“We're makin' straight for the old Powis settlement,” was answered. “Nothin' but niggers have lived there since the war, an' that nigger's there, I'll bet.”
“That's so,” the sheriff said. “About how many niggers live there now?”
“There ain't more than half a dozen cabins left now. We can easy manage that many.”
It was a long rough ride, and in spite of their rapid pace it was some time after midnight before they saw the clearing where clustered the few cabins left of the plantation quarters of a well-known place, which in its day had yielded wealth to its owners. The moon was very bright, and, save for the sound of the horses' feet, the silence was intense.
“Look sharp,” the sheriff said; “that nigger ain't sleepin' much if he's here, and he might try to slip off.”
The dogs were going faster now, and yelping a little.
“Keep up, boys!” and the sheriff spurred his horse.
In a few minutes they thundered into the little settlement, where the dogs were already barking and leaping against a close-shut door. Frightened black faces began to peer out. Low exclamations and guttural ejaculations were heard as the armed men scattered, one to each cabin, while the sheriff hammered at the door where the dogs were jumping.
“It's the sheriff!” he called, “come to get Abram Washington. Bring him out and you kin go back to your beds. We're all armed, and nobody need to try runnin'.”
The door opened cautiously, and an old negro looked out. “Abram's my son, Mr. Partin,” he said, “an' 'fo' Gawd he ent yer.”