boy, Blount!" warned Yancy. "Light down, Hannibal!"

Hannibal instantly availed himself of the invitation. At the same moment
Blount struck at Yancy with his whip and his horses reared wildly,
thinking the blow meant for them. Seeing that the boy had reached the
ground in safety, Yancy relaxed his hold on the team, which instantly
plunged forward. Then as the buggy swept past him he made a dexterous
grab at Blount and dragged him out over the wheels into the road, where,
for the second time in his life, he proceeded to fetch Mr. Blount
a smack in the jaw. This he followed up with other smacks variously
distributed about his countenance.

"You'll sweat for this, Bob Yancy!" cried Blount, as he vainly sought to
fend off the blows.

"I'm sweating now--scandalous," said Mr. Yancy, taking his unhurried
satisfaction of the other. Then with a final skilful kick he sent Mr.
Blount sprawling. "Don't let me catch you around these diggings again,
Dave Blount, or I swear to God I'll be the death of you!"

Hannibal rode home through the pine woods in triumph on his Uncle Bob's
mighty shoulders.

"Did you get yo' ground-hog, Nevvy?" inquired Mr. Yancy presently when
they had temporarily exhausted the excitement of Hannibal's capture and
recovery.

"It weren't a ground-hog, Uncle Bob--it were a skunk!"

"Think of that!" murmured Mr. Yancy.

CHAPTER IV. 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 as