With election time near, the county seat was filled with people, their mounts chocking stiff heels in the courthouse yard. Before daylight, horses came sloshing through the creek, setting hoofs carefully into dark waters.

“Candidates thicker’n groundhogs in a roast-ear patch,” Logg told us. “Got where a feller can’t go down the road peaceable.”

“Bet you argue as many votes as the next ‘un,” Uncle Jolly said.

“I don’t worry a man’s years off.”

“You’d vote your ol’ nag and jinny if they was registered.”

“I get a vote any way can be got, buy or swap, hogback or straddle-pole, but when they’re drapped in the ballot box, I allus say: ‘Boys, count ‘em square and honest.’”

Two days before Uncle Jolly’s time was up, Logg came hurrying from the courthouse. He came with his keys jingling on his belt, and we heard him coming afar.

“I seen Les Honeycutt talking to Judge Mauldin,” Logg said. “I figger he’s trying to get you sent back to Frankfort. Les’s folks can swing nigh every vote on Jones Fork, and the judge knows it. He can’t be re-elected with the Honeycutts agin him.”

“I never pushed Les’s .ribs in fur enough,” Uncle Jolly said. “I reckon the judge hain’t going to give plumb over. He’ll be needing a few Baldridge and Middleton votes on Little Carr and Defeated Creek. That Les Honeycutt ought to have his long nose trimmed and pickled in vinegar. He hain’t got a chance o’ locking me away from Tina Sawyers. You can’t lock bees from a honeycomb.”

It was dark inside the jail when Judge Mauldin rattled the iron door, though light held outside. Night chill had settled into the wall stones, and there was a hint of frost in the air. He came in, rubbing his fat hands. Logg opened Uncle Jolly’s cell and I followed, going close behind Logg. Judge Mauldin sat down heavily on the cot, twisting his watch chain around a thick finger. There was a bushtail squirrel carved from a peach seed hanging on the chain’s end, real as life.

“Reckon you heard the Honeycutts are trying to hog-tie me into sending you back to Frankfort,” the judge said.

“I heard a little sketch,” Uncle Jolly said, threading his arms through the bars.

The judge groaned. “I can’t spare a vote.”

“You’ll lose a mess either way,” Uncle Jolly warned. “I got no notion o’ going back to the pen anyhow. A log team couldn’t drag me there agin. It’s like pulling eyeteeth just to stay in this jailhouse.”

Logg brought in a smoky lantern, holding a match to the oily wick.

The judge cracked heavy knuckles against his palms. “I’m not a-going to send you back,” he said. “I got it figured this way. You stay in jail till election day-then it won’t matter who rows up. I just want me one more term. Logg’ll loose you the minute the Honeycutts get voted on Jones Fork.”