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.

“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.”