Judge had barely settled in his chair, thumbing the pages of his old book, when John Campbell, the big, prosecuting attorney came in. Campbell had been present with the Commissioners, when Henry and his staff had been severely taken to task. “One gloat out of you, John, and I shall cram this copy of the Bard of Avon down your gullet,” declared Judge soberly. John Campbell laughed shortly. “I don’t blame you, Judge. No, I came not to gloat, gentlemen.” “To bury Caesar?” queried Henry quietly. “No, Henry. I talked with those men after we left here. They are merely barking, not biting--as yet. As a matter of fact, Henry, this Mr. Thomas Akers, the gentleman from Scorpion Bend, has an axe to grind. He is stumping for his cousin, Pete Gonyer. If you can be induced to resign, or if he can talk the others into forcing you out of office for cause, he hopes to have Pete Gonyer appointed as sheriff of Wild Horse Valley.” “That broken-nosed high-pockets!” snorted Judge. “Why, that--” “So Pete Gonyer, owner of the Circle G, is a cousin of our esteemed Commissioner from Scorpion Bend, eh?” remarked Henry. “Now I see the light. And Mr. Thomas Akers is a friend of James Wadsworth Longfellow Pelly, ye editor of ye _Clarion_.” “In fact,” added Campbell, “Mr. Akers rents the _Clarion_ building to Mr. Pelly.” “Astoundingly simple,” snorted Judge. “Back-scratching!” John Campbell laughed. “All you have to do now, Henry,” he said, “is to put a halt to all this high-grading and gold stealing in Wild Horse Valley. Personally, I don’t envy you the job.” John Campbell went back up the street, leaving Henry and Judge, looking at each other. A team and vehicle drew up in front of the office, and two men got out. One of them was of featherweight size, with a murderous-looking mustache, bow-legs--and a gallon jug. The other was tall and thin, tired-eyed, buck-teeth and inquiring eyebrows. The smaller one was Frijole Bill Cullison, the cook at Henry’s JHC ranch, and the other was Slim Pickins, Henry’s lone cowpoke. * * * * * They went slowly into the office, with Frijole in the lead, carrying the jug in front of him in both hands, like a man bearing a valuable gift--or something dangerous. Both Henry and Judge turned quickly, looking at the procession, which came to a halt in front of the desk, where Frijole carefully set the jug. Then they both backed away and stood at attention. “Damnable mumbo-jumbo!” snorted Judge. Frijole winced. “Don’t say that, Judge,” he pleaded. “You are now in the presence of the finest batch ever made. Twelve hours of age, and as prime as anythin’ that ever come out of a pot. That, gentlemen, is m’ masterpiece. Put yore ear agin that jug, and yuh can hear her hum, like a wire in the wind.” Slim just stood there, grinning foolishly, eyebrows arched. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. What is in it this time?” Henry asked quietly.