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
miserab