Captain Murrell had established himself at Balaam's Cross Roads. He was supposed to be interested in the purchase of a plantation, and in company with Crenshaw visited the numerous tracts of land which the merchant owned; but though he professed delight with the country, he was plainly in no haste to become committed to any one of the several propositions Crenshaw was eager to submit. Later, and still in the guise of a prospective purchaser, he met Bladen, who also dealt extensively in land, and apparently if anything could have pleased him more than the region about the Cross Roads it was the country adjacent to Fayetteville.
From the first he had assiduously cultivated his acquaintance with the new owners of the Barony. He was now on the best of terms with Nat Ferris, and it was at the Barony that he lounged away his evenings, gossiping and smoking with the planter on the wide veranda.
“The Barony would have suited me,” he told Bladen one day. They had just returned from an excursion into the country and were seated in the lawyer's office.
“You say your father was a friend of the old general's?” said Bladen.
“Years ago, in the north—yes,” answered Murrell.
“Odd, isn't it, the way he chose to spend the last years of his life, shut off like that and seeing no one?”
Murrell regarded the lawyer in silence for a moment out of his deeply sunk eyes.
“Too bad about the boy,” he said at length slowly.
“How do you mean, Captain?” asked Bladen.
“I mean it's a pity he has no one except Yancy to look after him,” said Murrell, but Bladen showed no interest and Murrell went on. “Don't you reckon he must have touched General Quintard's life mighty close at some point?”
“Well, if so, it eluded me,” said Bladen. “I went through General Quintard's papers and they contained no clue to the boy's identity that I could discover. Fact is, the general didn't leave much beyond an old account-book or two; I imagine that before his death he destroyed the bulk of his private papers; it looked as if he'd wished to break with the past. His mind must have been affected.”
“Has Yancy any legal claim on the boy?” inquired Murrell.
“No, certainly not; the boy was merely left with Yancy because Crenshaw didn't know what else to do with him.”
“Get possession of him, and if I don't buy land here I'll take him West with me,” said Murrell quietly. Bladen gave him a swift, shrewd glance, but Murrell, smiling and easy, met it frankly. “Come,” he said, “it's a pity he should grow up wild in the pine woods—get him away from Yancy—I am' willing to spend five hundred dollars on this if necessary.”
“As a matter of sentiment?”
“As a matter of sentiment.”
Bladen considered. He was not averse to making five hundred dollars, but he was decidedly averse to letting slip any chance to secure a larger sum. It flashed in upon him that Murrell had uncovered the real purpose of his visit to North Carolina; his interest in land had been merely a subterfuge.
“Well?” said Murrell.
“I'll have to think your proposition over,” said Bladen.
The immediate result of this conversation was that within twenty-four hours a man driving two horses hitched to a light buggy arrived at Scratch Hill in quest of Bob Yancy, whom he found at dinner and to whom he delivered a letter. Mr. Yancy was profoundly impressed by the attention, for holding the letter at arm's length, he said,
“Well, sir, I've lived nigh on to forty years, but I never got a piece of writing befo'—never, sir. People, if they was close by, spoke to me, if at a distance they hollered, but none of 'em ever wrote.” After gazing at the written characters with satisfaction Mr. Yancy made a taper of the letter and lit his pipe, which he puffed meditatively. “Sonny, when you grow up you must learn so you can send writings to yo' Uncle Bob fo' him to light his pipe with.”
“What was in the paper, Uncle Bob?” asked Hannibal.
“Writin',” said Mr. Yancy, and smoked.
“What did the writin' say, Uncle Bob?” insisted the boy.
“It was private,” said Mr. Yancy, “very private.”
“What's your answer?” demanded the stranger.
“That's private, too,” said Mr. Yancy. “You tell him I'll be monstrous glad to talk it over with him any time he fancies to come out here.”
“He said something about some one I was to carry back with me,” objected the man.
“Who said that?” asked Mr. Yancy.
“Bladen did.”
“How's a body to know who yore talking about unless you name him?” said Yancy severely.
“Well, what am I to tell him?”
“It's a free country and I got no call to dictate. You-all can tell him whatever you like.” Further than this Mr. Yancy would not commit himself, and the man went as he came.
The next day Yancy had occasion to visit Balaam's Cross Roads. Ordinarily Hannibal would have gone with him, but he was engaged in digging out a groundhog's hole with Oglethorpe Bellamy, grandson of Uncle Sammy Bellamy, the patriarch of Scratch Hill. Mr. Yancy forbore to interrupt this enterprise which he considered of some educational value, since the ground-hog's hole was an old one and he was reasonably certain that a family of skunks had taken possession of it. When Yancy reached the Cross Roads, Crenshaw gave him a disquieting opinion as to the probable contents of his letter, for he himself had heard from Bladen that he had decided to assume the care of the boy.
“So you reckon it was that—” said Yancy, with a deep breath.
“It's a blame outrage, Bob, fo' him to act like this!” said the merchant with heat.
“When do you reckon he's going to send fo' him?” asked Yancy.
“Whenever the notion strikes him.”
“What about my having notions too?” inquired Yancy, flecked into passion, and bringing his fist down on the counter with a crash.
“You surely ain't going to oppose him, Bob?”
“Does he say when he's going to send fo' my nevvy?”
“He says it will be soon.”
“You take care of my mule, Mr. John,” said Yancy, and turned his back on his friend.
“I reckon Bladen will have the law on his side, Bob!”
“The law be damned—I got what's fair on mine, I don't wish fo' better than that,” exclaimed Yancy, over his shoulder. He strode from the store and started down the sandy road at a brisk run. Miserable forebodings of an impending tragedy leaped up within him, and the miles were many that lay between him and the Hill.
“He'll just naturally bust the face off the fellow Bladen sends!” thought Crenshaw, staring after his friend.
That run of Bob Yancy's was destined to become a classic in the annals of the neighborhood. Ordinarily a man walking briskly might cover the distance between the Cross Roads and the Hill in two hours. He accomplished it in less than an hour, and before he reached the branch that flowed a full quarter of a mile from his cabin he was shouting Hannibal's name as he ran. Then as he breasted the slope he came within sight of a little group in his own dooryard. Saving only Uncle Sammy Bellamy, the group resolved itself into the women and children of the Hill, but there was one small figure he missed, and the color faded from his cheeks while his heart stood still. The patriarch hurried toward him, leaning on his cane, while his grandson clung to the skirts of his coat, weeping bitterly.
“They've took your nevvy, Bob!” he cried, in a high, thin voice.
“Who's took him?” asked Yancy hoarsely. He paused and glanced from one to another of the little group.
“Hit were Dave Blount. Get your gun, Bob, and go after him—kill the miserable sneaking cuss!” cried Uncle Sammy, who believed in settling all difficulties by bloodshed as befitted a veteran of the first war with England, he having risen to the respectable rank of sergeant in a company of Morgan's riflemen; while at sixty-odd in '12, when there was recruiting at the Cross Roads, his son had only been able to prevent his tendering his services to his country by hiding his trousers. “Fetch his rifle, some of you fool women!” cried Uncle Sammy. “By the Fayetteville Road, Bob, not ten minutes ago—you can cut him off at Ox Road forks!”
Yancy breathed a sigh of relief. The situation was not entirely desperate, for, as Uncle Sammy said, he could reach the Ox Road forks before Blount possibly could, by going as the crow flies through the pine woods.
“Hit wouldn't have happened if there'd been a man on the Hill, but there was nothing but a passel of women about the place. I heard the boys crying when Dave Blount lifted your nevvy into the buggy,” said Uncle Sammy; “all I could do was to cuss him across two fields. I hope you blow his hide full of holes!” for a rifle had been placed in Yancy's hands.
“Thank you-all kindly,” said Yancy, and turning away he struck off through the pine woods. A brisk walk of twenty minutes brought him to the Ox Road forks, as it was called, where he could plainly distinguish the wheel and hoof marks left by the buggy and team as it went to Scratch Hill, but there was only the single track.
This important point being settled, sense of sweet peace stole in upon Yancy's spirit. He stood his rifle against a tree, lit his pipe with flint and steel, and rested comfortably by the wayside. He had not long to wait, for presently the buggy hove in sight; whereupon he coolly knocked the ashes from his pipe, pocketed it, and prepared for action. As the buggy came nearer he recognized his ancient enemy in the person of the man who sat at Hannibal's side, and stepping nimbly into the road seized the horses by their bits. At sight of him Hannibal shrieked his name in an ecstasy of delight.
“Uncle Bob—Uncle Bob—” he, cried.
“Yes, it's Uncle Bob. You can light down, Nevvy. I reckon you've rid far enough,” said Yancy pleasantly.
“Leggo them horses!” said Mr. Blount, recovering somewhat from the effect of Yancy's sudden appearance.
“Light down, Nevvy,” said Yancy, still pleasantly. Blount turned to the boy as if to interfere. “Don't you put the weight of yo' finger on the boy, Blount!” warned Yancy. “Light down, Hannibal!”
Hannibal instantly availed himself of the invitation. At the same moment Blount struck at Yancy with his whip and his horses reared wildly, thinking the blow meant for them. Seeing that the boy had reached the ground in safety, Yancy relaxed his hold on the team, which instantly plunged forward. Then as the buggy swept past him he made a dexterous grab at Blount and dragged him out over the wheels into the road, where, for the second time in his life, he proceeded to fetch Mr. Blount a smack in the jaw. This he followed up with other smacks variously distributed about his countenance.
“You'll sweat for this, Bob Yancy!” cried Blount, as he vainly sought to fend off the blows.
“I'm sweating now—scandalous,” said Mr. Yancy, taking his unhurried satisfaction of the other. Then with a final skilful kick he sent Mr. Blount sprawling. “Don't let me catch you around these diggings again, Dave Blount, or I swear to God I'll be the death of you!”
Hannibal rode home through the pine woods in triumph on his Uncle Bob's mighty shoulders.
“Did you get yo' ground-hog, Nevvy?” inquired Mr. Yancy presently when they had temporarily exhausted the excitement of Hannibal's capture and recovery.
“It weren't a ground-hog, Uncle Bob—it were a skunk!”
“Think of that!” murmured Mr. Yancy.
But Mr. Yancy was only at the beginning of his trouble. Three days later there appeared on the borders of Scratch Hill a lank gentleman armed with a rifle, while the butts of two pistols protruded from the depths of his capacious coat pockets. He made his presence known by whooping from the edge of the branch, and his whoops shaped themselves into the name of Yancy. It was Charley Balaam, old Squire Balaam's nephew. The squire lived at the crossroads to which his family had given its name, and dispensed the little law that found its way into that part of the county. The whoops finally brought Yancy to his cabin door.
“Can I see you friendly, Bob Yancy?” Balaam demanded with the lungs of a stentor, sheltering himself behind the thick bole of a sweetgum, for he observed that Yancy held his rifle in the crook of his arm and had no wish to offer his person as a target to the deadly aim of the Scratch Hiller who was famous for his skill.
“I reckon you can, Charley Balaam, if you are friendly,” said Yancy.
“I'm a family man, Bob, and I ask you candid, do you feel peevish?”
“Not in particular,” and Yancy put aside his rifle.
“I'm a-going to trust you, Bob,” said Balaam. And forsaking the shelter of the sweetgum he shuffled up the slope.
“How are you, Charley?” asked Yancy, as they shook hands.
“Only just tolerable, Bob. You've been warranted—Dave Blount swore hit on to you.” He displayed a sheet of paper covered with much writing and decorated with a large seal. Yancy viewed this formidable document with respect, but did not offer to take it.
“Read it,” he said mildly. Balaam scratched his head.
“I don't know that hit's my duty to do that, Bob. Hit's my duty to serve it on to you. But I can tell you what's into hit, leavin' out the law—which don't matter nohow.”
At this juncture Uncle Sammy's bent form emerged from the path that led off through the woods in the direction of the Bellamy cabin. With the patriarch was a stranger. Now the presence of a stranger on Scratch Hill was an occurrence of such extraordinary rarity that the warrant instantly became a matter of secondary importance.
“Howdy, Charley. Here, Bob Yancy, you shake hands with Bruce Carrington,” commanded Uncle Sammy. At the name both Yancy and Balaam manifested a quickened interest. They saw a man in the early twenties, clean-limbed and broad-shouldered, with a handsome face and shapely head. “Yes, sir, hit's a grandson of Tom Carrington that used to own the grist-mill down at the Forks. Yo're some sort of wild-hog kin to him, Bob—yo' mother was a cousin to old Tom. Her family was powerful upset at her marrying a Yancy. They say Tom cussed himself into a 'pleptic fit when the news was fetched him.”
“Where you located at, Mr. Carrington?” asked Yancy. But Carrington was not given a chance to reply. Uncle Sammy saved him the trouble.
“Back in Kentucky. He tells me he's been follerin' the water. What's the name of that place where Andy Jackson fit the British?”
“New Orleans,” prompted Carrington good naturedly.
“That's hit—he takes rafts down the river to New Orleans, then he comes back on ships to Baltimore, or else he hoofs it no'th overland.” Uncle Sammy had acquired a general knowledge of the stranger's habits and pursuits in an incredibly brief space of time. “He wants to visit the Forks,” he added.
“I'm shortly goin' that way myself, Mr. Carrington, and I'll be pleased of your company—but first I got to get through with Bob Yancy,” said Balaam, and again he produced the warrant. “If agreeable to you, Bob, I'll ask Uncle Sammy, as a third party friendly to both, to read this here warrant,” he said.
“Who's been a-warrantin' Bob Yancy?” cried Uncle Sammy, with shrill interest.
“Dave Blount has.”
“I knowed hit—I knowed he'd try to get even!” And Uncle Sammy struck his walking-stick sharply on the packed earth of Yancy's dooryard. “What's the charge agin you, Bob?”
“Read hit,” said Balaam. “Why, sho'—can't you read plain writin', Uncle Sammy?” for the patriarch was showing signs of embarrassment.
“If you gentlemen will let me—” said Carrington pleasantly. Instantly there came a relieved chorus from the three in one breath.
“Why, sure!”
“Would my spectacles help you any, Mr. Carrington?” asked Uncle Sammy officiously.
“No, I guess not.”
“They air powerful seein' glasses, and I'm aweer some folks read a heap easier with spectacles than without 'em.” After a moment's scrutiny of the paper that Balaam had thrust in his hand, Carrington began:
“To the Sheriff of the County of Cumberland: Greetings.”
“He means me,” explained Balaam. “He always makes 'em out to the sheriff, but they are returned to me and I serve 'em.” Carrington resumed his reading,
“Whereas, It is alleged that a murderous assault has been committed on one David Blount, of Fayetteville, by Robert Yancy, of Scratch Hill, said Blount sustaining numerous bruises and contusions, to his great injury of body and mind; and, whereas, it is further alleged that said murderous assault was wholly unprovoked and without cause, you will forthwith take into custody the person of said Yancy, of Scratch Hill, charged with having inflicted the bruises and contusions herein set forth in the complaint of said Blount, and instantly bring him into our presence to answer to these various and several crimes and misdemeanors. You are empowered to seize said Yancy wherever he may be at; whether on the hillside or in the valley, eating or sleeping, or at rest.
“De Lancy Balaam, Magistrate.
“Fourth District, County of Cumberland, State of North Carolina. Done this twenty-fourth day of May, 1835.
“P.S. Dear Bob: Dave Blount says he ain't able to chew his meat. I thought you'd be glad to know.”
Smilingly Carrington folded the warrant and handed it to Yancy.
“Well, what are you goin' to do about hit, Bob?” inquired Balaam.
“Maybe I'd ought to go. I'd like to oblige the squire,” said Yancy.
“When does this here co't set?” demanded Uncle Sammy.
“Hit don't do much else since he's took with the lumbago,” answered Balaam somewhat obscurely.
“How are the squire, Charley?” asked Yancy with grave concern.
“Only just tolerable, Bob.”
“What did he tell you to do?” and Yancy knit his brows.
“Seems like he wanted me to find out what you'd do. He recommended I shouldn't use no violence.”
“I wouldn't recommend you did, either,” assented Yancy, but without heat.
“I'd get shut of this here law business, Bob,” advised Uncle Sammy.
“Suppose I come to the Cross Roads this evening?”
“That's agreeable,” said the deputy, who presently departed in company with Carrington.
Some hours later the male population of Scratch Hill, with a gravity befitting the occasion, prepared itself to descend on the Cross Roads and give its support to Mr. Yancy in his hour of need. To this end those respectable householders armed themselves, with the idea that it might perhaps be necessary to correct some miscarriage of justice. They were shy enough and timid enough, these remote dwellers in the pine woods, but, like all wild things, when they felt they were cornered they were prone to fight; and in this instance it was clearly iniquitous that Bob Yancy's right to smack Dave Blount should be questioned. That denied what was left of human liberty. But beyond this was a matter of even greater importance: they felt that Yancy's possession of the boy was somehow involved.
Yancy had declared himself simply but specifically on this point. Law or no law, he would kill whoever attempted to take the boy from him, and Scratch Hill believing to a man that in so doing he would be well within his rights, was prepared to join in the fray. Even Uncle Sammy, who had not been off the Hill in years, announced that no consideration of fatigue would keep him away from the scene of action and possible danger, and Yancy loaned him his mule and cart for the occasion. When the patriarch was helped to his seat in the ancient vehicle he called loudly for his rifle.
“Why, pap, what do you want with a weapon?” asked his son indulgently. “If there air shootin' I may take a hand in it. Now you-all give me a fair hour's start with this mule critter of Bob's, and if nothin' busts I'll be at the squire's as soon as the best of you.”
Uncle Sammy was given the time allowance he asked and then Scratch Hill wended its way down the path to the branch and the highroad. Yancy led the straggling procession, with the boy trotting by his side, his little sunburned fist clasped in the man's great hand. He, too, was armed. He carried the old spo'tin' rifle he had brought from the Barony, and suspended from his shoulder by a leather thong was the big horn flask with its hickory stopper his Uncle Bob had fashioned for him, while a deerskin pouch held his bullets and an extra flint or two. He understood that beyond those smacks he had seen his Uncle Bob fetch Mr. Blount, he himself was the real cause of this excitement, that somebody, it was not plain to his mind just who, was seeking to get him away from Scratch Hill, and that a mysterious power called the Law would sooner or later be invoked to this dread end. But he knew this much clearly, nothing would induce him to leave his Uncle Bob! And his thin little fingers nestled warmly against the man's hardened palm. Yancy looked down and gave him a sunny, reassuring smile.
“It'll be all right, Nevvy,” he said gently.
“You wouldn't let 'em take me, would you, Uncle Bob?” asked the child in a fearful whisper.
“Such an idea ain't entered my head. And this here warranting is just some of Dave Blount's cussedness.”
“Uncle Bob, what'll they do to you?”
“Well, I reckon the squire'll feel obliged to do one of two things. He'll either fine me or else he won't.”
“What'll you do if he fines you?”
“Why, pay the fine, Nevvy—and then lick Dave Blount again for stirring up trouble. That's the way we most in general do. I mean to say give him a good licking, and that'll make him stop his foolishness.”
“Wasn't that a good licking you gave him on the Ox Road, Uncle Bob?” asked Hannibal.
“It was pretty fair fo' a starter, but I'm capable of doing a better job,” responded Yancy.
They overtook Uncle Sammy as he turned in at the squire's.
“I thought I'd come and see what kind of law a body gets at this here co't of yours,” the patriarch explained to Mr. Balaam, who, forgetting his lumbago, had hurried forth to greet him.
“But why did you fetch your gun, Uncle Sammy?” asked the magistrate, laughing.
“Hit were to be on the safe side, Squire. Where air them Blounts?”
“Them Blounts don't need to bother you none. There air only Dave, and he can't more than half see out of one eye to-day.”
The squire's court held its infrequent sittings in the best room of the Balaam homestead, a double cabin of hewn logs. Here Scratch Hill was gratified with a view of Mr. Blount's battered visage, and it was conceded that his condition reflected creditably on Yancy's physical prowess and was of a character fully to sustain that gentleman's reputation; for while he was notoriously slow to begin a fight, he was reputed to be even more reluctant to leave off once he had become involved in one.
“What's all this here fuss between you and Bob Yancy?” demanded the squire when he had administered the oath to Blount. Mr. Blount's statement was brief and very much to the point. He had been hired by Mr. Bladen, of Fayetteville, to go to Scratch Hill and get the boy who had been temporarily placed in Yancy's custody at the time of General Quintard's death.
“Stop just there!” cried the magistrate, leveling a pudgy finger at Blount. “This here co't is already cognizant of certain facts bearing on that p'int. The boy was left with Bob Yancy mainly because nobody else would take him. Them's the facts. Now go on!” he finished sternly.
“I only know what Bladen told me,” said Blount sullenly.
“Well, I reckon Mr. Bladen ought to feel obliged to tell the truth,” said the squire.
“He done give me the order from the judge of the co't—I was to show it to Bob Yancy—”
“Got that order?” demanded the squire sharply. With a smile, damaged, but clearly a smile, Blount produced the order. “Hmm—app'inted guardeen of the boy—” the squire was presently heard to murmur. The crowded room was very still now, and more than one pair of eyes were turned pityingly in Yancy's direction. When the long arm of the law reached out from Fayetteville, where there was a real judge and a real sheriff, it clothed itself with very special terrors. The boy looked up into Yancy's face. That tense silence had struck a chill through his heart.
“It's all right,” whispered Yancy reassuringly, smiling down upon him. And Hannibal, comforted, smiled back, and nestled his head against his Uncle Bob's side.
“Well, Mr. Blount, what did you do with this here order?” asked the squire.
“I went with it to Scratch Hill,” said Blount.
“And showed it to Bob Yancy?” asked the squire.
“No, he wa'n't there. But the boy was, and I took him in my buggy and drove off. I'd got as far as the Ox Road forks when I met Yancy—”
“What happened then?—but a body don't need to ask! Looks like the law was all you had on your side!” and the squire glanced waggishly about the room.
“I showed Yancy the order—”
“You lie, Dave Blount; you didn't!” said Yancy. “But I can't say as it would have made no difference, Squire. He'd have taken his licking just the same and I'd have had my nevvy out of that buggy!”
“Didn't he say nothing about this here order from the colt, Bob?”
“There wa'n't much conversation, Squire. I invited my nevvy to light down, and then I snaked Dave Blount out over the wheel.”
“Who struck the first blow?”
“He did. He struck at me with his buggy whip.”
“What you got to say to this, Mr. Blount?” asked the squire.
“I say I showed him the order like I said,” answered Blount doggedly. Squire Balaam removed his spectacles and leaned back in his chair.
“It's the opinion of this here co't that the whole question of assault rests on whether Bob Yancy saw the order. Bob Yancy swears he didn't see it, while Dave Blount swears he showed it to him. If Bob Yancy didn't know of the existence of the order he was clearly actin' on the idea that Blount was stealin' his nevvy, and he done what any one would have done under the circumstances. If, on the other hand, he knowed of this order from the co't, he was not only guilty of assault, but he was guilty of resistin' an officer of the co't.” The squire paused impressively. His audience drew a long breath. The impression prevailed that the case was going against Yancy, and more than one face was turned scowlingly on the fat little justice.
“Can a body drap a word here?” It was Uncle Sammy's thin voice that cut into the silence.
“Certainly, Uncle Sammy. This here co't will always admire to listen to you.”
“Well, I'd like to say that I consider that Fayetteville co't mighty officious with its orders. This part of the county won't take nothin' off Fayetteville! We don't interfere with Fayetteville, and blamed if we'll let Fayetteville interfere with us!” There was a murmur of approval. Scratch Hill remembered the rifles in its hands and took comfort.
“The Fayetteville co't air a higher co't than this, Uncle Sammy,” explained the squire indulgently.
“I'm aweer of that,” snapped the patriarch. “I've seen hit's steeple.”
“Air you finished, Uncle Sammy?” asked the squire deferentially.
“I 'low I am. But I 'low that if this here case is goin' agin Bob Yancy I'd recommend him to go home and not listen to no mo' foolishness.”
“Mr. Yancy will oblige this co't by setting still while I finish this case,” said the squire with dignity. “As I've already p'inted out, the question of veracity presents itself strongly to the mind of this here colt. Mr. Yancy has sworn to one thing, Mr. Blount to another. Now the Yancys air an old family in these parts; Mr. Blount's folks air strangers, but we don't know nothing agin them—”
“And we don't know nothing in their favor,” Uncle Sammy interjected.
“Dave's grandfather came here from Virginia about fifty years back and settled near Scratch Hill—”
“We never knowed why he left Virginia or why he came here,” said Uncle Sammy, and knowing what local feeling was, was sure he had shot a telling bolt.
“Then, about twenty-five years ago Dave's father pulled up and went to Fayetteville. Nobody ever knowed why—and I don't remember that he ever offered any explanation—” continued the squire.
“He didn't—he just left,” said Uncle Sammy.
“Consequently,” pursued the squire, somewhat vindictively, “we ain't had any time in which to form an opinion of the Blounts; but for myself, I'm suspicious of folks that keep movin' about and who don't seem able to get located permanent nowheres, who air here to-day and away tomorrow. But you can't say that of the Yancys. They air an old family in the country, and naturally this co't feels obliged to accept a Yancy's word before the word of a stranger. And in view of the fact that the defendant did not seek litigation, but was perfectly satisfied to let matters rest where they was, it is right and just that all costs should fall on the plaintiff.”
Betty Malroy had ridden into the squire's yard during the progress of the trial and when Yancy and Hannibal came from the house she beckoned the Scratch Hiller to her. She was aware that Mr. Yancy, moving along the line of least industrial resistance, might be counted of little worth in any broad scheme of life. Nat Ferris had strongly insisted on this point, as had Judith, who shared her husband's convictions; consequently, the rumors of his present difficulty had merely excited them to adverse criticism. They had been sure the best thing that could happen the boy would be his removal from Yancy's guardianship, but this was not at all her conclusion. She considered Mr. Bladen heartless and his course without justification, and she regarded Yancy's affection for the boy as in itself constituting a benefit that quite outweighed his unprogressive example.
“You are not going to lose your nephew, are you, Mr. Yancy?” she asked eagerly, when Yancy stood at her side.
“No, ma'am.” But his sense of elation was plainly tempered by the knowledge that for him the future held more than one knotty problem.
“I am very glad! I know Hannibal will be much happier with you than with any one else,” and she smiled brightly at the boy, whose small sunburned face was upturned to hers.
“I think that-a-ways myself, Miss Betty, but this trial was only for my smacking Dave Blount, who was trying to steal my nevvy,” explained Yancy.
“I hope you smacked him well and hard!” said the girl, whose mood was warlike.
“I ain't got no cause to complain, thank you,” returned Mr. Yancy pleasantly.
“I rode out to the Hill to say good-by to Hannibal and to you, but they said you were here and that the trial was today.”
Captain Murrell, with Crenshaw and the squire, came from the house, and Murrell's swarthy face lit up at sight of the girl. Yancy, sensible of the gulf that yawned between himself and what was known as “the quality,” would have yielded his place, but Betty detained him.
“Are you going away, ma'am?” he asked with concern.
“Yes—to my home in west Tennessee,” and a cloud crossed her smooth brow.
“That surely is a right big distance for you to travel, ma'am,” said Yancy, his mind opening to this fresh impression. “I reckon it's rising a hundred miles or mo',” he concluded, at a venture.
“It's almost a thousand.”
“Think of that! And you are that ca'm!” cried Yancy admiringly, as a picture of simply stupendous effort offered itself to his mind's eye. He added: “I am mighty sorry you are going. We-all here shall miss you—specially Hannibal. He just regularly pines for Sunday as it is.”
“I hope he will miss me a little—I'm afraid I want him to!” She glanced down at the boy as she spoke, and into her eyes, very clear and very blue and shaded by long dark lashes, stole a look of wistful tenderness. She noted how his little hand was clasped in Yancy's, she realized the perfect trust of his whole attitude toward this big bearded man, and she was conscious of a sudden feeling of profound respect for the Scratch Hiller.
“But ain't you ever coming back, Miss Betty?” asked Hannibal rather fearfully, smitten with the awesome sense of impermanence which dogs our footsteps.
“Oh, I hope so, dear—I wish to think so. But you see my home is not here.” She turned to Yancy, “So it is settled that he is to remain with you?”
“Not exactly, Miss Betty. You see, there's an order from the Fayetteville co't fo' me to give him up to this man Bladen.”
“But Uncle Bob says—” began Hannibal, who considered his Uncle Bob's remarks on this point worth quoting.
“Never mind what yo' Uncle Bob said,” interrupted Yancy hastily.
“Oh, Mr. Yancy, you are not going to surrender him—no matter what the court says!” cried Betty. The expression on Yancy's face was so grim and determined on the instant with the latent fire that was in him flashing from his eyes that she added quickly, “You know the law is for you as well as for Mr. Bladen!”
“I reckon I won't bother the law none,” responded Yancy briefly. “Me and my nevvy will go back to Scratch Hill and there won't be no trouble so long as they leave us be. But them Fayetteville folks want to keep away—” The fierce light slowly died out of his eyes. “It'll be all right, ma'am, and it's mighty good and kind of you fo' to feel the way you do. I'm obliged to you.”
But Betty was by no means sure of the outcome Yancy seemed to predict with such confidence. Unless Bladen abandoned his purpose, which he was not likely to do, a tragedy was clearly pending for Scratch Hill. She saw the boy left friendless, she saw Yancy the victim of his own primitive conception of justice. Therefore she said:
“I wonder you don't leave the Hill, Mr. Yancy. You could so easily go where Mr. Bladen would never find you. Haven't you thought of this?”
“That are a p'int,” agreed Yancy slowly. “Might I ask what parts you'd specially recommend?” lifting his grave eyes to hers.
“It would really be the sensible thing to do!” said Betty. “I am sure you would like West Tennessee—they say you are a great hunter.” Yancy smiled almost guiltily.
“I like a little spo't now and then yes, ma'am, I do hunt some,” he admitted.
“Miss Betty, Uncle Bob's the best shot we got! You had ought to see him shoot!” said Hannibal.
“Mr. Yancy, if you should cross the mountains, remember I live near Memphis. Belle Plain is the name of the plantation—it's not hard to find; just don't forget—Belle Plain.”
“I won't forget, and mebby you will see us there one of these days. Sho', I've seen mighty little of the world—about as far as a dog can trot it a couple of hours!”
“Just think what it will mean to Hannibal if you become involved further with Mr. Bladen.” Betty spoke earnestly, bending toward him, and Yancy understood the meaning that lay back of her words.
“I've thought of that, too,” the Scratch Hiller answered seriously. Betty glanced toward the squire and Mr. Crenshaw. They were standing near the bars that gave entrance to the lane. Murrell had left them and was walking briskly down the road toward Crenshaw's store where his horse was tied. She bent down and gave Yancy her slim white hand.
“Good-by, Mr. Yancy—lift Hannibal so that I can kiss him!” Yancy swung the child aloft. “I think you are such a nice little boy, Hannibal—you mustn't forget me!” And touching her horse lightly with the whip she rode away at a gallop.
“She sho'ly is a lady!” said Yancy, staring after her. “And we mustn't forget Memphis or Belle Plain, Nevvy.”
Crenshaw and the squire approached.
“Bob,” said the merchant, “Bladen's going to have the boy—but he made a mistake in putting this business in the hands of a fool like Dave Blount. I reckon he knows that now.”
“I reckon his next move will be to send a posse of gun-toters up from Fayetteville,” said the squire.
“That's just what he'll do,” agreed Crenshaw, and looked disturbed.
“They certainly air an unpeaceable lot—them Fayetteville folks! It's always seemed to me they had a positive spite agin this end of the county,” said the squire, and he pocketed his spectacles and refreshed himself with a chew of tobacco. “Bladen ain't actin' right, Bob. It's a year and upwards since the old general 'died. He let you go on thinking the boy was to stay with you and now he takes a notion to have him!”
“No, sir, it ain't right nor reasonable. And what's more, he shan't have him!” said Yancy, and his tone was final.
“I don't know what kind of a mess you're getting yourself into, Bob, I declare I don't!” cried Crenshaw, who felt that he was largely responsible for the whole situation.
“Looks like your neighbors would stand by you,” suggested the squire.
“I don't want them to stand by me. It'll only get them into trouble, and I ain't going to do that,” rejoined Yancy, and lapsed into momentary silence. Then he resumed meditatively, “There was old Baldy Ebersole who shot the sheriff when they tried to arrest him for getting drunk down in Fayetteville and licking the tavern-keeper—”
“Sho', there wa'n't no harm in Baldy!” said the squire, with heat. “When that sheriff come along here looking for him, I told him p'inted that Baldy said he wouldn't be arrested. A more truthful man I never knowed, and if the damn fool had taken my word he'd be living yet!”
“But you-all know what trouble killing that sheriff made fo' Baldy!” said Yancy. “He told me often he regretted it mo' than anything he'd ever done. He said it was most aggravatin' having to always lug a gun wherever he went. And what with being suspicious of strangers when he wa'n't suspicious by nature, he reckoned in time it would just naturally wear him out.”
“He stood it until he was risin' eighty,” said Crenshaw.
“His, father lived to be ninety, John, and as spry an old gentleman as a body'd wish to see. I don't uphold no man for committing murder, but I do consider the sheriff should have waited on Baldy to get mo' reasonable, like he'd done in time if they'd just let him alone—but no, sir, he reckoned the law wa'n't no respecter of persons. He was a fine-appearin' man, that sheriff, and just elected to office. I remember we had to leave off the tail-gate to my cart to accommodate him. Yes, sir, they pretty near pestered Baldy into his grave—and seein' that pore old fellow pottering around year after year always toting a gun was the patheticest sight I most ever seen, and I made up my mind then if it ever seemed necessary for me to kill a man, I'd leave the county or maybe the state,” concluded the squire.
“Don't you reckon it would be some better to leave the state afo' you. done the killing?” suggested Yancy.
“Well, a man might. I don't know but what he'd be justified in getting shut of his troubles like that.”
When Betty Malroy rode away from Squire Balaam's Murrell galloped after her. Presently she heard the beat of his horse's hoofs as he came pounding along the sandy road and glanced back over her shoulder. With an exclamation of displeasure she reined in her horse. She had not wished to ride to the Barony with him, yet she had no desire to treat him with discourtesy, especially as the Ferrises were disposed to like him. Murrell quickly gained a place at her side.
“I suppose Ferris is at the Barony?” he said, drawing his horse down to a walk.
“I believe he is,” said Betty with a curt little air.
“May I ride with you?” he gave her a swift glance. She nodded indifferently and would have urged her horse into a gallop again, but he made a gesture of protest. “Don't—or I shall think you are still running away from me,” he said with a short laugh.
“Were you at the trial?” she asked. “I am glad they didn't get Hannibal away from Yancy.”
“Oh, Yancy will have his hands full with that later—so will Bladen,” he added significantly. He studied her out of those deeply sunken eyes of his in which no shadow of youth lingered, for men such as he reached their prime early, and it was a swiftly passing splendor. “Ferris tells me you are going to West Tennessee?” he said at length.
“Yes.”
“I know your half-brother, Tom Ware—I know him very well.” There was another brief silence.
“So you know Tom?” she presently observed, and frowned slightly. Tom was her guardian, and her memories of him were not satisfactory. A burly, unshaven man with a queer streak of meanness through his character. She had not seen him since she had been sent north to Philadelphia, and their intercourse had been limited to infrequent letters. His always smelled of strong, stale tobacco, and the well-remembered whine in the man's voice ran through his written sentences.
“You've spent much of your time up North?” suggested Murrell.
“Four years. I've been at school, you know. That's where I met Judith.”
“I hope you'll like West Tennessee. It's still a bit raw compared with what you've been accustomed to in the North. You haven't been back in all those four years?” Betty shook her head. “Nor seen Tom—nor any one from out yonder?” For some reason a little tinge of color had crept into Betty's cheeks. “Will you let me renew our acquaintance at Belle Plain? I shall be in West Tennessee before the summer is over; probably I shall leave here within a week,” he said, bending toward her. His glance dwelt on her face and the pliant lines of her figure, and his sense swam. Since their first meeting the girl's beauty had haunted and allured him; with his passionate sense of life he was disposed to these violent fancies, and he had a masterful way with women just as he had a masterful way with men. Now, however, he was aware that he was viewed with entire indifference. His vanity, which was his whole inner self, was hurt, and from the black depths of his nature his towering egotism flashed out lawless and perverted impulses. “I must tell you that I am not of your sort, Miss Malroy—” he continued hurriedly. “My people were plain folk out of the mountains. For what I am I have no one to thank but myself. You must be aware of the prejudices of the planter class, for it is your class. Perhaps I haven't been quite frank at the Barony—I felt it was asking too much when you were there. That was a door I didn't want closed to me!”
“I imagine you will be welcome at Belle Plain. You are Tom's friend.” Murrell bit his lip, and then laughed as his mind conjured up a picture of the cherished Tom. Suddenly he reached out and rested his hand on hers. He lived in the shadow of chance not always kind, his pleasures were intoxicating drafts snatched in the midst of dangers, and here was youth, sweet and perfect, that only needed awakening.
“Betty—if I might think—” he began, but his tongue stumbled. His love-making was usually of a savage sort, but some quality in the girl held him in check. The words he had spoken many times before forsook him. Betty drew away from him, an angry color on her cheeks and an angry light in her eyes. “Forgive me, Betty!” muttered Murrell, but his heart beat against his ribs, and passion sent its surges through him. “Don't you know what I'm trying to tell you?” he whispered. Betty gathered up her reins. “Not yet—” he cried, and again he rested a heavy hand on hers. “Don't you know what's kept me here? It was to be near you—only that—I've been waiting for this chance to speak. It was long in coming, but it's here now—and it's mine!” he exulted. His eyes burned with a luminous fire, he urged his horse nearer and they came to a halt. “Look here—I'll follow you North—I swear I love you—say I may!”
“Let me go—let me go!” cried Betty indignantly.
“No—not yet!” he urged his horse still nearer and gathered her close. “You've got to hear me. I've loved you since the first moment I rested my eyes on you—and, by God, you shall love me in return!” He felt her struggle to free herself from his grasp with a sense of savage triumph. It was the brute force within him that conquered with women just as it conquered with men.
Bruce Carrington, on his way back to Fayetteville from the Forks, came about a turn in the road. Betty saw a tall, handsome fellow in the first flush of manhood; Carrington, an angry girl, very beautiful and very indignant, struggling in a man's grasp.
At sight of the new-comer, Murrell, with an oath, released Betty, who, striking her horse with the whip galloped down the road toward the Barony. As she fled past Carrington she bent low in her saddle.
“Don't let him follow me!” she gasped, and Carrington, striding forward, caught Murrell's horse by the bit.
“Not so fast, you!” he said coolly. The two men glared at each other for a brief instant.
“Take your hand off my horse!” exclaimed Murrell hoarsely, his mouth hot and dry with a sense of defeat.
“Can't you see she'd rather be alone?” said Carrington.
“Let go!” roared Murrell, and a murderous light shot from his eyes.
“I don't know but I should pull you out of that saddle and twist your neck!” said Carrington hotly. Murrell's face underwent a swift change.
“You're a bold fellow to force your way into a lover's quarrel,” he said quietly. Carrington's arm dropped at his side. Perhaps, after all, it was that. Murrell thrust his hand into his pocket. “I always give something to the boy who holds my horse,” he said, and tossed a coin in Carrington's direction. “There—take that for your pains!” he added. He pulled his horse about and rode back toward the cross-roads at an easy canter.
Carrington, with an angry flush on his sunburnt cheeks, stood staring down at the coin that glinted in the dusty road, but he was seeing the face of the girl, indignant, beautiful—then he glanced after Murrell.
“I reckon I ought to have twisted his neck,” he said with a deep breath.