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.

"Now see here, Pete," I began earnestly. "How did you learn what my
name was?"

"De docthar he foun' dat out, sah. I reckon' he thought maybe he ought
ter know; fearin' as how ye might die. He done looked through yer
pockets, sah, an' he took two papers whut he foun' dar away wid him.
He done tol' me as how yer wus an offercer in de army--a leftenant, er