“Yeah, I heard they did.”
Roaring didn’t bother to tell the doctor that he had Pete in jail. He went from the doctor’s office to Judge Beal’s home, where Wong Kee opened the door for him. The old judge was slumped down in an old rocker, half dressed, an uncorked bottle of whisky beside him on the table. On his lap was a much worn copy of the Bible.
“Come in, Roaring,” he said softly. “Sit down and tell me all the news. We’ve only heard rumors here. Between Wong’s rheumatism and my bottle of rye, we’ve not been able to get out and gather the news. Have a drink—it’s good stuff. Wong, bring the gentleman a glass.”
It was evident to Roaring that the judge was mellow with liquor. But that was as far as he ever got—mellow. No one had ever seen Judge Beal drunk—as a drunk is measured in Turquoise City.
Roaring took the drink and told the judge what had happened the night before. The old jurist chuckled over how Roaring drew the lynchers away from the ranch, while Jimmy Moran brought Pete safely to Turquoise.
“Oh, they’d have hung him, Judge,” assured Roaring. “Pete wasn’t stuck on comin’ to jail, but he could see that it was the only safe place for him.”
“That’s very true, Roaring. I got my second warning yesterday.”
“You did? Gosh! What are you goin’ to do, Judge?”
The old judge smiled grimly.
“Die in a good cause,” he said slowly. “Why run away? I’ve no place to go. After all, I am the judge of this district. English Ed and his cohorts fear justice, and it may be that English Ed has political influence enough to get a friendly judge elected, or rather appointed, in case he can frighten me into resigning.”