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17 The Trapper’s Boast Give me a crowd of colored men and I can spot the new arrivals— freed men or fugitives— I can tell them from those born with a claim to their flesh. Runaways work to slip off a body’s notice— ring off a fattened finger—once again— while the freed slave’s desperate to be nothing more than a porter or carter—a man meant to hold something most of the time. I won’t be bothered with fresh meat. Just-from-slavery darkies are risky as rabbits just littered —touch them and there’s no telling what they’ll kill. Philadelphia’s humid from new darkies’ tears. My mark is the colored man at ease with his freedom. Give me a crowd of buckskins and I will spot him too. ...

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