“The doctor?” I questioned in surprise, my voice sounding strange and far away.  “Have I been here long?”

“Goin’ on ‘bout ten days, sah.  Yer was powerful bad hurt an’ out o’ yer head, I reckon.”

“What was it that happened?  Did some one shoot me?”

The negro scratched his head, shuffling his bare feet uneasily on the dirt floor.

“Yas, sah, Mister Knox,” he admitted with reluctance.  “I’s sure powerful sorry, sah, but I was de boy whut plugged yer.  Yer see, sah, it done happened dis-a-way,” and his black face registered genuine distress.  “Thar’s a mean gang o’ white folks ’round yere thet’s took it inter their heads ter lick every free nigger, an’ when yer done come up ter my door in de middle ob de night, a cussin’, an’ a-threatenin’ fer ter break in, I just nat’larly didn’t wanter be licked, an’—­an’ so I blazed away.  I’s powerful sorry ’bout it now, sah.”

“No doubt it was more my fault than yours.  You are a free negro, then?”

“Yas, sah.  I done belong onct ter Colonul Silas Carlton, sah, but afore he died, just because I done saved his boy frum drownin’ in de ribber, de ol’ Colonul he set me free, an’ give me a patch o’ lan’ ter raise corn on.”

“What is your name?”

“Pete, sah.  Free Pete is whut mostly de white folks call me.”  He laughed, white teeth showing and the whites of his eyes.  “Yer see, thar am a powerful lot o’ Petes round ’bout yere, sah.”

I drew a deep breath, conscious of weakness as I endeavored to change position.

“All right, Pete; now I want to understand things clearly.  You shot me, supposing I was making an assault on you.  Your bullet lodged in my shoulder.  What happened then?”

“Well, after a while, sah, thar wan’t no mor’ noise, an’ I reckoned I’d either done hit yer er else ye’d run away.  An’ thar ye wus, sah, a lyin’ on yer back like ye wus ded.  Just so soon as I saw ye, I know’d as how ye never wus no nigger-hunter, but a stranger in des yere parts.  So I dragged ye inside de cabin, an’ washed up yer hurts.  But ye never got no bettah, so I got skeered, an’ went hoofin’ it down fer de docthar at Beaucaire Landin’, sah, an’ when he cum back along wid me he dug the bullet outer yer shoulder, an’ left som truck fer me ter giv’ yer.  He’s done been yere three times, sah.”

“From Beaucaire Landing—­is that a town?”

“A sorter a town, sah; ’bout four miles down ribber.”

The mentioning of this familiar word brought back instantly to my darkened understanding all those main events leading up to my presence in this neighborhood.  Complete memory returned, every separate incident sweeping through my brain—­Kirby, Carver, the fateful game of cards in the cabin of the Warrior, the sudden death of the Judge, the mob anger I sought to curb, the struggle on deck, my being thrown overboard, and the danger threatening the two innocent daughters of Beaucaire.  And I had actually been lying in this negro hut, burning up with fever, helplessly delirious, for ten days.  What had already occurred in that space of time?  What villainy had been concocted and carried out?  What more did the negro know?—­something surely, for now I remembered he had addressed me by name.