the pages with penetrating blue eyes. Shawn stared back levelly.

"Well, Shawn," Henry said.

Shawn said nothing.

"Sit down, son."

For a moment, Shawn remained standing in the threshold of the kitchen, maintaining eye contact. Daring his father to make him. But when Henry's brows began to rise, Shawn changed his mind. He durst not do anything to jeopardize his escape plan. He crossed the floor and sat directly across the table from his father, folding his hands in his lap.

Henry set down his paper in a deliberate fashion. He was trying to make Shawn sweat by taking his sweet time.

"You just can't do what you're told, can you, Shawn?"

So it began.

Shawn glumly tuned it out. If he didn't pay attention, he couldn't take offense at anything his dad threw in his face. Had his mother still lived there, she would have tempered Henry's words, but their treatments of Shawn had always been an issue between Shawn's strong headed parents, and probably largely contributed to their divorce. Now his mother lived in Chicago.

The last piece of the plan slotted into place. Shawn spent the rest of Henry's tirade mentally solidifying and rechecking the details, recalling snatches of conversations here and there, glimpses of textbooks, and a few handy lies that he'd need.

"Fine, I promise!" Shawn snapped. He folded his arms over his chest and glared toward the living room area.

Henry sat back, judging. He didn't seem to sense that Shawn had been in an entirely different world. Then he rolled his eyes with a shake of his head. "Joy," he called.

"Coming, sir!"

There was a quiet thump as she set something down, then the patter of her footsteps as she entered the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"You can serve us now," Henry motioned to the table.

"Yessir."

She immediately began to bustle about, pulling plates out of the cabinet and setting them in front of Henry and Shawn, respectively, then the silverware and napkins. Out of the oven came their dinner: fresh baked bread and fish, mashed potatoes, carrots, artichokes, and Winnie Guster's famous butter. The delicious smell was intensified as Joy set them out on the table between the Spencers. She grabbed a spoon and began serving her masters, giving them both hearty helpings of each dish. Once that was done, she fetched some wine where it had been sitting on the counter and poured a glass for Henry, then gave Shawn some water sweetened with honey. Henry dismissed her so she could have dinner with her family in the small house just out back, where they lived.

Neither Shawn nor Henry bothered much with praying now that Maddie was gone, and went straight to eating in silence. As soon as he cleared his plate, Shawn asked to be excused. Without waiting for an affirmative, he scraped his chair back and promptly disappeared up the stairs.

Anger returned to him.

Henry hadn't even mentioned his talk with Trout. He wasn't even going to tell Shawn that he was selling Gus like he was a horse blanket.

Shawn sat at his desk and stewed. The sun was slowly lowering behind the distant horizon. It was time for him to collect Gus and go night fishing as he'd promised.

He went over his plan once more in his head, trying to account for all the things that could go wrong. So far, he could remedy each of those things, though he did not expect that they would happen. It was absolutely, one hundred percent foolproof.

The only thing left to do was get ready.

Shawn changed into more comfortable clothes: a worn shirt missing three buttons, and a pair of trousers with patches in the knees that his father never let him wear in public. He had a few cents tucked into a secret pocket in his pants he had asked Winnie to sew for him, who had agreed not to tell anyone she had done it. In his regular pockets he stuffed a half-used candle, a box of matches, and a small gold pendant he'd stolen (out of spite) from his mom's jewelry box the morning she had gone. He couldn't risk taking anything else.

He quietly climbed out of his window, shutting it after him. Hopefully, if his dad came to check on him, he'd be thrown off by that. Below him was a rainwater barrel with the lid on to keep out insects. With careful maneuvering, Shawn could lower himself so that the drop onto it was much shorter. Then he jumped down onto the manicured grass.

The sheriff's son ducked down and kept close to the walls of the house as he snuck to the back. The lights in the house glowed pleasantly, nearly matching the sunset for brilliant color. He could hear them talking inside. Gus should have finished eating by then, and he was sure his parents wouldn't mind them running off. They always welcomed the extra fish, anyway.

Just as he arrived, the door swung open.

Joy jolted in surprise, clasping a hand over her heart. "Shawn!"

"Shh!"

The entire family hushed, looking his way. Shawn glanced over his shoulder to be sure his father wasn't watching from the kitchen window, but he couldn't see him at all. More likely he was reading in the sitting room. The tension went out of his back, and he turned to Gus in order to give him a meaningful stare.

"Shawn and I are going fishing?" Gus said, his voice lilting in a questioning tone.

Bill rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Oh, all right."

"Thanks, Dad!" Gus cried. He bounded to the door, practically pushing his sister aside so that he could slip his shoes on. "Bye! I'll see you guys later."

A lump formed in Shawn's throat. They wouldn't be so happy if they knew how evil his father really was. But he didn't let on that anything was wrong. That would ruin the plan.

He waved farewell, then led Gus toward the shed where all the fishing gear was kept. While Gus chattered about his dinner and something his mother said, Shawn was preoccupied with the plan. He knew that the small rowboat they'd found some months ago would still be where they left it: dragged up onto the beach and hidden in some foliage. That's what they would be using. The poles, lines, and hooks they were gathering up wouldn't do them much good in the end, but they were necessary. Once they had everything they needed, they shut up the shed and started toward the road that led to the docks.

After a few minutes, Gus picked up on his friend's mood.

"What's wrong, Shawn?"

"Nothing, buddy," Shawn replied brightly, though his smile did not reach his eyes.

Gus saw right through it. "Did your dad yell at you again?"

"Yeah. But that's not why I'm sad."

"Why are you sad?"

Shawn glanced over his shoulder. They weren't far enough from the house yet. If he told Gus what was going on, he would run back and tell his parents. He couldn't risk it.

He shook his head. "I'll tell you about it when we get to the beach."

Gus gave him a strange look, but conceded.

They walked in silence for a long while, their poles slung over their shoulders. Occasionally Gus gave Shawn a searching look, but the sheriff's son's face remained blank and unreadable. Until, just before they reached the docks, Shawn told Gus to hold his things.

"Where are you going?" Gus asked, confused.

"I'll be right back," he promised. He crossed over to a property fence and peered over it. There was no one there, apparently, because Shawn promptly hoisted himself up and over the fence. Gus gaped. Though Shawn had a habit of taking shortcuts through other people's yards, this burglar-like behavior was unprecedented.

A moment later, there was a clamor of panicked chickens, which quickly subsided.

"Got'cha!"

A single white chicken squabbled, wings flapping and shedding feathers everywhere, as it was tossed over the fence. Shawn reappeared a second after, and quickly caught the runaway fowl.

"Shawn!"

"Let's go! Hurry!"

Shawn, the chicken wrapped tight in his arms, made a break for the beach. Gus' feet were frozen on the spot, the poles and lines clenched tight in his fists. Then he shook himself and ran after his friend. "Shawn! Wait up!"

"Ba-cawk!"

"Shawn!"

By the time Gus caught up, Shawn was already uncovering their boat. The chicken was tucked firmly under one arm, slowing his progress considerably. His movements were frantic, almost desperate. Gus was feeling more lost than ever. Though Shawn had certainly made plenty of bad decisions in the past, he'd never behaved so furtively—or secretly.

"Shawn, what's going on?"

"Help me get the boat to the water. Hurry!"

"No!" Gus snapped.

Shawn froze, shocked at his friend's audacity. He turned to Gus, scowling.

On his part, the young slave shifted, but held his ground. "Not until you tell me what's going on. You're scaring me."

The sheriff's son averted his gaze, looking at the scuffed toe of his shoe, then at the chicken in his arm. He sighed. "All right, Gus."

An expression came over Shawn's face that Gus found equally hard to read as his blank one. But after a moment, he thought it might be…regret? Despair? Whatever the case, he certainly didn't like it.

"I heard my dad talking with Trout earlier," Shawn confessed.

"Trout?" Gus frowned. "The factory man?"

Shawn nodded glumly.

"Well, what did they say? Trout didn't tell your dad that we trespassed, did he?" Gus looked frightened at the prospect.

Shawn almost considered telling Gus that yes, that's what the conversation had been about—but that would have been a lie. He shook his head. "No. They were talking about how he needed small hands to work his machines."

Gus' fright gave way to confusion.

Shawn's lower lip trembled, and he fought to control his emotions. Spencers didn't cry. But try as he might, the tears spilled over anyway, and he ended up blubbering right in front of the friend he'd always worked to impress.

The fishing gear was set down so that Gus could awkwardly comfort him. He wasn't as good as comforting as his mother was, but he tried to rub Shawn's shoulder the way she did. "There, there, honey," Gus said soothingly, fighting the urge to cry sympathetically. "What's the matter, Shawn?"

Shawn gasped for a breath, furiously rubbing at his watery eyes. "My dad—is going—to," he whimpered.

"Your dad is gonna what, Shawn?"

"He's gonna sell you, Gus!" Saying it aloud set off the waterworks again, and Shawn had to turn away to save himself some dignity. Now he had to wipe at both his eyes and his running nose, though that was difficult and gross to do on account of holding the chicken.

A series of expressions flashed across Gus' face as he processed this information. "Sell…me?" he repeated in a tiny voice.

Shawn nodded. Control was finally returning to him, so he rubbed the sleeve of his shirt across his face, hoping it wasn't too noticeable. His eyes stung, and his nose felt stuffy, but that couldn't be helped. He cleared his throat and turned to Gus—

Who was now crying himself.

"Aw, buddy," Shawn whined. "Don't cry! I just stopped, and if you cry, then I'm gonna—I'm gonna…" His vision blurred as the corners of his lips turned down again. "Guuuuss!"

"Your dad is gonna sell me!" Gus sobbed.

"I know!" Shawn wailed. "Gus, stop it! Pull yourself together."

"I don't wanna go! I wanna stay with my mom and dad and my sister and you!"

"I know, buddy!"

They stood on the moonlit beach for several minutes in this manner, crying miserably. Later, Shawn would claim that most of the sounds that came from his mouth actually came from the chicken, who had picked up on their emotions and joined in.

When the sobbing had at last abated, the boys wiped their eyes, still sniffling.

"What are we going to do?" Gus asked plaintively.

"Don't worry, Gus," Shawn said. "I have a plan."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm! My dad can't sell you if you're dead."

While Shawn grinned proudly, Gus stared at him as though he'd sprouted a second head. "Uh, what?"

"No, he's only going to think you're dead. Well, both of us. That's why I got this chicken." He patted the fowl's ridged head.

"But…How?"

Shawn sighed dramatically. "Okay, let me start from the beginning of my master plan. Listen up! Your parents know that we're going fishing. My dad doesn't. So when we don't come home, your parents will tell my dad, and he'll come out to get us—but we won't be here anymore. We're getting out of Santa Barbara."

"But what about our bodies?"

"That's the beauty of my plan! He'll never find our bodies. The tide comes in at night, Gus. It would carry us away, out into the ocean, where we'll be eaten by sharks."

Gus still looked skeptical.

"Just help me get the boat. I'll explain it better when we get going. We have to beat the tides."

"Okay…"

In a matter of minutes, the boys had managed to drag the boat out from its hiding place amongst the foliage and across the dry sand. Gus had tucked the fishing gear inside. Once the waves were lapping against the vehicle, Shawn climbed in, holding the chicken firmly between his knees so that he could help row. Gus pushed the boat out into the surf and hopped in, taking up an oar.

"Towards the rocks," Shawn said, pointing.

Gus did as he was directed, working in tandem with his master's son to maneuver the boat. The moonlight cast eerie shadows, and the constant crash of waves lent an ominous static.

Shawn elaborated on the plan as they followed the current. "We'll find someone to give us a ride to Chicago, where my mom lives. It's in the Free States, so if we make it no one can send you back, Gus. Then we'll work and save up all our money, and we'll buy your mom and dad and sister so they can come live free, too. But first we have to make sure my dad can't catch us."

A few meters down the coast, the underside of the boat scraped loudly across the jagged teeth of earth. The wood cracked open from the force of it, flooding around their feet. The chicken squabbled, but quieted when Shawn picked it up and held it above the forming pool. The boys stepped out of the vessel.

"Drag it up here," Shawn said.

Gus did, heaving the broken boat farther onto the rocks and causing more damage in the process. Shawn reached in and pulled out their gear, then flung it randomly. The lines caught on the rocks, as did one of the poles; the other pole was washed away. He did the same for the oars, then helped Gus tip the boat over onto its side.

"There," Shawn whispered. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Gus was far more somber. "Everyone will think that we misjudged the tide. The boat hit the rocks and tipped over, throwing us on the rocks, too. The tide carried us away."

"They'll look for us, won't they?"

"Of course. But they won't find us. Maybe they'll find the oars, or the fishing pole, but not us. I'm sure we'll have nice funerals, buddy."

"Shawn."

"Yeah?"

"What are you gonna do with the chicken?"

Shawn shifted. "I need you to dig a hole over by the trees. Real deep, Gus."

The slave boy didn't say anything for a long moment. But then he nodded and turned to do it.

"But first," Shawn uttered, stopping his friend. He reached up, grasped a fistful of Gus' wiry black hair, and yanked hard.

"Ow!"

"Shh!"

Gus clamped a hand over his mouth, but continued making pained sounds.

"Sorry," Shawn said, revealing the few strands caught between his fingers. "It's to complete the scene."

He knelt down and scrubbed his hand against one of the more pointed rocks, then pulled a small pocket knife out. Shawn meaningfully glanced up at Gus, who, queasy, turned and started off across the sand to dig the chicken's grave. Shawn took a steadying breath, then plunged the blade into the fowl's throat. When the chicken flailed, Shawn squeezed tighter, trying to stop the feathers from going everywhere. He couldn't allow anything to jeopardize the plan.

After a moment, the chicken stopped breathing, the bloodied knife still sticking out of its neck. Shawn, holding the chicken carefully, pulled it out, allowing the blood to drain from the wound and splash against the sharp stones. It acted as a sort of glue for Gus' hair, and would hopefully remain until the next morning so it would be discovered.

As an extra precaution, Shawn ripped a strip of linen from his own white shirt and dabbed it across the stab wound. He pierced it on a rock a bit away from Gus' hair, so it would appear to have been torn off from the fall.

The sheriff's son peered across the beach, and saw Gus hard at work. Shawn wiggled the chicken about, trying to shake out every drop of blood. The more there was, the more certain it would be that the boys were dead. Finished, Shawn wrapped a hand around the chicken's neck to keep the blood from dripping a trail across the sand, then headed over to his friend.

"That's deep enough," Shawn said.

Gus had dug a hole knee-deep behind a tree. He backed away, and Shawn ceremoniously laid the chicken inside, positioning it so that it looked to be roosting.

"Thank you, chicken," he said. "Without your sacrifice, Gus would have been sold to the horrible factory, and I would have been sad for the rest of my life. Gus, would you like to say a few words?"

Gus stepped forward and bowed his head. "Yes. Thank you, chicken, for what Shawn said, and also for your life's work. Your eggs have made many fine meals for people, and I'm sure if you've had babies they've also been very good. May you rest in peace in chicken heaven. Amen."

"Amen, Gus."

Together, the boys filled in the hole and smoothed it over. Gus made a cross with two sticks and laid it on top, and then they scattered some leaves and rocks over it so it wasn't noticeable, but the chicken still had the dignity of a decent Christian burial.

"Now what?" Gus asked.

"Now we get out of town without being seen. We've got the cover of darkness on our side."

"We're not going to sleep?"

"Not until we find a good stranger who's willing to give us a ride east," Shawn said. "Come on."

"What about food, Shawn? Money? We are definitely not equipped to travel hundreds of miles."

"Don't worry. It should take less than one month to get there."

"One month! How do you know?"

"That's if we get a ride," Shawn answered, leading the way toward a dark street. "If we walk twenty miles per day, that means seven hours of walking. We have to walk 2,000 miles, so that means we'd have to walk seven miles every day for one hundred days. But I plan on getting rides and taking riverboats."

"If you can figure all that out, why are you failing school?"

"This is real-world application, Gus. Who cares how many apples and oranges Bob has? This stuff is important."

"You have a point there."

"Exactly. Now be quiet. We have to go through town without getting caught."

The boys crouched low to the ground so that anyone who was looking out their windows so late at night would have a harder time seeing them.

Shawn was aware that his plan was easier said than done, but he also knew that he could charm his way into (and out of) nearly any situation. It was simply a matter of finding a stranger and convincing him or her to take pity on the boys. That was when Shawn would put his skills to use. Having been reared to be a sheriff was finally going to pay off—hugely.

Well before morning they managed to make it to the east side of Santa Barbara. Shawn was sure that no one would be about on this end before dawn, at the earliest. Only the fisherman were out this early, and they always went straight to the coast.

As predicted, there was no one in sight.

Shawn and Gus walked alongside the rutted road winding out into no man's land. There was still enough moonlight shining down to light their way, and being the only two out for a mile at least afforded them the luxury of a slower pace. But not too slow, as they still had to be far away before their accident was discovered.

"Can colored folk go to school in Chicago?" Gus asked.

Shawn considered it. "I think so," he answered. "I think you can do anything a white boy can, since you won't be a slave anymore. But why do you want to go to school? We could open a business!"

"What kind of business?" Gus narrowed his eyes. "And don't say a bunny shop, Shawn. You know I love bunnies and all, but I don't see that getting us anywhere."

"And school will?" Shawn retorted.

Gus shrugged. "Maybe I could be a doctor."

"I could be your patient."

"You know that's right."

The boys shared a sly smile.

"Hey, Shawn…"

"Yeah, Gus."

"I just thought of something. Won't your mom tell your dad that we're still alive?"

"Of course," Shawn said. "That's all part of the plan. My mom will send my dad a telegram explaining the situation. And my dad won't be able to anything because we'll be in the Free States—that's way out of Henry's jurisdiction."

"Oh."

"Now it's my turn to ask a question," Shawn said. "Actually, I get two, since you asked two."

Gus conceded the point and gestured for his friend to continue.

"Why are you called a colored person?" Shawn asked. "It doesn't make sense."

"What do you mean? You're white, I'm brown. Brown is a color."

"Yeah, but white people have more colors than brown people do."

"Explain."

Shawn rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "All right. Remember when we had a contest to hold see who could their breath the longest? Your face didn't change color, but mine did. I turned red, then purple! So there's two colors you don't have.

"And since my dad is the sheriff, I get to walk into the mortuary whenever I want. I've seen white folk and colored folk in there, and I can tell you this: the whites turned all blue and gray, and the coloreds didn't change one bit. There's three colors.

"And one time I showed Abigail Lytar a dead frog I found, and she turned green. But whenever I show you or Joy something like that, you both get all queasy, but not green. Four colors you can't turn, Gus." Shawn concluded his observations with a sharp nod.

Gus didn't seem impressed. "We're called colored because we're brown, Shawn."

"Tsk!"

"Next question."

"Okay, I've got one. If you had five dollars, what would you buy?"

"Hmm." Gus pursed his lips, brow furrowed. "I wouldn't buy anything. I'd save it until I had enough to buy my family and move to the Free States."

"No, Gus," Shawn moaned. "No, we're working on the assumption that we've already done that. You have five dollars left. What are you spending it on?"

"Oh. Then I'd buy myself some school clothes."

"Ugh." Shawn shook his head in disgust and quickened his pace. "I can't do this with you right now."

"What? What did I say?" Gus hurried to catch up with his friend.

As soon as he had, though, Shawn grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hurled him off the dusty road and into a sand-filled hole, then jumped down after him.

"Shawn!" Gus spluttered.

"Quiet!" Shawn hissed. He army crawled forward and poked his head above the ridge of the sand hole. After a moment, Gus heard it, too: a horse-drawn wagon was rolling along, coming from the south. A farmhouse was out in that direction. The whole property, which went for miles, belonged to an old friend of Henry's, Brett Connors. He used to be a sheriff, too, but once his memory began to fail him, that was the end for him. His daughter ran the farmstead on his behalf.

But the oncoming buggy wasn't the Connors, Shawn saw. A young couple were seated in the driver's seat, talking softly. They turned not toward Santa Barbara, as expected, but east, where the horizon was just beginning to turn gray with dawn. Shawn didn't recognize them.

"Perfect," he whispered. "Come on, Gus. No time to sleep!"

Shawn scrambled out of the small pit, kicking sand directly in Gus' face. Gus, spitting and muttering, followed.

"Play along." Shawn grinned mischievously, then took off at a run.

He scooped up a hefty stone and, easily catching up with the slow-moving vehicle, sneakily tossed it forward so that the stone was run over by the wide wooden wheel. The carriage thumped over the obstacle. With an awful, hair-raising shout, Shawn threw himself down alongside the road and clutched his leg.

"Whoa, Dobson!" cried a startled voice

"Shawn!" Gus cried, dropping to his knees. The wagon creaked to a halt, the horse nickering nervously as Shawn continued to scream.

"My leg! My leg! Ohhh, I'm dead."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" gasped the young woman, who had jumped down to see what had happened. "Buzz! Oh, Buzz, help!" With a hand over her mouth, she grasped the reins and watched on.

A tall man hurried out of the seat and to Shawn, who had begun flopping around like a drowning fish. "Oh, no!" he said, his brown eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you, kid!"

"My leg!"

"Shawn!"

"Hold on! We'll get you to a doctor!"

"Is his leg still attached, Buzz?!"

"I don't know, Francine! Please, buddy, hold still!"

"Shawn!"

"My leg!"

"Francine, turn the wagon around!"

Gus, realizing that things were going too far, grabbed Shawn and shook him violently. "Calm down, Shawn! Just calm yourself!"

Shawn made gagging noises, but stopped screaming, and finally let go of his leg to allow the stranger to examine it. Buzz pulled up the pant leg and desperately looked for a gaping wound—but found nothing, of course.

"You—where does it hurt?" Confusion was evident in Buzz's voice.

"I think…" Shawn panted, swallowing thickly. "I think…I'm okay, man. Just a fright, that's all."

Gus braced himself for the imminent anger, prepared to run due to Shawn's stupid stunt, but to his shock, Buzz merely sighed in relief. "It's all right, Francine!" he called. "He's okay."

"Thank God!" was her response. "I didn't think old Dobson would have it in him to get us back to town in time, anyway."

Buzz finally made an important observation: "What are you doing out so early? Where are your parents?"

Gus suddenly felt like he would throw up. He quickly set to plucking a loose thread in his sleeve.

Shawn kept a cool head. Feigning innocence, he said, "I don't have parents, sir. They both got eaten by a shark. Luckily, it wasn't hungry enough to get me, too."

The young slave almost wanted to laugh. It sounded so ridiculous, coming from Shawn. Then he realized that they might as well have been orphans, the both of them. They were traveling alone, after all.

"Oh, no," Buzz gasped, horrified.

Shawn sniffled. "It's all right," he said. "I've got relatives in the east. That's where we're going, me and my slave. I had more of 'em, but I had to sell them to get this far. We were just waking up to get a head start this morning when you came along."

By then Francine had made her way over, and clearly heard the tale. "You poor thing! Selling everything you own and only getting this far! I don't know where you started, but we're practically on the coast."

"Yeah," Shawn sighed. "But don't worry about me. I'll get there eventually."

Buzz and Francine exchanged a glance, and appeared to come to some mutual, unspoken agreement. The young man turned back to Shawn.

"We're going to Louisiana," he said. "We can give you a ride, if you like. My name is Buzz, and this is my wife, Francine."

Shawn had already figured all that out, which is why he was milking it. "Shawn. That's Methuselah Honeysuckle. I like to call him Honey for short."

Gus scowled at the terrible nickname, but didn't speak up.

"Nice to meet you," Buzz smiled.

Francine did as well. "You're welcome to come with us."

"I couldn't possibly," Shawn protested. "I don't anything to pay you with…Well, I've got Honey, but…"

"Nonsense!" Francine scoffed. "Do you hear us asking for payment, Shawn? You and Honey are welcome to join us for as long as you like, for no charge. It's the least we can do after…Well, you know."

Shawn pretended reluctance, shifting from foot to foot. "Well, my feet are pretty tired," he said. After another moment of indecisiveness, he looked at Gus. "C'mon, Honey."

"Yes, dear," Gus muttered under his breath.

The sheriff's son covered a snort with a small cough as he pitifully limped forward to hop into the wagon. Buzz, who was tall enough to reach over the side with no problem, hoisted Shawn up, then did the same for Gus. The boys quickly made themselves comfortable amongst their rides' things. There were lots of boxes and blankets; after making some rearrangements, Shawn and Gus were able to make a small nest of sorts, where the wind could not penetrate.

"Me an' Honey have been walking a long time," Shawn said, leaning his elbows against the back of the driver's seat to talk to the couple, who had climbed back up. "We're going to sleep now."

"Okay, dear," Francine said.

She and Buzz shared an endearing look—that look couples shared when children did something cute, but neither were ready to make such a commitment.

Meanwhile, Shawn and Gus made themselves cozy, using their arms as pillows. The fit was snug, but neither minded being pressed up against one another.

"See, Gus?" Shawn whispered, only the mischievous flash of his eyes visible in the shadows. "I told you it would all work out…"

"We've barely got out of town," Gus refuted, but he was too tired to argue the matter further.

Shawn, who yawned, seemed in the same situation. "We'll make it to where we're goin'," he sighed.

"If you say so…"

The boys fell off to sleep, lulled by the rocking of the wagon and the low murmur of the couple's voices. It was the sweetest rest either of them had had in a while.

A/N: Golly, it's been a long time since I've updated anything! This will likely be in three (very very long) chapters, but it may be a while before I can complete it. I'm swamped with college at the moment.