Last night Bear-on-the-ground had come to Joe Morris’ cell and told him that something might still be done, and this morning the judge was already a half-hour late. Morris supposed that mean Bear—a good man, for a policeman—was still talking. Bear couldn’t keep him out of jail, but Morris might hope that the cell would be on the Reservation rather than in the state pen. In the long run it was unlikely to make much difference. The tribal judge, old Gray Bull, had joked once that half his case load consisted of saying “six months” over Joe Morris; Morris had left the Reservation without a pass a dozen times in ten years. Sooner or later Gray Bull would make Morris off to the state pen and be rid of him.