LAW AT BALAAM'S CROSS-ROADS


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.