"A lawyer should not have to be his own process-server," was the retort of offended dignity.
"No—neither ought a judge." Renshaw took the cigar from his mouth and studied it. Then he spoke slowly:
"Mr. Sidney, there's nothing further I can do, but—put it on whatever ground you like—I'll make a suggestion. I'm beginning to doubt if Kinnard Towers is going to remain supreme here much longer. I think his power is on the wane. If you will make a motion to swear me off the bench for the duration of these proceedin's—and can persuade the governor to send a special judge and prosecutor here—I'll gladly vacate. Then you can bring your soldier boys and see what that will effect. That's the best satisfaction I can give you—but if I were you, since you have no patience with men that consider personal risks—I'd talk with this Stacy first. Of course, Kinnard Towers won't like that."
Mr. Sidney rose, piqued at the suggestion of timidity, into a sudden announcement. "Very well," he said, "I'll ride over there to Little Slippery to-night—to hell with this bugaboo Towers!"
"If I lived as far away as you do," suggested the judge, "I might allow myself to say, Amen to that sentiment."
Mr. Sidney did not, in point of fact, go that night, but he did a few days later. Had he known it, he was safe enough. Kinnard Towers had no wish just then to hurl a challenge into the teeth of the whole state by harming a distinguished member of the metropolitan bar, but before George Sidney started out, the Quarterhouse leader had knowledge of his mission, and surmised that he would be sheltered at the house of Joel Fulkerson.
When the lawyer arrived the old preacher was standing by the gate of his yard with a letter in his hand, that had arrived a little while before. It was from an anonymous writer and its message was this: "If you aid the lawyer from Louisville, in any fashion whatsoever, or take him into your house, it will cost you your life."
Brother Fulkerson had been wondering whether to confide to any one the receipt of that threat. Heretofore factional bitterness had always passed him by. Now he decided to dismiss the matter without alarming his friends with its mention.
As he strode forward to welcome the stranger, he absently tore the crumpled sheet of paper to bits and consigned it to the winds.
"I am George Sidney," announced the man who was sliding from his saddle, stiff-limbed from a long ride. "I'm trying to effect the punishment of your son-in-law's murder, and I've come to your house."