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The final day of the county fair was Saturday, and it promised to be the biggest day of fair week. It was Veterans' Day, when the old soldiers were honored guests, and Ladies' Day, when all white females of any age were admitted free. The fairgrounds lay in a hickory flat a mile out of town, the tall scaly-bark trees crowding the fence and dropping nuts onto the track. The fence, once whitewashed, now stood a misty gray, its long warped panels like high-shouldered ghosts. The grandstand, ancient and wooden, groaned and creaked in the wind. Back of it stood Floral Hall and Agricultural Hall, their names and flagstaffs barely distinguishing them from long-neglected barns. Up the track to the north stretched rows of stables, empty and odorous for fifty-one weeks of the year, but now alive with darky stable hands and horses, the air rich with the smell of wood fires, clean hay, and turned-up turf.

The fair had ideal weather for its windup. No frost had fallen yet, but the air carried signs and portents of its coming. Hickory leaves curled as if to hold the dying warmth, and ash trees flamed red like signal fires for Indian summer. First flights of wild geese went over, their V's pointed to the Gulf, and the sweet-potato bird called from the treetops. The woods were perfumed with ripening wild grapes and pawpaws, and from orchards came rich winy smells where windfalls lay in heaps and cider mills gushed under the trees.

By sunup the fairgrounds were astir. Concessionaires emerged from their canvas quarters to sniff at the tantalizing smell of barbecue. Uncle Isom Woolfolk presided over the pits with mighty authority, painting each carcass with a sauce of red pepper and sweet vinegar. His white chin-beard waggled with importance as the crowds began to pour in, coming from town afoot and in buggies, from the country in farm wagons filled with families.

At noon, a thin trickle of martial music came down the pike, and soon the veterans, forty or fifty of them, marched in two by two. Sergeant Jimmy Bagby walked alongside his friend and political foe, Major Ashcroft, clad in his faded, jacket and carrying his ancient Springfield. As they passed the grandstand, the local band blared out Dixie, and the crowd cheered. Soon the veterans scattered, their womenfolk with them, to see the prize cakes and quilts in Floral Hall or crowd about the showpens. The bray of sideshow barkers and the squeak of toy balloons rose to the treetops.

In the middle of this, a cracked bugle sounded, and there was a rush to the grandstand. A small crowd gathered about the lone bookmaker's stall. When the first race began, a half-mile dash for running horses, a slim black figure wormed his way through the crowd to place a bet on the local entry, Flitterfoot. It was Judge Priest's Jeff, his head bursting with pride as he watched the little red gelding gallop to victory.

But the big event of the day was the County Trot, a harness race with a purse of two thousand dollars. Judge Priest's Jeff, always in the middle of things, saw the two owners, Van Wallace and Jackson Berry, slip into an empty feed-shed. He crept close and listened. They were planning to throw the race! They would tease the mare, Minnie May, into breaking, so that Blandville Boy, the stallion, would win. Jeff hurried to find Judge Priest and told him what he had heard. Captain Buck Owings, a man of quick temper, joined them, ready to intervene.

With the race about to start, they saw Sergeant Jimmy Bagby, and Judge Priest had a sudden plan. He and Captain Buck Owings took the sergeant's old musket. As the trotters rounded the turn, with Blandville Boy in the lead, Captain Buck Owings appeared beside the track, aiming the rusty gun. Jackson Berry, terrified at the sight, reined in his horse and veered off through an open gate, fleeing the race. Minnie May came on to win, and the crowd roared its approval.

That evening, Judge Priest sat in his parlor, smoking his corncob pipe. Jeff brought him a toddy, eager to be off to his own Saturday night festivities. The judge mused on the day's events, saying that sometimes violence was necessary, and Jeff agreed, adding that an old rusty Confederate gun could do the trick. They shared a knowing smile.

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A feud had simmered for years between the Flemings and the Faxons, a shabby vendetta that had cost lives and festered through the years. Young Jim Faxon, a quiet, decent lad, was the last of his clan. Old Rance Fleming, mean and hateful, sought to provoke him, humiliating him in the market square with vile insults. Jim bore it, for the sake of his aunt and his sweetheart, Emmy Hardin. But when Christmas came, and Fleming returned to strike him in the face, shame burned in Jim's heart. He went to the pawnshop, bought a pistol, and shot Fleming down in the street.

The sympathy of the town was with Jim, but the law was clear: he had not acted in self-defense. He was charged with murder, and the trial was set for the spring. Emmy and Aunt Puss mortgaged their home to hire a lawyer, but Jim remained in jail. On the night before the trial, the two women came to Judge Priest, begging for leniency. The judge, moved by their plea, promised Jim a fair trial, but said nothing more.

That night, Judge Priest went to the courthouse and delved into old records. He found a proclamation from 1865, offering a reward for the apprehension of Rance Fleming, dead or alive. The proclamation had never been withdrawn. The next morning, in court, Judge Priest announced that Fleming had been an outlaw under the law, and that the indictment against Jim Faxon was therefore set aside. Jim was free.

But there was a catch. The judge also ruled that Jim was entitled to the $500 reward, which would be paid to his guardian. Jim protested, saying he couldn't touch that money. But the judge was firm, and the crowd cheered as the clerk prepared the papers.

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The sidewheel packet Belle of Memphis landed at the wharf, and Daniel the Mystic's personal manager D. C. Davello came up the levee, a darky behind him toting his valises. He was a large, impressive man, with golden emblems on his lapels and a tiger's claw watch charm. The town buzzed with excitement, and soon Daniel the Mystic himself arrived, tall and long-haired, dressed all in black. He planned to give two performances at St. Clair Hall.

The first night, Daniel the Mystic gave a demonstration of mesmerism, calling for volunteers from the audience. Among them was a small, shabby man named Mr. Gid Irons, the father of one of the boys who had been hypnotized earlier. As Daniel the Mystic approached him with his grand airs, Mr. Irons stood up and hit him squarely in the face. The show erupted into chaos. Mr. Irons beat the mystic soundly, while the audience cheered. The city marshal arrested D. C. Davello, and Daniel the Mystic was soon on the 10:50 train out of town.

The next day, Judge Priest went to see Gid Irons. He found him clerking in a hardware store, a man who had never held a grudge until his son was used as a stage prop. The judge offered no complaint, only a nod of respect. As he left, he saw a small boy, not Jack, but another, watching him with wide eyes. The judge smiled, and the boy smiled back.

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On circus day, the town was up early. The show train arrived, and Jeff, Judge Priest's servant, was beside himself with excitement. Aunt Dilsey, the cook, was too, and she set off to the showgrounds to see the sights. The judge, in a rare mood of leisure, went for a walk, enjoying the holiday atmosphere.

Along Clay Street, he met Lemuel Hammersmith, a small, inconsequential man whose only son, Lemmy, was dying. The boy had begged to see the circus parade, and Lemuel begged the judge to make it happen. Judge Priest promised to try, though he didn't know the circus owner.

Near the showgrounds, the judge saw the proprietor, Daniel P. Silver, a coarse, profane man, and knew he could not appeal to him directly. But he had an idea. He went to the sheriff and swore out an attachment against the band wagon, the very heart of the parade. The sheriff served the papers, and the judge instructed him to lead the parade, as if by chance.

When the parade started, the band wagon, under the sheriff's direction, turned into Clay Street instead of the main route. It wound its way up the street, past the shabby little brown house where Lemmy waited. The sick boy watched from the window, his eyes shining, as the entire parade passed before him. The clown waved at him, the calliope played a tune. It was the grandest moment of his small life.

When the parade ended, the judge stood at his gate, satisfied. He had seen the boy's joy, and that was enough.

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Pressley G. Harper, an old man with a violent temper, stood before Judge Priest, convicted of assault and sentenced to two years in the penitentiary. But Harper asked a favor: to walk to prison by himself, without chains, as a free man. Judge Priest granted it, on the condition that Harper not drink any liquor until he began his sentence. Harper promised, and walked out of the courtroom alone.

A few days later, Harper boarded the same train as the veterans of Gideon K. Irons Camp, who were headed to their annual reunion. He sat apart, in the day coach, but when the train was stopped by outlaws intending to rob the passengers, Harper sprang into action. He fought with savage strength, disarming one robber and throwing another from the train. His quick thinking and courage saved the day.

When the train reached the Junction, Judge Priest embraced him. "You're not going to prison today," he said. "You're coming to the reunion with us." And so Harper did, his sentence never to be served.

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The town was buzzing with the news of Mr. J. Hayden Witherbee, a Wall Street capitalist who had come to buy the local gasworks and light and power company. The town fathers were eager to sell, and Witherbee seemed reasonable. They agreed on a price for the light and power plant, and Witherbee also demanded the gasworks, which he would not buy directly. He suggested that the local men buy it first, and then he would include it in the deal.

Major Covington and his associates went to see Henry Betts, the owner of the gasworks, who quoted an outrageous price of sixty thousand dollars. They had no choice but to pay it. They scraped together the cash, and Betts left town with a tidy profit.

But when Witherbee failed to return from Memphis, and a certain Cassius Poindexter revealed that Witherbee and Betts had been in league, the townsmen realized they had been swindled. They had bought the worthless gasworks for sixty thousand and had nothing to show for it.

Judge Priest, however, was not so easily fooled. He went to New York, tracked down Witherbee, and with a little persuasion, made him buy back the gasworks for a mere twenty-six thousand five hundred, the price the judge named. Witherbee, cowed by the presence of reporters, complied. The judge returned home richer, and the town had its revenge.

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The fall elections brought defeat for the old county ring. A younger generation swept into office, and even Judge Priest, venerable as he was, faced an uphill battle for re-election. On election night, the returns came in slowly. Judge Priest sat with his old friends, listening as their defeats were announced.

But there was one precinct left: Massac. And Massac, as it turned out, was loyal. Every single vote was for Judge Priest. He won by a narrow margin, and his friends cheered. It was a sweet victory, earned by a humble servant of the people.

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On a warm summer evening, a group of old men gathered on Judge Priest's porch. Among them was Captain Shelby Woodward, who spun tales of the war, and old Cap'n Jasper Lawson, who told a story of a strange champion.

It was the story of Singin' Sandy Riggs, a small, freckled man who, month after month, came to town to be beaten by the local bully, Harve Allen. Each time, Sandy would return, humming his tuneless song, and each time he would be knocked down again. But he never failed to say, "In a month, I'll be back."

Finally, after eight defeats, something changed. Harve Allen, for all his strength, had no stomach for a fight he couldn't win. On the ninth month, when Sandy arrived, Harve took one look at him and fled across the river, never to return. Sandy had won, not by strength, but by sheer persistence.

The old men nodded, understanding. It wasn't cowardice, and it wasn't heroism. It was just doggedness, the will to keep going when the odds were against you.

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The eight of August, Emancipation Day, was a day of celebration for the colored population. The town was filled with darkies from miles around, dressed in their finest, enjoying a day of joy. Judge Priest walked among them, a solitary white figure, feeling the pulse of his community.

That evening, he came to Kamleiter's Hall, where the Gideon K. Irons Camp held its monthly meeting. The hall was nearly empty; only Sergeant Bagby had shown up. They were about to begin when Uncle Ike Copeland, an old negro, shuffled in. He was a former slave, a man of dignity and honor, who had once known a different world.

Uncle Ike told his story: he had been a body servant to a young Confederate officer, had carried him from the battlefield, buried him with honor, and later returned to bring his body home. He had supported himself as a wagon maker, and had come to this town years ago.

Moved by his tale, Judge Priest proposed that Uncle Ike be made a member of the camp. Sergeant Bagby seconded, and he was elected unanimously. Then, to fill the vacant position of color-bearer, they elected Uncle Ike, and he accepted the flag with pride, saying that now he would be buried with full honors, with a band and carriages, just like the quality white folks.

The old men watched him shuffle off into the night, a true comrade at last.