The future seems to hold limited possibilities for Son Erby. The African-American child of a farm laborer in 1930s Tennessee, his fate seems as certain as the sunset at day's end. But when his father takes him to work at the Coleman farm and hands down the secret to making corn liquor, everything changes. Moving from the shaded parlors of the wealthy Sawyer clan to the illegal activities in the woods along the Mississippi river, this perceptive novel explores the roots of racism, and the dangerous power of secrets that will shatter every taboo in a sleepy little town caught between the past and the future. Beginning with Son's simple plan to make his fortune with illicit whiskey, and speeding toward an explosive climax that will expose the twisted roots of his family tree, The Legend of Quito Road is a look at a bygone time, the sobering echoes of which can still be heard today. October 1860 Gillam Hale, a master distiller, a brewer of intoxicating spirits, lived his early life as a rare issue-free black man — one born to parents who were free. He now stumbled in the rain along a Mississippi River bluff trail between two white men on horses who had sought him for two years. The band traveled slowly, just north of Memphis. Their course lay hidden to them, except during the frequent flashes of lightning. The horses acted as true guides. After the group rounded a bend, lightning spooked both horses and the rope around Gillam's neck jerked him forward. He tripped and fell hard to the muddy ground on his back. "Wait, boss! Wait, bos...!" The lynch-man's noose muffled his cries. "Stop,Raford! You killing him!" Allen Sawyer,this venture's chief investor, shouted from the rear horse. "Whoa, whoa boy." His red-haired business partner pulled the lead horse to a stop and looked back. Sawyer jumped to the ground and tried to loosen the rope's hold on Gillam's neck. It was attached to the saddle horn of the surgically impaired male horse his partner chose to ride because of its large size and complete willingness to comply with his every command. "Damn you, Raford! He ain't worth a penny to us dead." Raford Coleman spat out his reply: "He made just one damn batch since we bought him, so he ain't worth much to me!" Gillam lay on his back in the cold mud. He thought, I'm valuable to Sawyer 'til he gets his money I took. Sawyer eased the knot and, in an instant spark of lightning, looked in Gillam's face.Gillam feigned terror. The slaveholder's mistaken judgment at that moment equaled his error in Memphis's Auction Square two years earlier when he'd shouted the highest bid for the enslaved whiskey maker. "Get up, Gillam!" Sawyer commanded. Gillam tried to get on his feet but his hands were bound behind his back and he gripped something by which he could regain far more than his balance. As he fell back down, he remembered the words of his father,"Boy,be sure what you plant. Whiskey's the devil's seed. You reap what you sow." Sawyer lifted Gillam to his feet, as Gillam laughed inside but put on an air of gloom. Sawyer removed his soaked hat, ran his hands through his blond hair and returned to his saddle. He wondered how his love for strong drink and gaiety had brought him to this miserable task. Red-headed Raford jerked the rope again and kicked his big gelding forward. Gillam felt the rope around his neck tighten again. The cord cut his wrists, but he smiled, hidden by darkness. Gillam Hale held no fear in his heart. Three blasts from a distant riverboat's horn signaled another difficult journey on this cold October night. The rain slowed to a drizzle and the noise of the storm lessened. In his dominant left hand, the whiskey-making slave held a narrow shard of glass. He had fallen on it earlier when he slipped in the mud on a high bluff. He began to cut the rope the second Raford Coleman jerked him forward. Gillam struggled to keep up with Coleman's horse.His muscles ached, but hope fueled him."Raford Coleman," he mumbled out of earshot of the white men, "when we get to the edge of the river, I'll fix it to where you never hunt a colored man again." The piece of glass sawed through the wet cord and Gillam waited. The backwoods trail wound through dense woods until the narrow path overlooked the Mississippi River. Gillam freed his hands and maintained pressure on the rope as he removed it from his neck. "I's falling, boss! Boss, help me!" he screamed. He tumbled down the bank and pulled Raford and his horse with him. "Nigger bastard!" Raford shouted. Sawyer jumped from the saddle and strained to see. Gillam, Raford and his horse hit the muddy waters with a gigantic splash. The river swallowed all three. There was no sign of life. The solitary blond slave owner stood alone with his skit-tish horse. "Raford! Raford! Raford!"Sawyer screamed."Raford Coleman! Rafe!" His horse attempted to pull away, but the wiry Sawyer held him fast."Raford!" Sawyer shouted again. If that Nigra's alive, he thought, the current'll take him d