As if to underline that, Barford drew a flintlock pistol from his belt. It was an over-and-under affair, with a bullet in the top barrel and a charge of buckshot in the lower one. Percussion revolvers could fire many more rounds, but at short range a piece like that one would kill a man quite nicely. "Now you come along with me. We'll stash you away till tomorrow mornin'. Don't do anything stupid, or I'll be out even more jack."

"What about me?" Frederick asked bitterly as he got to his feet.

"Hey, I wish you didn't do it," his master said. "But you did, so this is what you get. Step lively-but not too lively. You don't want to know how good a load of double-aught buck'll ventilate your carcass. Believe you me, you don't."

Frederick did believe him. A bullet as fat as a finger wouldn't do a body any good, either.

Tied to the whipping post. The plantation had one. Frederick couldn't imagine a plantation without one. But it didn't get used much. Yes, Henry Barford might have made a much crueler master. Which, of course, did Frederick not an eagle's worth of good, or even a cent's.

I should have tried to run away last night, he thought as the overseer stripped the shirt off his back and shackled his wrists to the post. But the slave cabin where they'd stuck him was fixed up to make it next to impossible-and it had been guarded, too.

House slaves and field hands watched the proceedings with wide eyes. Frederick didn't want to think about the expression on Helen's face. And he especially didn't want to think about the expression on Clotilde Barford's. He understood Helen's anguish. But the master's wife looked as if she was right on the point of reaching a climax. Would she, when the lash began to bite? Frederick feared he'd be too busy to notice.

After he'd been manacled, Henry Barford slipped a thick piece of leather into his mouth-cut from a belt, or maybe from a harness. "Bite down on that there," the master said. "It's supposed to help a little."