“I b'lieve Judge More will,” the recalcitrant admitted, and rode on. “But,” he added, “if I know Mr. John Morris, that nigger's safe to die one way or another.” They rode more rapidly now, as the dogs had quickened their pace. The moon had risen, and the riding, for men who hunted recklessly, was not bad. Through woods and across fields, over fences and streams, down by-paths and old roads, they followed the little dogs. “We're makin' straight for the next county,” the sheriff said. “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.” “No lyin', old man; the dogs brought us straight here. Don't make me burn the house down; open the door.” The door was closing, when the sheriff, springing from his horse, forced it steadily back. A shot came from within, but it ranged wild, and in an instant the sheriff's pistol covered the open room, where a smouldering fire gave light. Two of the men followed him, and one, making for the fire, pushed it into a blaze, which revealed a group of negroes--an old man, a young woman, some children, and a young man crouching behind with a gun in his hand. The sheriff walked straight up to the young man, whose teeth were chattering. “I arrest you,” he said; “come on.” “That's the feller,” confirmed one of the guard; “I've seen him at Mr. Morris's place.”