"I thought you were going somewhere else," demurred Judge Driver.
"What makes you think so?"
"That note— You said you had to go some place in a hurry."
"Did I? Well, I am. I'm going down to Jake Kilroe's, and you're going with me, huh?"
"Look here," said the judge, the light of desperation in his eyes, "you don't have to go down to Kilroe's now. That can wait. The marshal ain't in such a fright of a hurry as all that. Go on and do whatever you have to do. I didn't mean—I don't want this to interfere with your personal business, and I'm sure the marshal wouldn't. He'll understand. I know he will. You go on and do whatever you have to do, Bill."
"I will," murmured Billy. "I will. Where are you going, Judge?"
"Oh, I guess I'll be drifting along, Bill," smiled the judge, half-turning on his way to the door. "You don't need me any longer."
"Yes, I do too," Billy declared fretfully. "You come on back and set down. I've got something here I want to read you."
Involuntarily the judge's eyes strayed to the wastebasket. He came back and sat down.
On the table between the extra six-shooter that Billy had finished loading and the box of cartridges was a small leather-bound book. Billy picked up this book and turned to the index. He ran his finger down the page till he came to that which he sought.