"All right, we'll go," Jim Anson said with drunken dignity. He staggered to his feet and swayed toward the rear door. He turned the handle and kicked it open. It led to a storeroom. "That's not the way, stupid." The woman gave him a violent shove after the others. He grinned drunkenly at her and staggered out. About ten that evening Bill Anderson swung in at Judge Ransom's gate and knocked at the door. When he and the judge were comfortably installed in easy-chairs before a fire, he looked squarely at Ransom. "What are you going to do about the trial to-morrow?" he asked bluntly. "My duty," the older man replied with equal bluntness. "Judge, don't think I'm asking you to do anything else," Anderson added quickly. "You know I'm not in politics for my health. When I came here a couple of years ago, every one was at odds. The leaders of the party were fighting among themselves. I'm not flattering myself when I say that all stopped when I took hold. Judge, you understand that I'd soon lose my leadership if I nominated men who were not elected." The judge had hoped against hope that Bill Anderson would back him because of his record, even if the Mexican vote was against him. He was sure, if he could get the nomination, he would be re-elected. Now his heart sank. "Let's be frank, judge. If you insist on bearing down too heavily in the trial to-morrow, you lose the Mexican vote, and, much as I want to, judge, I don't see how I can propose you for renomination." The judge pulled thoughtfully at his goatee. For the first time since he had known Bill Anderson, he detected a certain sinister quality beneath his bland air of good fellowship. "But, Anderson, this Pete Cable isn't a Mexican," he said. "That's not the question," Anderson replied. "For some reason the Mexican vote is interested in him. Now, why not be sensible? Go easy at the trial. Cable was drunk, he made a mistake and killed this Easterner. Other men have killed in this town and gotten away with it. Why not be reasonable? Remember, you are not being asked to do anything dishonorable. All these people ask you to do is to sit quiet--to do nothing." "You ask me to do nothing--nothing but pervert justice," the judge said quietly. The political boss' good nature and blandness dropped away. A stranger to the judge stood before him, with a face that was hard and cruel. "This house is mortgaged, isn't it?" Anderson snapped. This hit home, for the place was mortgaged to the hilt, and the notes were due the following month. Ransom paled, but his eyes were steady as he gazed into Anderson's granitelike brown ones. "Is that a threat?" he asked. "Only a reminder," Anderson said savagely. The next moment the judge heard the front door slam, and he was alone.