The Call of the Cumberlands

The Judge sat balancing a pencil on his extended forefinger as though

it were a scale of justice.

"You have been heated in your language, sir," he said, sternly, "but

it is a heat arising from an indignation which I share. Consequently, I

pass it over. I cannot instruct you to arrest Samson South before the

Grand Jury has accused him. The law does not contemplate hasty or

unadvised action. All men are innocent until proven guilty. If the

Grand Jury wants South, I'll instruct you to go and get him. Until

then, you may leave my part of the work to me."

His Honor rose from his chair.

"You can at least give this Grand Jury such instructions on murder as

will point out their duty. You can assure them that the militia will

protect them. Through your prosecutor, you can bring evidence to their

attention, you----"

"If you will excuse me," interrupted His Honor, drily, "I'll judge of

how I am to charge my Grand Jury. I have been in communication with the

family of Mr. Purvy, and it is not their wish at the present time to

bring this case before the panel."

Callomb laughed ironically.

"No, I could have told you that before you conferred with them. I

could have told you that they prefer to be their own courts and

executioners, except where they need you. They also preferred to have

me get a man they couldn't take themselves, and then to assassinate him

in my hands. Who in the hell do you work for, Judge-for-the-moment

Smithers? Are you holding a job under the State of Kentucky, or under

the Hollman faction of this feud? I am instructed to take my orders

from you. Will you kindly tell me my master's real name?"

Smithers turned pale with anger, his fighting face grew as truculent

as a bulldog's, while Callomb stood glaring back at him like a second

bulldog, but the Judge knew that he was being honestly and fearlessly

accused. He merely pointed to the door. The Captain turned on his heel,

and stalked out of the place, and the Judge came down the steps, and

crossed the street to the court-house. Five minutes later, he turned to

the shirt-sleeved man who was leaning on the bench, and said in his

most judicial voice: "Mr. Sheriff, open court."

The next day the mail-carrier brought in a note for the temporary

Judge. His Honor read it at recess, and hastened across to Hollman's

Mammoth Department Store. There, in council with his masters, he asked

instructions. This was the note: "THE HON. ASA SMITHERS.