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.
"About Jake Kilroe now," said Billy, sitting down at the table and snicking open the box of cartridges, "about Jake Kilroe—what does the marshal want me to do?"
"Get evidence against him," was the smooth reply. "Enough to convict him, of course."
"Of course. Not enough to convict him would help us very little. Yeah. Any suggestions, Judge?"
"What kind of suggestions?" the judge inquired with just a trace of impatience.
"How I'm to start in—what do you guess? I don't know much about Jake, y'understand. For instance, where does Jake get his liquor in the first place?"
"How should I know?"
"I dunno. Thought maybe you might. Judges are supposed to know a lot. But if you don't, you don't, that's all."
Judge Driver sat up a trifle straighter in his chair. He looked at Billy with some suspicion. It could not be humanly possible that Billy was joking with him, yet——
"I guess I'd better start in this afternoon," continued Billy briskly. "There's nothing like a quick start. And the marshal would like it too. Suppose you and I, Judge, go down to Jake's and see what we can see."