Five minutes later a face peered cautiously into the window of what had once been Ben Davis’s cabin,—­at first an eager face, its coarseness lit up with the fire of hope; a moment later a puzzled face; then an anxious, fearful face as the man stepped away from the window and rapped at the door.

“Is Mis’ Davis home?” he asked of the woman who opened the door.

“Mis’ Davis don’ live here.  You er mistook in de house.”

“Whose house is dis?”

“It b’longs ter my husban’, Mr. Smith,—­Primus Smith.”

“’Scuse me, but I knowed de house some years ago w’en I wuz here oncet on a visit, an’ it b’longed ter a man name’ Ben Davis.”

“Ben Davis—­Ben Davis?—­oh yes, I ’member now.  Dat wuz de gen’man w’at wuz sent ter de penitenchy fer sump’n er nuther,—­sheep-stealin’, I b’lieve.  Primus,” she called, “w’at wuz Ben Davis, w’at useter own dis yer house, sent ter de penitenchy fer?”

“Hoss-stealin’,” came back the reply in sleepy accents, from the man seated by the fireplace.

The traveler went on to the next house.  A neat-looking yellow woman came to the door when he rattled the gate, and stood looking suspiciously at him.

“W’at you want?” she asked.

“Please, ma’am, will you tell me whether a man name’ Ben Davis useter live in dis neighborhood?”

“Useter live in de nex’ house; wuz sent ter de penitenchy fer killin’ a man.”

“Kin yer tell me w’at went wid Mis’ Davis?”

“Umph!  I ’s a ’spectable ‘oman, I is, en don’ mix wid dem kind er people.  She wuz ‘n’ no better ‘n her husban’.  She tuk up wid a man dat useter wuk fer Ben, an’ dey ‘re livin’ down by de ole wagon-ya’d, where no ’spectable ’oman ever puts her foot.”

“An’ de chillen?”

“De gal ’s dead.  Wuz ‘n’ no better ’n she oughter be’n.  She fell in de crick an’ got drown’; some folks say she wuz ‘n’ sober w’en it happen’.  De boy tuck atter his pappy.  He wuz ‘rested las’ week fer shootin’ a w’ite man, an’ wuz lynch’ de same night.  Dey wa’n’t none of ’em no ’count after deir pappy went ter de penitenchy.”

“What went wid de proputty?”

“Hit wuz sol’ fer de mortgage, er de taxes, er de lawyer, er sump’n,—­I don’ know w’at.  A w’ite man got it.”

The man with the bundle went on until he came to a creek that crossed the road.  He descended the sloping bank, and, sitting on a stone in the shade of a water-oak, took off his coarse brogans, unwound the rags that served him in lieu of stockings, and laved in the cool water the feet that were chafed with many a weary mile of travel.