 Recorded books presents Black Fox by Matt Braun. Narrated by me, George Waddell. CHAPTER I The wagon lurched along a rutted trail from a distance its swaying motion a mere wavering speck in the vastness of the rolling plains. Stretching to the horizon, the unbroken terrain shimmered hypnotically in the heat waves from the sun. Though hills obscured broad valleys beyond, and from the crest of any given hilltop, the viewer observed nothing more startling than an identical series of stunted elevations. Three days' journey to the west lay the trackless reaches of the true plains, a barren waste devoid of trees or vegetation. Once a man had sampled the inhospitality of that land, the undulating landscape of north-central Texas came almost as a relief. Still there was a stark emptiness to the rolling plains, which made the occasional creek or shallow bottomed river all the more appreciated. Here a man could rest in the shade of the massive oaks and woolly cottonwoods, fringing the prairie tributaries, and escape the relentless heat, too. Braced against the jarring impact of the wagon, Allen and Britt Johnson clung precariously to their seats as a team of sorrows gingerly traversed the pitted track which skirted their browses' river. Roads were as yet a luxury in the frontier regions of Texas, and when traveling by wagon, the choice between trails or cross country was determined more by habit than any real sense of convenience. Shifting in their seats as the wagon wheels struck a solid bed of rock, the two men stared wordlessly at the twisting track unraveling before them. Since they had been traveling steadily for two hours, conversation had gradually given way to the resigned silence of those who preferred to endure a jolting wagon without complaint. Occasionally they sighted a house set back away from the river, but the ramshackle dwellings hardly seemed worthy of comment. Neither of the men was especially garless at any rate, sharing a somewhat taciturn disposition. Between them a distance of some ten miles lay the juncture of Elm Creek and the browses, and after an uneventful morning on the trail it seemed apparent that nothing remarkable had happened to the settlers along the way during the winter. Lucking anything of significance to discuss, they both felt more comfortable with the silence, the quiet of strong men whose companionship had withstood the test of time and no longer required the crutch of idle conversation. Although Allen and Britt bore the same surname and both dressed in the coarse linsee of frontiersmen, the similarity between them ended there. Allen was of medium height and raw-hide lean, with the sandy hair and deep-set eyes which instantly marked unbroken generations of Anglo-Saxon heritage. When he spoke his voice betrayed the soft inflections of a native-born southerner, and something about his manner evoked the cultured gentry of magnolia-studded cotton plantations. While strangers could only surmise those who knew Allen intimately were well aware that his family had once belonged to the Southern aristocracy. The dissipations of a wasteful father who subscribed to the theory that gaming rooms and bordellos presented a greater challenge than the pastoral life ultimately brought the family to ruin. Shortly afterward the elder Johnson died from the residual effects of his debauchery and Allen resolutely determined to seek a new start for the family in the frontier. Unroot, his mother also died, and with her passing an era had ended for the once distinguished family. Of all the Johnson's Britt's life was least affected by the sudden change in fortune, for Britt was black, a former slave, and what a man had never possessed could hardly be rested from him by the caprice of fate. Born to parents who were themselves the children of slaves, his heritage was a curious blend of savage courage fused with docile servitude. As if a predator cat had been crossed with a cream-fed tammy, the mutation that resulted was neither wild nor tame, much like trained tigers who have surrendered their freedom for a warm cage and full belly, but as once a race of warriors had grown obedient to the lash and humble beyond all understanding. Unlike his fellow blacks, Britt had been graced with a master of enormous compassion. Opposed to slavery solely on the basis of his essential inhumanity, Allen found the degrading of another human being the most repugnant aspect of plantation life. On his 21st birthday, Allen inherited Britt as a manservant. He immediately renounced the legacy by declaring his newly acquired slave. Sample complete. Ready to continue?