The judge's faith in the reasonableness of mankind having received a staggering blow, there began a somewhat furtive existence for himself, for Solomon Mahaffy, and for the boy. They kept to little frequented byways, and usually it was the early hours of morning, or the cool of late afternoons when they took the road.

The heat of silent middays found them lounging beside shady pools, where the ripple of fretted waters filled the pauses in their talk. It was then that the judge and Mahaffy exchanged views on literature and politics, on religion and politics, on the public debt and politics, on canals and national roads and more politics. They could and did honestly differ at great length and with unflagging energy on these vital topics, especially politics, for they were as far apart mentally as they were close together morally.

Mahaffy, morose and embittered, regarded the life they were living as an unmixed hardship. The judge entered upon it with infinite zest. He displayed astonishing adaptability, while he brought all the resources of a calm and modest knowledge to bear on the vexed problem of procuring sustenance for himself and for his two companions.

“To an old campaigner like me, nothing could be more delightful than this holiday, coming as it does on the heels of grinding professional activity,” he observed to Mahaffy. “This is the way our first parents lived—close to nature, in touch with her gracious beneficence! Sir, this experience is singularly refreshing after twenty years of slaving at the desk. If any man can grasp the possibilities of a likely looking truck-patch at a glance, I am that man, and as for getting around in the dark and keeping the lay of the land—well, I suppose it's my military training. Jackson always placed the highest value on such data as I furnished him. He leaned on me more than any other man, Solomon—”

“I've heard he stood up pretty straight,” said Mahaffy affably. The judge's abandoned conduct distressed him not a little, but his remonstrances had been in vain.

“I consider that when society subjected me to the indignity of arrest, I was relieved of all responsibility. Injustice must bear its own fruit,” the judge had answered him sternly.

His beginnings had been modest enough: a few ears of corn, a few hills of potatoes, and the like, had satisfied him; then one night he appeared in camp with two streaks of scarlet down the side of his face.

“Are you hurt, Price?” demanded Mahaffy, betraying an anxiety of which he was instantly ashamed.

“Let me relieve your apprehension, Solomon; it's only a trickle of stewed fruit. I folded a couple of pies and put them in the crown of my hat,” explained the judge.

“You mean you've been in somebody's springhouse?”

“It was unlocked, Solomon, This will be a warning to the owner. I consider I have done him a kindness.”

Thus launched on a career of plunder, the judge very speedily accumulated a water bucket—useful when one wished to milk a cow—an ax from a woodpile, a kettle from a summer kitchen, a tin of soft soap, and an excellent blanket from a wash-line.

“For the boy, Solomon,” he said gently, when he caught Mahaffy's steady disapproving glance fixed upon him as he displayed this last trophy.

“What sort of an example are you setting him?”

“The world is full of examples I'd not recommend, Solomon. One must learn to discriminate. A body can no more follow all the examples than he can follow all the roads, and I submit that the ends of morality can as well be served in showing a child what he should not do as in showing him what he should. Indeed, I don't know but it's the finer educational idea!”

Thereafter the judge went through the land with an eye out for wash-lines.

“I'm looking for a change of linen for the boy, Solomon,” he said. “Let me bring you a garment or two. Eh—how few men you'll find of my build; those last shirts I got were tight around the armholes and had no more tail than a rabbit!”

Two nights later Mr. Mahaffy accepted a complete change of under linen, but without visible sign of gratitude.

A night later the judge disappeared from camp, and after a prolonged absence returned puffing and panting with three watermelons, which proved to be green, since his activity had been much in advance of the season.

“I don't suppose there is any greater tax on human ingenuity than to carry three watermelons!” he remarked. “The human structure is ideally adapted to the transportation of two—it can be done with comfort; but when a body tackles three he finds that nature herself is opposed to the proceeding! Well, I am going back for a bee-gum I saw in a fence corner. Hannibal will enjoy that—a child is always wanting sweets!”

In this fashion they fared gaily across the state, but as they neared the Mississippi the judge began to consider the future. His bright and illuminating intelligence dealt with this problem in all its many-sidedness.

“I wish you'd enter one of the learned professions, Solomon—have you ever thought of medicine?” he inquired. Mr. Mahaffy laughed. “But why not, Solomon? There is nothing like a degree or a title—that always stamps a man, gives him standing—”

“What do I know about the human system?”

“I should certainly hope you know as much as the average doctor knows. We could locate in one of these new towns where they have the river on one side and the canal on the other, and where everybody has the ague—”

“What do I know about medicine?” inquired Mahaffy.

“As much as Aesculapius, no doubt—even he had to make a beginning. The torch of science wasn't lit in a day—you must be willing to wait; but you've got a good sick-room manner. Have you ever thought of opening an undertaker's shop? If you couldn't cure them you might bury them.”

A certain hot afternoon brought them into the shaded main street of a straggling village. Near the door of the principal building, a frame tavern, a man was seated, with his feet on the horse-rack. There was no other sign of human occupancy.

“How do you do, sir?” said the judge, halting before this solitary individual whom he conjectured to be the 'landlord. The man nodded, thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his vest. “What's the name of this bustling metropolis?” continued the judge, cocking his head on one side.

As he spoke, Bruce Carrington appeared in the tavern door; pausing there, he glanced curiously at the shabby wayfarers.

“This is Raleigh, in Shelby County, Tennessee, one of the states of the Union of which, no doubt, you've heard rumor in your wanderings,” said the landlord.

“Are you the voice from the tomb?” inquired the judge, in a tone of playful sarcasm.

Carrington, amused, sauntered toward him.

“That's one for you, Mr. Pegloe!” he said.

“I am charmed to meet a gentleman whose spirit of appreciation shows his familiarity with a literary allusion,” said the judge, bowing.

“We ain't so dead as we look,” said Pegloe. “Just you keep on to Boggs' race-track, straight down the road, and you'll find that out—everybody's there to the hoss-racing and shooting-match. I reckon you've missed the hoss-racing, but you'll be in time for the shooting. Why ain't you there, Mr. Carrington?”

“I'm going now, Mr. Pegloe,” answered Carrington, as he followed the judge, who, with Mahaffy and the boy, had moved off.

“Better stop at Boggs'!” Pegloe called after them.

But the judge had already formed his decision.

Horse-racing and shooting-matches were suggestive of that progressive spirit, the absence of which he had so much lamented at the jail raising at Pleasantville—Memphis was their objective point, but Boggs' became a side issue of importance. They had gained the edge of the village when Carrington overtook them. He stepped to Hannibal's side.

“Here, let me carry that long rifle, son!” he said. Hannibal looked up into his face, and yielded the piece without a word. Carrington balanced it on his big, muscular palm. “I reckon it can shoot—these old guns are hard to beat!” he observed.

“She's the clostest shooting rifle I ever sighted,” said Hannibal promptly. “You had ought to see the judge shoot her—my! he never misses!”

Carrington laughed.

“The clostest shooting rifle you ever sighted—eh?” he repeated. “Why, aren't you afraid of it?”

“No,” said Hannibal scornfully. “But she kicks you some if you don't hold her right.”

There was a rusty name-plate on the stock of the old sporting rifle; this had caught Carrington's eye.

“What's the name here? Oh, Turberville.”

The judge, a step or two in advance, wheeled in his tracks with a startling suddenness.

“What?” he faltered, and his face was ashen.

“Nothing, I was reading the name here; it is yours; sir, I suppose?” said Carrington.

The color crept slowly back into the judge's cheeks, but a tremulous hand stole up to his throat.

“No, sir—no; my name is Price—Slocum Price! Turberville—Turberville—” he muttered thickly, staring stupidly at Carrington.

“It's not a common name; you seem to have heard it before?” said the latter.

A spasm of pain passed over the judge's face.

“I—I've heard it. The name is on the rifle, you say?”

“Here on the stock, yes.”

The judge took the gun and examined it in silence.

“Where did you get this rifle, Hannibal?” he at length asked brokenly.

“I fetched it away from the Barony, sir; Mr. Crenshaw said I might have it.”

The judge gave a great start, and a hoarse inarticulate murmur stole from between his twitching lips.

“The Barony—the Barony—what Barony? The Quintard seat in North Carolina, is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

The judge, as though stunned, stared at Hannibal and stared at the rifle, where the rusted name-plate danced before his eyes.

“What do you know of the Barony, Hannibal?” the words came slowly from the judge's lips, and his face had gone gray again.

“I lived at the Barony once, until Uncle Bob took me to Scratch Hill to be with him. It were Mr. Crenshaw said I was to have the old sp'otin' rifle,” said Hannibal.

“You—you lived at the Barony?” repeated the judge, and a dull stupid wonder struck through his tone, he passed a shaking hand before his eyes. “How long ago—when?” he continued.

“I don't know how long it were, but until Uncle Bob carried me away after the old general died.”

The judge slipped a hand under the child's chin and tilted his face back so that he might look into it. For a long moment he studied closely those small features, then with a shake of the head he handed the rifle to Carrington, and without a word strode forward. Carrington had been regarding Hannibal with a quickened interest.

“Hello!” he said, as the judge moved off. “You're the boy I saw at Scratch Hill!”

Hannibal gave him a frightened glance, and edged to Mr. Mahaffy's side, but did not answer him.

“What's become of Bob Yancy?” Carrington went on. He looked from Mahaffy to the judge; externally neither of these gentlemen was calculated to inspire confidence. Mahaffy, keenly alive to this fact, returned Carrington's glance with a fixed and hostile stare. “Come—” said Carrington good-naturedly, “you surely remember me?”

“Yes, sir; I reckon I do—”

“Can't you tell me about Mr. Yancy?”

“No, sir; I don't know exactly where he is—”

“But how did you get here?” persisted Carrington.

Suddenly Mahaffy turned on him.

“Don't you see he's with us?” he said truculently.

“Well, my dear sir, I certainly intended no offense!” rejoined Carrington rather hotly.

Mahaffy was plainly disturbed, the debased currency of his affection was in circulation where Hannibal was concerned, and he eyed the river-man askance. He was prepared to give him the lie should he set up any claim to the boy.

The judge plodded forward, his shoulders drooped, and his head bowed. For once silence had fixed its seal upon his lips, no inspiring speech fell from them. He had been suddenly swept back into a past he had striven these twenty years and more to forget, and his memories shaped themselves fantastically. Surely if ever a man had quitted the world that knew him, he was that man! He had died and yet he lived—lived horribly, without soul or heart, the empty shell of a man.

A turn in the road brought them within sight of Boggs' racetrack, a wide level meadow. The judge paused irresolutely, and turned his bleared face on his friend.

“We'll stop here, Solomon,” he said rather wearily, for the spirit of boast and jest was quite gone out of him. He glanced toward Carrington. “Are you a resident of these parts, sir?” he asked.

“I've been in Raleigh three days altogether,” answered Carrington, falling into step at his side, and they continued on across the meadow in silence.

“Do you observe the decorations of those refreshment booths?—the tasteful disposition of our national colors, sir?” the judge presently inquired.

Carrington smiled; he was able to follow his companion's train of thought.

They were elbowing the crowd now. Here were men from the small clearings in homespun and butternut or fringed hunting-shirts, with their women folk trailing after them. Here, too, in lesser numbers, were the lords of the soil, the men who counted their acres by the thousand and their slaves by the score. There was the flutter of skirts among the moving groups, the nodding of gay parasols that shaded fresh young faces, while occasionally a comfortable family carriage with some planter's wife or daughter rolled silently over the turf; for Boggs' race-track was a famous meeting-place where families that saw one another not above once or twice a year, friends who lived a day's hard drive apart even when summer roads were at their best, came as to a common center.

The judge's dull eye kindled, the haggard lines that had streaked his face erased themselves. This was life, opulent and full. These swift rolling carriages with their handsome women, these well-dressed men on foot, and splendidly mounted, all did their part toward lifting him out of his gloom. He settled his hat on his head with a rakish slant and his walk became a strut, he courted observation; he would have been grateful for a word, even a jest at his expense.

A cry from Hannibal drew his attention. Turning, he was in time to see the boy bound away. An instant later, to his astonishment, he saw a young girl who was seated with two men in an open carriage, spring to the ground, and dropping to her knees put her arms about the tattered little figure.

“Why, Hannibal!” cried Betty Malroy.

“Miss Betty! Miss Betty!” and Hannibal buried his head on her shoulder.

“What is it, Hannibal; what is it, dear?”

“Nothing, only I'm so glad to find you!”

“I am glad to see you, too!” said Betty, as she wiped his tears away. “When did you get here, dear?”

“We got here just to-day, Miss Betty,” said Hannibal.

Mr. Ware, careless as to dress, with a wiry black beard of a week's growth decorating his chin and giving an unkempt appearance which his expression did not mitigate, it being of the sour and fretful sort; scowled down on the child. He had favored Boggs' with his presence, not because he felt the least interest in horse-racing, but because he had no faith in girls, and especially had he profound mistrust of Betty. She was so much easily portable wealth, a pink-faced chit ready to fall into the arms of the first man who proposed to her. But Charley Norton had not seemed disturbed by the planter's forbidding air. Between those two there existed complete reciprocity of feeling, inasmuch as Tom's presence was as distasteful to Norton as his own presence was distressing to Ware.

“Where is your Uncle Bob, Hannibal?” Betty asked, glancing about, and at her question a shadow crossed the child's face and the tears gathered again in his eyes.

“Ain't you seen him, Miss Betty?” he whispered. He had been sustained by the belief that when he found her he should find his Uncle Bob, too.

“Why, what do you mean, Hannibal—isn't your Uncle Bob with you?” demanded Betty.

“He got hurt in a fight, and I got separated from him way back yonder just after we came out of the mountains.” He looked up piteously into Betty's face. “But you think he'll find me, don't you?”

“Why, you poor little thing!” cried Betty compassionately, and again she sank on her knees at Hannibal's side, and slipped her arms about him. The child began to cry softly.

“What ragamuffin's this, Betty?” growled Ware disgustedly.

But Betty did not seem to hear.

“Did you come alone, Hannibal?” she asked.

“No, ma'am; the judge and Mr. Mahaffy, they fetched me.”

The judge had drawn nearer as Betty and Hannibal spoke together, but Mahaffy hung back. There were gulfs not to be crossed by him. It was different with the judge; the native magnificence of his mind fitted him for any occasion. He pulled up his stock, and coaxed a half-inch of limp linen down about his wrists, then very splendidly he lifted his napless hat from his shiny bald head and pressing it against his fat chest with much fervor, elegantly inclined himself from the hips.

“Allow me the honor to present myself, ma'am—Price is my name—Judge Slocum Price. May I be permitted to assume that this is the Miss Betty of whom my young protege so often speaks?” The judge beamed benevolently, and rested a ponderous hand on the boy's head.

Tom Ware gave him a glance of undisguised astonishment, while Norton regarded him with an expression of stunned and resolute gravity. Mahaffy seemed to be undergoing a terrible moment of uncertainty. He was divided between two purposes: one was to seize Price by the coat tails and drag him back into the crowd; the other was to kick him, and himself fly that spot. This singular impulse sprang from the fact that he firmly believed his friend's appearance was sufficient to blast the boy's chances in every quarter; nor did he think any better of himself.

Betty looked at the judge rather inquiringly.

“I am glad he has found friends,” she said slowly. She wanted to believe that judge Slocum Price was somehow better than he looked, which should have been easy, since it was incredible that he could have been worse.

“He has indeed found friends,” said the judge with mellow unction, and swelling visibly. These prosperous appearing people should be of use to him, God willing—he made a sweeping gesture. “I have assumed the responsibility of his future—he is my care.”

Now Betty caught sight of Carrington and bowed. Occupied with Hannibal and the judge, she had been unaware of his presence. Carrington stepped forward.

“Have you met Mr. Norton, and my brother, Mr. Carrington?” she asked.

The two young men shook hands, and Ware improved the opportunity to inspect the new-comer. But as his glance wandered over him, it took in more than Carrington, for it included the fine figure and swarthy face of Captain Murrell, who, with his eyes fixed on Betty, was thrusting his eager way through the crowd.

Murrell had presented himself at Belle Plain the day before. For upward of a year, Ware had enjoyed great peace of mind as a direct result of his absence from west Tennessee, and when he thought of him at all he had invariably put a period to his meditations with, “I hope to hell he catches it wherever he is!” It had really seemed a pernicious thing to him that no one had shown sufficient public spirit to knock the captain on the head, and that this had not been done, utterly destroyed his faith in the good intentions of Providence.

More than this, Betty had spoken of the captain in no uncertain terms. He was not to repeat that visit. Tom must make that point clear to him. Tom might entertain him if he liked at his office, but the doors of Belle Plain were closed against Captain Murrell; he was not to set his foot inside of them.

As Murrell approached, the hot color surged into Betty's face. As for Hannibal, he had gone white to the lips, and his small hand clutched hers desperately; he was remembering all the terror of that hot dawn at Slosson's.

Murrell, with all his hardihood, realized that a too great confidence had placed him in an awkward position, for Betty turned her back on him and began an animated conversation with Carrington and Charley Norton; only Hannibal and the judge continued to regard him; the boy with a frightened, fascinated stare, the judge with a wide sweet smile.

Hicks, the Belle Plain overseer, pushed his way to Murrell's side.

“Here, John Murrell, ain't you going to show us a trick or two?” he inquired.

Murrell turned quickly with a sense of relief.

“If you can spare me your rifle,” he said, but his face wore a bleak look. Glancing at Betty, he took up his station with the other contestants, whereupon two or three young planters silently withdrew from the firing-line.

“Don't you think you've seen about enough, Bet?” demanded Tom. “You don't care for the shooting, do you?”

“That's the very thing I do care for; I think I'd rather see that than the horse-racing,” said Betty perversely. This had been her first appearance in public since her home-coming, and she felt that it had been most satisfactory. She had met everybody she had ever known, and scores of new people; her progress had been quite triumphal in spite of Tom, and in spite of Charley Norton, who was plainly not anxious to share her with any one, his devotion being rather of the monopolizing sort.

Betty now seated herself in the carriage, with Hannibal beside her, quietly determined to miss nothing. The judge, feeling that he had come into his own, leaned elegantly against the wheel, and explained the merits of each shot as it was made.

“Our intruding friend, the Captain, ma'am, is certainly a master with his weapon,” he observed.

Betty was already aware of this. She turned to Norton.

“Charley, I can't bear to have him win!”

“I am afraid he will, for anything I can do, Betty,” said Norton.

“Mr. Carrington, can't you shoot?—do take Hannibal's rifle and beat him,” she coaxed.

“Don't be too sure that I can!” said Carrington, laughing.

“But I know you can!” urged Betty.

“I hope you gentlemen are not going to let me walk off with the prize?” said Murrell, approaching the group about the carriage.

“Mr. Norton, I am told you are clever with the rifle.”

“I am not shooting to-day,” responded Norton haughtily.

Murrell stalked back to the line.

“At forty paces I'd risk it myself, ma'am,” said the judge. “But at a hundred, offhand like this, I should most certainly fail—I've burnt too much midnight oil. Eh—what—damn the dog, he's scored another center shot!”

“It would be hard to beat that—” they heard Murrell say.

“At least it would be quite possible to equal it,” said Carrington, advancing with Hannibal's rifle in his hands. It was tossed to his shoulder, and poured out its contents in a bright stream of flame. There was a moment of silence.

“Center shot, ma'am!” cried the judge.

“I'll add twenty dollars to the purse!” Norton addressed himself to Carrington. “And I shall hope, sir, to see it go in to your pocket.”

“Our sentiments exactly, ma'am, are they not?” said the judge.

“Perhaps you'd like to bet a little of your money?” remarked Murrell.

“I'm ready to do that too, sir,” responded Norton quietly.

“Five hundred dollars, then, that this gentleman in whose success you take so great an interest, can neither equal nor better my next shot!” Murrell had produced a roll of bills as he spoke. Norton colored with embarrassment. Carrington took in the situation.

“Wait a minute—” he said, and passed his purse to Norton.

“Cover his money, sir,” he added briefly.

“Thank you, my horses have run away with most of my cash,” explained Norton.

“Your shot!” said Carrington shortly, to the outlaw.

Murrell taking careful aim, fired, clipping the center.

As soon as the result was known, Carrington raised his rifle; his bullet, truer than his opponent's, drove out the center. Murrell turned on him with an oath.

“You shoot well, but a board stuck against a tree is no test for a man's nerve,” he said insolently.

Carrington was charging his piece.

“I only know of one other kind of target,” he observed coolly.

“Yes—a living target!” cried Murrell.

The crowd opened from right to left. Betty's face grew white, and uttering a smothered cry she started to descend from the carriage, but the judge rested his hand on her arm.

“No, my dear young, lady, our friend is quite able to care for himself.”

Carrington shook the priming into the pan of Hannibal's ancient weapon.

“I am ready for that, too,” he said. There was a slow smile on his lips, but his eyes, black and burning, looked the captain through and through.

“Another time—” said Murrell, scowling.

“Any time,” answered Carrington indifferently.