“Marse Erskine!” he gasped. It was Ephraim, the boy who had led Barbara’s white ponies out long, long ago, now a tall, muscular lad with an ebony face and dazzling teeth. “Whut you doin’ hyeh, suh? Whar’ yo’ hoss? Gawd, I’se sutn’ly glad to see yuh.” Erskine pointed to an oak.
“Right by that tree. Put him in the stable and feed him.”
The negro shook his head.
“No, suh. I’ll take de feed down to him. Too many redcoats messin’ round heah. You bettah go in de back way—dey might see yuh.”
“How is Miss Barbara?”
The negro’s eyes shifted.
“She’s well. Yassuh, she’s well as common.”
“Wasn’t one of those soldiers who just rode away Mr. Dane Grey?”
The negro hesitated.
“Yassuh.”