He flopped convulsively once, like a dog hit by a truck, and then
lay still. I strained my eyes into the darkness, and made out a vague shape a few
yards away in the trail. It was erect and tall as a man; it made no
sound. I opened my mouth to challenge the unknown visitant, but no sound
came. An indescribable chill flowed over me, freezing my tongue to my
palate. It was fear, primitive and unreasoning, and even while I stood
paralyzed I could not understand it, could not guess why that silent,
motionless figure, sinister as it was, should rouse such instinctive
dread. Then suddenly the figure moved quickly toward me, and I found my voice. "Who comes there?" No answer; but the form came on in a rush, and as I groped for a
match, it was almost upon me. I struck the match--with a ferocious
snarl the figure hurled itself against me, the match was struck from
my hand and extinguished, and I felt a sharp pain on the side of my
neck. My gun exploded almost involuntarily and without aim, and its
flash dazzled me, obscuring rather than revealing the tall man-like
figure that struck at me; then with a crashing rush through the trees
my assailant was gone, and I staggered alone on the forest trail. Swearing angrily, I felt for another match. Blood was trickling down
my shoulder, soaking through my shirt. When I struck the match and
investigated, another chill swept down my spine. My shirt was torn
and the flesh beneath slightly cut; the wound was little more than a
scratch, but the thing that roused nameless fear in my mind was the
fact that _the wound was similar to those on poor Jim Tike_. _2. "Dead Men with Torn Throats! "_


Jim Tike was dead, lying face down in a pool of his own blood, his
red-dabbled limbs sprawling drunkenly. I stared uneasily at the
surrounding forest that hid the thing that had killed him. That it was
a man I knew; the outline, in the brief light of the match, had been
vague, but unmistakably human. But what sort of a weapon could make a
wound like the merciless champing of great bestial teeth? I shook my
head, recalling the ingenuity of mankind in the creation of implements
of slaughter, and considered a more acute problem. Should I risk my
life further by continuing upon my course, or should I return to the
outer world and bring in men and dogs, to carry out poor Jim Tike's
corpse, and hunt down his murderer? I did not waste much time in indecision. I had set out to perform a
task. If a murderous criminal besides Tope Braxton were abroad in the
piny woods, there was all the more reason for warning the men in that
lonely cabin. As for my own danger, I was already more than half-way
to the cabin. It would scarcely be more dangerous to advance than to
retreat. If I did turn back, and escape from Egypt alive, before I
could rouse a posse, anything might happen in that isolated cabin under
the black trees. So I left Jim Tike's body there in the trail, and went on, gun in hand,
and nerves sharpened by the new peril. That visitant had not been Tope
Braxton. I had the dead man's word for it that the attacker was a
mysterious white man; the glimpse I had had of the figure had confirmed
the fact that he was not Tope Braxton. I would have known that squat,
apish body even in the dark. This man was tall and spare, and the mere
recollection of that gaunt figure made me shiver, unreasoningly. It is no pleasant experience to walk along a black forest trail with
only the stars glinting through the dense branches, and the knowledge
that a ruthless murderer is lurking near, perhaps within arm's length
in the concealing darkness. The recollection of the butchered black
man burned vividly in my brain. Sweat beaded my face and hands, and I
wheeled a score of times, glaring into the blackness where my ears had
caught the rustle of leaves or the breaking of a twig--how could I know
whether the sounds were but the natural noises of the forest, or the
stealthy movements of the killer? Once I stopped, with an eery crawling of my skin, as far away, through
the black trees, I glimpsed a faint, lurid glow. It was not stationary;
it moved, but it was too far away for me to make out the source. With
my hair prickling unpleasantly I waited, for I knew not what; but
presently the mysterious glow vanished, and so keyed up I was to
unnatural happenings, that it was only then that I realized the light
might well have been made by a man walking with a pine-knot torch. I
hurried on, cursing myself for my fears, the more baffling because they
were so nebulous. Peril was no stranger to me in that land of feud and
violence where century-old hates still smoldered down the generations. Threat of bullet or knife openly or from ambush had never shaken my
nerves before; but I knew now that I was afraid--afraid of something I
could not understand, or explain. I sighed with relief when I saw Richard Brent's light gleaming through
the pines, but I did not relax my vigilance. Many a man, danger-dogged,
has been struck down at the very threshold of safety. Knocking on the
door, I stood sidewise, peering into the shadows that ringed the tiny
clearing and seemed to repel the faint light from the shuttered windows. "Who's there?" came a deep harsh voice from within. "Is that you,
Ashley?" "No; it's me--Kirby Garfield. Open the door." The upper half of the door swung inward, and Richard Brent's head and
shoulders were framed in the opening. The light behind him left most of
his face in shadow, but could not obscure the harsh gaunt lines of his
features nor the gleam of the bleak gray eyes. "What do you want, at this time of night?" he demanded, with his usual
bruskness. I replied shortly, for I did not like the man; courtesy in our part of
the country is an obligation no gentleman thinks of shirking. "I came to tell you that it's very likely that a dangerous negro is
prowling in your vicinity. Tope Braxton killed Constable Joe Sorley and
a negro trusty, and broke out of jail this morning. I think he took
refuge in Egypt. I thought you ought to be warned." "Well, you've warned me," he snapped, in his short-clipped Eastern
accent. "Why don't you be off?" "Because I have no intention of going back through those woods
tonight," I answered angrily. "I came in here to warn you, not because
of any love of you, but simply because you're a white man. The least
you can do is to let me put up in your cabin until morning. All I ask
is a pallet on the floor; you don't even have to feed me." That last was an insult I could not withhold, in my resentment; at
least in the piny woods it is considered an insult. But Richard Brent
ignored my thrust at his penuriousness and discourtesy. He scowled at
me. I could not see his hands. "Did you see Ashley anywhere along the trail?" he asked finally. Ashley was his servant, a saturnine figure as taciturn as his master,
who drove into the distant river village once a month for supplies. "No; he might have been in town, and left after I did."