"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.