Without haste the judge fished some papers from his pocket and opened them on the table. He did it awkwardly. His fingers might have been all thumbs. He seemed to have difficulty in finding the paper he wanted.
Billy Wingo, his eyes drowsy-looking, watched silently. "What's it all about?" he asked curiously.
"Jake Kilroe," replied Judge Driver. "He's been selling liquor to the Indians."
"He always has."
"I know he has. And it's a disgrace to the community. It's got to stop."
Billy stared at the judge even more curiously. For this high and moral tone he did not understand at all. It was not like the judge. It was not in the least like the judge. No, not at all.
"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 coöperate with them," the judge said smoothly.
"Which one asked you?" probed Billy Wingo.
"The second deputy."