," Val backed up Ricky. "You must understand, Lucy,
that we don't have much money and we can't pay for--"

"Pay fo'!" Lucy's indignant sniff reduced him to his extremely
unimportant place. "We's not talkin' 'bout pay workin', Mistuh
Ralestone. Letty-Lou don' git no pay but her eatments. 'Co'se, effen
Miss 'Chanda wanna give her some ole clo's now an' den, she kin tak'
dem. Letty-Lou, she don' hav' to git her a pay-work job, her pappy mak's
him a good livin'. But Miss 'Chanda ain' a-goin' to tak' keer dis big
hous' all by herself wit' her lil' han's dere. We's Ralestone folks.
Letty-Lou, yo' gits on youah ap'on an' gits to work."

"But we can't let her," Ricky raised her last protest.

"Miss 'Chanda, we's Ralestone folks. Mah gran' pappy Bob was own man to
Massa Miles Ralestone. He fit in de wah longside o' Massa Miles. An' wen
de wah was done finish'd, dem two com' home to-gethah. Den Massa Miles,
he call mah gran'pappy in an' say, 'Bob, yo'all is free an' I'se a
ruinated man. Heah is fiv' dollahs gol' money an' yo' kin hav' youah
hoss.' An' Bob, he say, 'Cap'n Miles, dese heah Yankees done said I'se
free but dey ain't done said dat I ain't a Ralestone man. W'at time does
yo'all wan' breakfas' in de mornin'?' An' wen Massa Miles wen' no'th to
mak' his fo'tune, he told Bob, 'Bob, I'se leavin' dis heah hous' in
youah keer.' An', Miss 'Chanda, we done look aftah Pirate's Haven evah
since, mah gran'pappy, mah pappy, Sam an' me."

Ricky held out her hand. "I'm sorry, Lucy. You see, we don't understand
very well, we've been away so long."

Lucy touched Ricky's hand and then, for all her weight, bobbed a curtsy.
"Dat's all right, Miss 'Chanda, yo' is ouah folks."

Letty-Lou stayed.

CHAPTER IV

PISTOLS FOR TWO--COFFEE FOR ONE

Val braced himself against the back of the roadster's seat and struggled
to hold the car to a road which was hardly more than a cart track. Twice
since Ricky and he had left Pirate's Haven they had narrowly escaped
being bogged in the mud which had worked up through the thin crust of
gravel on the surface.

To the south lay the old cypress swamps, dark glens of rotting wood and
sprawling vines. A spur of this unsavory no-man's land ran close along
the road, and looking into it one could almost believe, fancied Val, in
the legends told by the early French explorers concerning the giant
monsters who were supposed to haunt the swamps and wild lands at the
mouth of the Mississippi. He wou