Murrell had ridden out of the hills some hours back.  He now faced the flashing splendors of a June sunset, but along the eastern horizon the mountains rose against a somber sky.  Night was creeping into their fastnesses.  Already there was twilight in those cool valleys lying within the shadow of mighty hills.  A month and more had elapsed since Bob Yancy’s trial.  Just two days later man and boy disappeared from Scratch Hill.  This had served to rouse Murrell to the need of immediate action, but he found, where Yancy was concerned, Scratch Hill could keep a secret, while Crenshaw’s mouth was closed on any word that might throw light on the plans of his friend.

“It’s plain to my mind, Captain, that Bladen will never get the boy.  I reckon Bob’s gone into hiding with him,” said the merchant, with spacious candor.

The fugitives had not gone into hiding, however; they had traversed the state from east to west, and Murrell was soon on their trail and pressing forward in pursuit.  Reaching the mountains, he heard of them first as ten days ahead of him and bound for west Tennessee, the ten days dwindled to a week, the week became five days, the five days three; and now as he emerged from the last range of hills he caught sight of them.  They were half a mile distant perhaps, but he was certain that the man and boy he saw pass about a turn in the road were the man and boy he had been following for a month.

He was not mistaken.  The man was Bob Yancy and the boy was Hannibal.  Yancy had acted with extraordinary decision.  He had sold his few acres at Scratch Hill for a lump sum to Crenshaw—­it was to the latter’s credit that the transaction was one in which he could feel no real pride as a man of business—­and just a day later Yancy and the boy had quitted Scratch Hill in the gray dawn, and turned their faces westward.  Tennessee had become their objective point, since here was a region to which they could fix a name, while the rest of the world was strange to them.  As they passed the turn in the road where Murrell had caught his first sight of them, Yancy glanced back at the blue wall of the mountains where it lay along the horizon.

“Well, Nevvy,” he said, “we’ve put a heap of distance between us and old Scratch Hill; all I can say is, if there’s as much the other side of the Hill as there is this side, the world’s a monstrous big place fo’ to ramble about in.”  He carried his rifle and a heavy pack.  Hannibal had a much smaller pack and his old sporting rifle, burdens of which his Uncle Bob relieved him at brief intervals.

For the past ten days their journey had been conducted in a leisurely fashion.  As Yancy said, they were seeing the world, and it was well to take a good look at it while they had a chance.  He was no longer fearful of pursuit and his temperament asserted itself—­the minimum of activity sufficed.  Usually they camped just where the night overtook them; now and then they varied this by lodging at some tavern, for since there was money in his pocket, Yancy was disposed to spend it.  He could not conceive that it had any other possible use.