"Ise bawn wid a cawl! De blood anssuh!" "It wasn't the Cross-Roads, Uncle Xenophon," said Warren Smith, laying his hand on the old man's shoulder.
Xenophon rose to his feet.

He stretched a long, bony arm straight to the west, where the Cross-Roads lay; stood rigid and silent, like a seer; then spoke: "De men whut shot Marse Hawkliss lies yondeh, hidin' f'um de light o' day.

An' _him_"-- he swerved his whole rigid body till the arm pointed northwest--"he lies yondeh.

You won't find him heah.

Dey fought 'im een de fiel's an' dey druggen 'im heah.