It was a black power beyond the
ring of white man's knowledge; a basic, elemental thing of which formal
hypnotism is but scanty crumbs, spilled at random. A power beyond my
control was drawing me to Goshen, and beyond; more I cannot explain,
any more than the rabbit could explain why the eyes of the swaying
serpent draw him into its gaping jaws. We were not far from Goshen when Braxton's horse unseated its rider,
and my own began snorting and plunging. "They won't go no closer!" gasped Braxton, fighting at the reins. I swung off, threw the reins over the saddle-horn. "Go back, for God's sake, Jim! I'm going on afoot." I heard him whimper an oath, then his horse was galloping after mine,
and he was following me on foot. The thought that he must share my doom
sickened me, but I could not dissuade him; and ahead of me a supple
form was dancing in the shadows, luring me on--on--on.... I wasted no more bullets on that mocking shape. Braxton could not see
it, and I knew it was part of my enchantment, no real woman of flesh
and blood, but a hell-born will-o'-the-wisp, mocking me and leading me
through the night to a hideous death. A "sending," the people of the
Orient, who are wiser than we, call such a thing. *       *       *       *       *

Braxton peered nervously at the black forest walls about us, and I knew
his flesh was crawling with the fear of sawed-off shotguns blasting
us suddenly from the shadows. But it was no ambush of lead or steel I
feared as we emerged into the moonlit clearing that housed the cabins
of Goshen. The double line of log cabins faced each other across the dusty street. One line backed against the bank of Tularoosa Creek. The back stoops
almost overhung the black waters. Nothing moved in the moonlight. No
lights showed, no smoke oozed up from the stick-and-mud chimneys. It
might have been a dead town, deserted and forgotten. "It's a trap!" hissed Braxton, his eyes blazing slits. He bent forward
like a skulking panther, a gun in each hand. "They're layin' for us in
them huts!" Then he cursed, but followed me as I strode down the street. I did
not hail the silent huts. I _knew_ Goshen was deserted. I felt its
emptiness. Yet there was a contradictory sensation as of spying eyes
fixed upon us. I did not try to reconcile these opposite convictions. "They're gone," muttered Braxton, nervously. "I can't smell 'em. I can
always smell niggers, if they're a lot of 'em, or if they're right
close. You reckon they've already gone to raid Grimesville?" "No," I muttered. "They're in the House of Damballah." He shot a quick glance at me. "That's a neck of land in the Tularoosa about three miles west of here. My grandpap used to talk about it. The niggers held their heathen
palavers there back in slave times. You ain't--Kirby--you----"

"Listen!" I wiped the icy sweat from my face. "_Listen!_"

Through the black woodlands the faint throb of a drum whispered on the
wind that glided up the shadowy reaches of the Tularoosa. Braxton shivered. "It's them, all right. But for God's sake,
Kirby--_look out!_"

With an oath he sprang toward the houses on the bank of the creek. I
was after him just in time to glimpse a dark clumsy object scrambling
or tumbling down the sloping bank into the water. Braxton threw up his
long pistol, then lowered it, with a baffled curse. A faint splash
marked the disappearance of the creature. The shiny black surface
crinkled with spreading ripples. "What was it?" I demanded. "A nigger on his all-fours!" swore Braxton. His face was strangely
pallid in the moonlight. "He was crouched between them cabins there,
watchin' us!" "It must have been an alligator." What a mystery is the human mind! I
was arguing for sanity and logic, I, the blind victim of a compulsion
beyond sanity and logic. "A nigger would have to come up for air." "He swum under the water and come up in the shadder of the bresh where
we couldn't see him," maintained Braxton. "Now he'll go warn Saul
Stark." "Never mind!" The pulse was thrumming in my temples again, the roar of
foaming waters rising irresistibly in my brain. "I'm going--straight
through the swamp. For the last time, go back!" "No! Sane or mad, I'm goin' with you!" *       *       *       *       *

The pulse of the drum was fitful, growing more distinct as we advanced. We struggled through jungle-thick growth; tangled vines tripped us; our
boots sank in scummy mire. We were entering the fringe of the swamp
which grew deeper and denser until it culminated in the uninhabitable
morass where the Tularoosa flowed into Black River, miles farther to
the west. The moon had not yet set, but the shadows were black under the
interlacing branches with their mossy beards. We plunged into the
first creek we must cross, one of the many muddy streams flowing into
the Tularoosa. The water was only thigh-deep, the moss-clogged bottom
fairly firm. My foot felt the edge of a sheer drop, and I warned
Braxton: "Look out for a deep hole; keep right behind me." His answer was unintelligible. He was breathing heavily, crowding close
behind me. Just as I reached the sloping bank and pulled myself up by
the slimy, projecting roots, the water was violently agitated behind
me. Braxton cried out incoherently, and hurled himself up the bank,
almost upsetting me. I wheeled, gun in hand, but saw only the black
water seething and whirling, after his thrashing rush through it. "What the devil, Jim?" "Somethin' grabbed me!" he panted. "Somethin' out of the deep hole. I tore loose and busted up the bank. I tell you, Kirby, somethin's
follerin' us! Somethin' that swims under the water." "Maybe it was that nigger you saw. These swamp people swim like fish. Maybe he swam up under the water to try to drown you." He shook his head, staring at the black water, gun in hand. "It _smelt_ like a nigger, and the little I saw of it _looked_ like a
nigger. But it didn't _feel_ like any kind of a human." "Well, it was an alligator then," I muttered absently as I turned
away. As always when I halted, even for a moment, the roar of
peremptory and imperious rivers shook the foundations of my reason. He splashed after me without comment. Scummy puddles rose about our
ankles, and we stumbled over moss-grown cypress knees. Ahead of us
there loomed another, wider creek, and Braxton caught my arm. "Don't do it, Kirby!" he gasped. "If we go into that water, it'll git
us sure!" "What?" "I don't know. Whatever it was that flopped down that bank back there
in Goshen. The same thing that grabbed me in that creek back yonder. Kirby, let's go back." "Go back?" I laughed in bitter agony. "I wish to God I could! I've got
to go on. Either Saul Stark or I must die before dawn." He licked dry lips and whispered. "Go on, then; I'm with you, come
heaven or hell." He thrust his pistol back into its scabbard, and drew
a long keen knife from his boot. "Go ahead!" I climbed down the sloping bank and splashed into the water that rose
to my hips.