"I guess I'll have to let you in," he muttered, grudgingly. "Well, hurry up," I requested. "I've got a gash in my shoulder I want
to wash and dress. Tope Braxton isn't the only killer abroad tonight." At that he halted in his fumbling at the lower door, and his expression
changed. "What do you mean?" "There's a dead nigger a mile or so up the trail. The man who killed
him tried to kill me. He may be after you, for all I know. The nigger
he killed was guiding him here." *       *       *       *       *

Richard Brent started violently, and his face went livid. "Who--what do you mean?" His voice cracked, unexpectedly falsetto. "What man?" "I don't know. A fellow who manages to rip his victims like a hound----"

"A hound!" The words burst out in a scream. The change in Brent was
hideous. His eyes seemed starting from his head; his hair stood up
stiffly on his scalp, and his skin was the hue of ashes. His lips drew
back from his teeth in a grin of sheer terror. He gagged and then found voice. "Get out!" he choked. "I see it, now! I know why you wanted to get
into my house! You bloody devil! _He_ sent you! You're his spy! _Go!_" The last was a scream and his hands rose above the lower
half of the door at last. I stared into the gaping muzzles of a
sawed-off shotgun. "Go, before I kill you!" I stepped back off the stoop, my skin crawling at the thought of a
close-range blast from that murderous implement of destruction. The
black muzzles and the livid, convulsed face behind them promised sudden
demolition. "You cursed fool!" I growled, courting disaster in my anger. "Be
careful with that thing. I'm going. I'd rather take a chance with a
murderer than a madman." Brent made no reply; panting and shivering like a man smitten with
ague, he crouched over his shotgun and watched me as I turned and
strode across the clearing. Where the trees began I could have wheeled
and shot him down without much danger, for my .45 would outrange his
shortened scatter-gun. But I had come there to warn the fool, not to
kill him. The upper door slammed as I strode in under the trees, and the stream
of light was cut abruptly off. I drew my gun and plunged into the
shadowy trail, my ears whetted again for sounds under the black
branches. My thoughts reverted to Richard Brent. It was surely no friend who
had sought guidance to his cabin! The man's frantic fear had bordered
on insanity. I wondered if it had been to escape this man that Brent
had exiled himself in this lonely stretch of pinelands and river. Surely it had been to escape _something_ that he had come; for
he never concealed his hatred of the country nor his contempt for the
native people, white and black. But I had never believed that he was a
criminal, hiding from the law. The light fell away behind me, vanished among the black trees. A
curious, chill, sinking feeling obsessed me, as if the disappearance
of that light, hostile as was its source, had severed the only link
that connected this nightmarish adventure with the world of sanity and
humanity. Grimly taking hold of my nerves, I strode on up the trail. But I had not gone far when again I halted. This time it was the unmistakable sound of horses running; the rumble
of wheels mingled with the pounding of hoofs. Who would be coming along
that nighted trail in a rig but Ashley? But instantly I realized that
the team was headed in the other direction. The sound receded rapidly,
and soon became only a distant blur of noise. I quickened my pace, much puzzled, and presently I heard hurried,
stumbling footsteps ahead of me, and a quick, breathless panting that
seemed indicative of panic. I distinguished the footsteps of two
people, though I could see nothing in the intense darkness. At that
point the branches interlaced over the trail, forming a black arch
through which not even the stars gleamed. "Ho, there!" I called cautiously. "Who are you?" Instantly the sounds ceased abruptly, and I could picture two shadowy
figures standing tensely still, with bated breath. "Who's there?" I repeated. "Don't be afraid. It's me--Kirby Garfield." "Stand where you are!" came a hard voice I recognized as Ashley's. "You
sound like Garfield--but I want to be sure. If you move you'll get a
slug through you." There was a scratching sound and a tiny flame leaped up. A human hand
was etched in its glow, and behind it the square, hard face of Ashley
peering in my direction. A pistol in his other hand caught the glint of
the fire; and on that arm rested another hand--a slim, white hand, with
a jewel sparkling on one finger. Dimly I made out the slender figure of
a woman; her face was like a pale blossom in the gloom. "Yes, it's you, all right," Ashley grunted. "What are you doing here?" "I came to warn Brent about Tope Braxton," I answered shortly; I do not
relish being called on to account for my actions to anybody. "You've
heard about it, naturally. If I'd known you were in town, it would have
saved me a trip. What are you-all doing on foot?" "Our horses ran away a short distance back," he answered. "There was
a dead negro in the trail. But that's not what frightened the horses. When we got out to investigate, they snorted and wheeled and bolted
with the rig. We had to come on on foot. It's been a pretty nasty
experience. From the looks of the negro I judge a pack of wolves killed
him, and the scent frightened the horses. We've been expecting an
attack any minute." "Wolves don't hunt in packs and drag down human beings in these woods. It was a man that killed Jim Tike." *       *       *       *       *

In the waning glow of the match Ashley stood staring at me in
amazement, and then I saw the astonishment ebb from his countenance and
horror grow there. Slowly his color ebbed, leaving his bronzed face as
ashy as that of his master had been. The match went out, and we stood
silent. "Well," I said impatiently, "speak up, man! Who's the lady with you?" "She's Mr. Brent's niece." The answer came tonelessly through dry lips. "I am Gloria Brent!" she exclaimed in a voice whose cultured accent was
not lost in the fear that caused it to tremble. "Uncle Richard wired
for me to come to him at once----"

"I've seen the wire," Ashley muttered. "You showed it to me. But
I don't know how he sent it. He hasn't been to the village, to my
knowledge, in months." "I came on from New York as fast as I could!" she exclaimed. "I can't
understand why the telegram was sent to me, instead of to somebody else
in the family----"

"You were always your uncle's favorite, Miss," said Ashley. "Well, when I got off the boat at the village just before nightfall,
I found Ashley, just getting ready to drive home. He was surprized to
see me, but of course he brought me on out; and then--that--that dead
man----"

She seemed considerably shaken by the experience. It was obvious that
she had been raised in a very refined and sheltered atmosphere.