“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—­”