He accomplished it in less than an hour, and before
he reached the branch that flowed a full quarter of a mile from
his cabin he was shouting Hannibal's name as he ran. Then as he
breasted the slope he came within sight of a little group in his
own dooryard. Saving only Uncle Sammy Bellamy, the group
resolved itself into the women and children of the Hill, but
there was one small figure he missed, and the color faded from
his cheeks while his heart stood still. The patriarch hurried
toward him, leaning on his cane, while his grandson clung to the
skirts of his coat, weeping bitterly.
"They've took your nevvy, Bob!" he cried, in a high, thin voice.
"Who's took him?" asked Yancy hoarsely. He paused and glanced
from one to another of the little group.
"Hit were Dave Blount. Get your gun, Bob, and go after him--kill
the miserable sneaking cuss!" cried Uncle Sammy, who believed in
settling all difficulties by bloodshed as befitted a veteran of
the first war with England, he having risen to the respectable
rank of sergeant in a company of Morgan's riflemen; while at
sixty-odd in '12, when there was recruiting at the Cross Roads,
his son had only been able to prevent his tendering his services
to his country by hiding his trousers. "Fetch his rifle, some of
you fool women!" cried Uncle Sammy. "By the Fayetteville Road,
Bob, not ten minutes ago--you can cut him off at Ox Road forks!"
Yancy breathed a sigh of relief. The situation was not entirely
desperate, for, as Uncle Sammy said, he could reach the Ox Road
forks before Blount possibly could, by going as the crow flies
through the pine woods.
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