to a heap before he had taken half a dozen steps
along it. I reined up sharply, and as I did so, heard Sam give a shrill
cry of alarm.

"Shut up, boy," I cried, "and get off and see what ails the man. He can't
hurt you."

But Sam sat in his saddle clutching at his horse's neck, his face spotted
with terror as I had seen it once before.

"What is it, Sam?" I asked impatiently.

"Good Gawd, Mas' Tom," he cried, his teeth chattering together and
cutting off his words queerly, "don' yo' see who 'tis? Don' yo'
know him?"

"Know him? No, of course not," I answered sharply. "Who is he?"

"Polete," gasped Sam. "Polete, come back aftah me," and seemed incapable
of another word.

In an instant I was off my horse and kneeling in the road beside the
fallen man. Not till then did I believe it was Polete. From a great gash
in the side of his head the blood had soaked into his hair and dried over
his face. His shirt was stained, apparently from a wound in his breast,
but most horrible of all was a circular, reeking spot on the crown of his
head from which the scalp had been stripped. It needed no second glance
to tell me that Polete had been in the hands of the Indians.

By this time Sam had partially recovered his wits, and being convinced
that it was Polete in the flesh, not in the spirit, brought some water
from a spring at the roadside. I bathed Polete's head as well as I could,
and washed the blood from his face. Tearing open his shirt, I saw that
blood was slowly welling from an ugly wound in his breast. He opened his
eyes after a moment, and stared vacantly up into my face.

"Debbils," he moaned, "debbils, t' kill a po' ole man. Ain't I said I
done gwine t' lib wid yo'? Kain't trabble fas' 'nough fo' yo'? Don'
shoot, oh, don' shoot! Ah!"

He dropped back again into the road with a groan, and tossed from side to
side. I thought he was dying, but when I dashed more water in his face,
he opened his eyes again. This time he seemed to know me.

"Is it Mas' Tom?" he gasped. "Mas' Tom what let me go?"

"Yes, Polete," I answered gently, "it's Master Tom."

"Whar am I?" he asked faintly. "Have dee got me 'gin? Dee gwine to buhn
me?"

"No, no," I said. "Nobody 's going to harm you, Polete. Where have you
been all this time?"

"In d' woods," he whispered, "hidin' in d' swamps, an' skulkin' long
aftah night. Could n' nevah sleep, Mas' Tom. When I went t' sleep, seemed
laike d' dogs was right aftah me."

His head fell b