And yet it was not his business to interfere, or to refuse to attest the signatures of the men.  He had asked Maison to take the oath, and the banker had taken it.

Thus it seemed he had entered into the contract in good faith.  If he had not, and there was something wrong about the deal, Maison had recourse to the law, and the judge would have aided him.

But nothing had come of it; Maison had said nothing, had lodged no complaint.

But the judge had kept the case in mind.

Late in the afternoon of the day on which Dale had organized the posse to go to the Double A, Judge Graney sat at his desk in the courtroom.  The room was empty, except for a court attache, who was industriously writing at a little desk in the rear of the room.

The Maison case was in the judge’s mental vision, and he was wondering why the banker had not complained, when the sheriff of Colfax entered.

Graney smiled a welcome at him.  “You don’t get over this way very often, Warde, but when you do, I’m glad to see you.  Sit on the desk—­that’s your usual place, anyway.”

Warde followed the suggestion about the desk; he sat on it, his legs dangling.  There was a glint of doubt and anxiety in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Warde?” asked the judge.

“Plenty,” declared Warde.  “I’ve come to you for advice—­and perhaps for some warrants.  You recollect some time ago there was a herd of cattle lost in Devil’s Hole—­and some men.  Some of the men were shot, and one or two of them went down under the herd when it stampeded.”

“Yes,” said the judge, “I heard rumors of it.  But those things are not uncommon, and I haven’t time to look them up unless the cases are brought formally to my attention.”

“Well,” resumed Warde, “at the time there didn’t seem to be any clue to work on that would indicate who had done the killing.  We’ve nothing to do with the stampede, of course—­that sort of stuff is out of my line.  But about the shooting of the men.  I’ve got evidence now.”

“Go ahead,” directed the judge.

“Well, on the night of the killing two of my men were nosing around the level near Devil’s Hole, trying to locate a horse thief who had been trailed to that section.  They didn’t find the horse thief, but they saw a bunch of men sneaking around a camp fire that belonged to the outfit which was trailin’ the herd that went down in Devil’s Hole.

“They didn’t interfere, because they didn’t know what was up.  But they saw one of the men stampede the herd, and they saw the rest of them do the killing.”

“Who did the killing?”

“Dale and his gang,” declared the sheriff.

Judge Graney’s eyes glowed.  He sat erect and looked hard at the sheriff.

“Who is Sanderson?” he asked.

“That’s the fellow who bossed the trail herd.”

The judge smiled oddly.  “There were three thousand head of cattle?”