“I don't know that hit's my duty to do that, Bob. Hit's my duty to serve it on to you. But I can tell you what's into hit, leavin' out the law--which don't matter nohow.” At this juncture Uncle Sammy's bent form emerged from the path that led off through the woods in the direction of the Bellamy cabin. With the patriarch was a stranger. Now the presence of a stranger on Scratch Hill was an occurrence of such extraordinary rarity that the warrant instantly became a matter of secondary importance. “Howdy, Charley. Here, Bob Yancy, you shake hands with Bruce Carrington,” commanded Uncle Sammy. At the name both Yancy and Balaam manifested a quickened interest. They saw a man in the early twenties, clean-limbed and broad-shouldered, with a handsome face and shapely head. “Yes, sir, hit's a grandson of Tom Carrington that used to own the grist-mill down at the Forks. Yo're some sort of wild-hog kin to him, Bob--yo' mother was a cousin to old Tom. Her family was powerful upset at her marrying a Yancy. They say Tom cussed himself into a 'pleptic fit when the news was fetched him.” “Where you located at, Mr. Carrington?” asked Yancy. But Carrington was not given a chance to reply. Uncle Sammy saved him the trouble. “Back in Kentucky. He tells me he's been follerin' the water. What's the name of that place where Andy Jackson fit the British?” “New Orleans,” prompted Carrington good naturedly. “That's hit--he takes rafts down the river to New Orleans, then he comes back on ships to Baltimore, or else he hoofs it no'th overland.” Uncle Sammy had acquired a general knowledge of the stranger's habits and pursuits in an incredibly brief space of time. “He wants to visit the Forks,” he added. “I'm shortly goin' that way myself, Mr. Carrington, and I'll be pleased of your company--but first I got to get through with Bob Yancy,” said Balaam, and again he produced the warrant. “If agreeable to you, Bob, I'll ask Uncle Sammy, as a third party friendly to both, to read this here warrant,” he said. “Who's been a-warrantin' Bob Yancy?” cried Uncle Sammy, with shrill interest. “Dave Blount has.” “I knowed hit--I knowed he'd try to get even!” And Uncle Sammy struck his walking-stick sharply on the packed earth of Yancy's dooryard. “What's the charge agin you, Bob?” “Read hit,” said Balaam. “Why, sho'--can't you read plain writin', Uncle Sammy?” for the patriarch was showing signs of embarrassment. “If you gentlemen will let me--” said Carrington pleasantly. Instantly there came a relieved chorus from the three in one breath. “Why, sure!” “Would my spectacles help you any, Mr. Carrington?” asked Uncle Sammy officiously. “No, I guess not.” “They air powerful seein' glasses, and I'm aweer some folks read a heap easier with spectacles than without 'em.” After a moment's scrutiny of the paper that Balaam had thrust in his hand, Carrington began: “To the Sheriff of the County of Cumberland: Greetings.”