"Stopping liquor-selling to the war-whoops is none of my job," pointed out Billy Wingo, "the man you want to see is Henry Black, the United States Marshal at Hillsville. Besides, what have you got to do with it, anyway? You're not a Federal judge?"

"But the Federal authorities have ordered me to cooperate with them,"

the judge said smoothly.

"Which one asked you?" probed Billy Wingo.

"The second deputy."

"Slim Chalmers, huh? When did you see Slim Chalmers?"

"Day before yesterday."

"Here?"

"No, over at Hillsville."

"I didn't know you'd been out of town," Billy Wingo burrowed along.

"Just got back this morning."

"No trouble getting through?"

"Not a bit. This chinook has thawed the drifts."

"Did you go by stage?"

"No, I rode."

The judge was answering these apparently most unnecessary questions without a quiver or trace of annoyance. Billy made another cast.

"Did you ride your gray horse?"

"No, the black."

"I hope you wore a coat." The gravity of Billy's tone could not have been bettered.

"An overcoat?" smiled Judge Driver. "Naturally."

"That's good, that's good. I like to see you looking after your health thisaway. You'd be a valuable citizen to lose, Judge. I dunno what we'd do without you. I don't indeed."

What had gone before had been bad enough in all conscience. But this was even worse. Yet the judge took no offense. He merely smiled blandly upon Billy Wingo and proffered the latter gentleman his cigar case. Billy declined with thanks. Whereupon the judge drew a long and very black cigar from the case and bit off the end.

"It's funny I didn't meet you in Hillsville," mused Billy, turning his head as if to look at the stove but in reality looking at a mirror hanging on the wall beside the stove that showed on its face an excellent reflection of Judge Driver's features.

As he expected, the judge gave him a quick sharp glance, but what he had not expected was the demoniac expression of hatred that flashed across the judge's face as summer lightning flashes across the face of a dark cloud.

Billy Wingo turned a slow head. His eyes met those of the judge squarely. Gone was the expression of hatred. In its place was one of courteous regret,--regret that he had been so unfortunate as to miss his friend Sheriff Wingo in Hillsville.

Billy nodded indifferently. "That's all right. I wasn't in Hillsville. My mistake. Sorry."

The judge stared in frowning puzzlement.

It was at this juncture that the door opened and Skinny Shindle entered. He greeted the two men surlily and laid a note on the desk in front of Billy.

"I stopped at Walton's on my way back from Hillsville," said Shindle, "and Tom's niece gimme this. She said I was to be sure and give it to you soon as I could. Seemed worried like, I should say."

"When did she give you the note," Billy inquired casually.

"When I stopped there for a drink. I was only there about five minutes."

"When was that?"

"Oh, round half-past two."

"And you came straight here?"

"Sure I did. You don't think I was gonna stop anywhere a day like this, do you?"

Without another word Shindle pulled his fur cap forward, turned and walked out. He closed the door with a slam that shook the building.

Billy Wingo opened the note.

DEAR BILLY:

Please come out here as soon as you can. Come to-night without fail.

I need you.

It was signed with Hazel Walton's full name.

Billy folded the note carefully. He did not look directly at the judge. He looked at him by way of the mirror. He was not unduly astonished to perceive that the judge was watching him like the proverbial hawk.

Billy unfolded the note, read it again, then refolded it. He started to put it into a vest pocket, though better of it, balled it into a crumple and tossed it into the cardboard box that served for a waste-paper basket.

He got to his feet, pulled out his watch and glanced at the time.

"Four-thirty-two," he muttered, apparently oblivious to the judge's presence. "I'll have to hurry."

He crossed the room to an open door giving into one of the inner rooms.

Pa.s.sing through the doorway, he pushed the door partly to behind him.

Turning sharply to the left he sat down on a cot that creaked. The foot of the cot b.u.t.ted against the jamb on which the door was hung.

Billy threw himself sidewise and applied his eye to the crack between the door and the jamb. His feet at the end of the cot were busy the while, gently kicking the wall and iron-work of the cot. Any one hearing the noise would have been reasonably a.s.sured that Billy Wingo was employed in G.o.d knows what, at a distance from the door of at least a cot length. What he might be doing did not matter. The point was to give the judge the impression that he was not close to the doorway.

Evidently the judge was thus impressed. Billy saw him lean forward, pluck the wadded-up note from the wastebasket and dive noiselessly across the room to the stove. Without a sound the judge opened the stove door and dropped the letter on the top of the blazing wood.

Closing the door as noiselessly as he had opened it, the judge returned to his chair, sat down and crossed one knee over the other. His expression was that of the cat that has just eaten the canary. Billy could almost see him licking his demure chops.

Billy returned to the office. He was carrying a box of cartridges and an extra six-shooter. His regular six-shooter, with its holster and belt, hung on the wall behind the table.