Hutson's driver was a temporary hire from the caravan—a slave named Ed.
A man in his early thirties, thin and wiry, but experienced behind the reins.
Hutson had no complaints about his driving.
The journey had been smooth so far.
Ed was a man of few words.
He never spoke unless spoken to, his focus entirely on guiding the horses forward. The brand on his face marked him unmistakably as a slave.
Hutson had paid ten silver coins to rent Ed's service for the three-month journey—though, of course, not a single copper would ever find its way into Ed's own pocket.
Slaves were considered property, not people. Property didn't own things.
As dusk fell, the caravan slowed, coming to a halt.
Wagons repositioned, forming a makeshift defensive barrier—Hutson's included.
The travelers lit seven or eight campfires, pots bubbling over the flames as dinner was prepared.
By custom, the caravan ate only dry rations at noon—hot meals were a luxury reserved for evenings.
