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."
"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?"