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.