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.