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.