Title: The Texican
Author: Coolidge, Dane
Language: English
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THE TEXICAN


      *      *      *      *      *      *

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

     HIDDEN WATER. With four illustrations in color by Maynard Dixon.
       Crown 8vo. $1.35 net.

  A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers
  CHICAGO

      *      *      *      *      *      *


[Illustration: The calf was like its mother, but she, on account of her
brand and ear-marks, held the entire attention of the Texan
                                                          [Chapter IV]]


THE TEXICAN

by

DANE COOLIDGE

Author of "Hidden Water"

With Illustrations in Color by Maynard Dixon



[Illustration: [++] Decorative image.]

Chicago
A. C. Mcclurg & Co.
1911

Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1911

Published September, 1911

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England

Press of the Vail Company
Coshocton, U. S. A.



  TO MY OLD FRIEND

  DANE COOLIDGE

  WHO HAS STAYED WITH ME THROUGH ALL MY TROUBLES
  THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY
  THE AUTHOR



    "Oh, out from old Missouri
      I set me forth to roam
    Indicted by a jury
      For toling hawgs from home.

    "With faithful Buck and Crowder
      I crossed the Western plains
    Then turned them loose in the Cow-Country
      And waited for my gains.

    "And now I'm called a Cattle King
      With herds on many a stream—
    And all from the natural increase
      Of that faithful old ox-team."
                       _The Song of Good-Eye._



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                         PAGE

      I    VERDE CROSSING                            11

     II    GOOD EYE, THE MAVERICK KING               22

    III    THE DOUBLE CROSS                          32

     IV    THE SHOW-DOWN                             46

      V    LOST DOG CAÑON                            60

     VI    "THE VOICE OF REASON"                     74

    VII    THE REVOLUTION                            90

   VIII    THE DAY AFTER                            105

     IX    DEATH AND TAXES                          123

      X    STAMPEDED                                142

     XI    THE CATTLE WAR                           156

    XII    MOUNTAIN LAW                             173

   XIII    WELCOME HOME                             183

    XIV    THE KANGAROO COURT                       196

     XV    THE REVOLUTION IN FACT                   216

    XVI    BACK TO NATURE                           238

   XVII    THE POWER OF THE PRESS                   255

  XVIII    THE LAW'S DELAY                          278

    XIX    THE LAST CHANCE                          295

     XX    THE LAW AND THE EVIDENCE                 318

    XXI    NEVER AGAIN                              355



ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                   PAGE

  The calf was like its mother, but she, on
      account of her brand and ear-marks, held
      the entire attention of the Texan  _Frontispiece_

  Pecos's ever-ready pistol was out and balanced
    in his hand                                      56

  As the rout went by Angy saw Pecos, tied to his
    horse, his arms bound tight to his sides        188

  "You _will_ turn this jail into a hog-waller,
    will you?" he demanded                          250

  She laid a brown hand against the bars as if in
    protest and motioned him nearer the screen      312



THE TEXICAN



CHAPTER I

VERDE CROSSING


The languid quiet of midday lay upon the little road-house that stood
guard by Verde Crossing. Old Crit and his wild Texas cowboys had left
the corral at dawn, riding out mysteriously with their running irons in
their chaps; the dogs had crawled under José Garcia's house and gone
to sleep; to the north the Tonto trail stretched away vacant and only
the brawling of the Verde as it rushed over the rocky ford suggested
the savage struggle that was going on in the land. Within the adobe
fort that served for both store and saloon Angevine Thorne, Old Crit's
roustabout, sat tipped back in his chair breathing thoughtfully through
a mouth-organ while a slender Mexican girl, lingering by the doorway,
listened in childish adoration.

"_Oyez_, Babe," she pleaded, lisping in broken English, "sing 'Work iss
Done' for me, _otra vez_, once more."

"Yore maw will be singin' a different tune if you don't hurry home
with that lard," counselled Babe, but seeing that she was in no mood
to depart he cleared his throat to sing. "You don't know how bad this
makes me feel, Marcelina," he said, rubbing his hand over his bald spot
and smoothing down his lank hair, "but I'll sing you the first verse—it
ain't so bad." He stood up and turned his eyes to heaven; a seraphic
smile came into his face, as if he saw the angels, and in a caressing
tenor voice he began:--

    "A jolly group of cowboys, discussing their plans one day
    When one says, 'I will tell you something, boys, before
        I'm gone away.
    I am a cowboy as you see, although I'm dressed in rags.
    I used to be a wild one, a-taking on big jags.
    I have a home, boys, a good one, you all know,
    Although I have not seen it since long ago.
    I am going back to Dixie, once for to see them all;
    I am going back to Dixie to see my mother when work is done
        this Fall.

    "'After the round-ups are over, after the shipping is all done,
    I am going to see my mother before my money is all gone.
    My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me, and that's all.
    And with God's help I will see her when work is done this Fall.'"

A pause followed his last words and the singer limped in behind the
counter. "Well, that's all, now," he said, waving her away, "go on
home, child—can't you see it makes me feel powerful bad?"

The girl smiled with the sweet melancholy of her race. "I like to feel
bad," she said. "Sing about the wind."

Angevine Thorne looked down upon her and shook his head sadly. "Ah,
Marcelina," he said, "you are growing up to be a woman." Then he sighed
and began again:—

    "That very same night this poor cowboy went out to stand his guard.
    The wind was blowing fiercely and the rain was falling hard.
    The cattle they got frightened and ran in a mad stampede.
    Poor boy, he tried to head them while riding at full speed.
    Riding in the darkness so loudly he did shout,
    A-trying to head the cattle, a-trying to turn them about,
    When his saddled night-horse stumbled and upon him did fall.
    Now the poor boy will not see his mother when work is done
        this Fall."

"And now the rest—how he died," breathed Marcelina, and once more the
troubadour smiled.

    "We picked him up so gently and laid him on his bed,
    A-standing all around the poor cowboy, a-thinking he was dead,
    When he opened wide his blue eyes, looked around and said:
    'Boys, I think those are the last steers I shall ever head.
    So Bill, you take my saddle, and Charley, you take my bed,
    And George, you take my six-shooter and be sure that I am dead.
    I am going to a new range, for I hear my Master's call,
    And will not see my aged mother when work is done this Fall.

    "'After the round-ups were over, after the shipping was all done,
    I was going to see my mother before my money was all gone.
    My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me and that's all,
    And if God had spared my absence I would have seen her
    When work was done this Fall.'"

A rapt silence, such as artists love, followed the last wailing cadence
of the song; the stillness of the desert crept in upon them, broken
only by the murmur of the river and an almost subterranean thud of
hoofs; then with a jingle of spurs and the creaking of wet leather a
horseman rode up and halted before the door. The water sloshed in his
boots as he dismounted but he swung into the store with the grace of a
cavalier—a young man, almost a boy, yet broad-shouldered and muscular,
with features moulded to an expression of singular resolution and
courage. A heavy pair of apron chaps—sure sign of Texas—cumbered his
limbs and the wooden handle of a Colts forty-five showed above its
holster in the right leg; for the rest, he wore a new jumper over his
blue shirt, and a broad, high-crowned hat, without frills. As the
stranger headed for the bar with business-like directness Angevine
Thorne felt a sudden sense of awe, almost of fear, and he wondered for
the instant if it was a hold-up; but the Texan simply dropped a quarter
on the counter and motioned to a bottle.

"Two," he corrected, as Babe filled a single glass; and, shoving the
second one towards his host, who eyed it with studied unconcern, the
cowboy tossed off his own and looked around.

"What's the matter?" he inquired, as Babe moved thoughtfully away;
"swore off? All right, you drink the chaser, then," and leaving the
superfluous glass of water on the bar he drank the whiskey himself.

"Ughr! That's the real old tarantula-juice," he observed, as the fiery
liquor made him shudder. "Since when did you swear off?"

"Six weeks," responded Babe, shortly. "How's Texas?"

"All right," replied the cowboy. "Did it git away with you?"

"Yep," returned the bar-keeper. "Don't like to talk about it—say, is
they anybody left in Texas?"

The stranger gazed at him shrewdly for a moment, and a grim light came
into his eye.

"Don't like to talk about it," he said, "but now you speak of it I know
of one feller, for sure—and dam' badly left, too. May be around on
crutches by now." He glanced out at his horse, which had just shaken
itself under the saddle, and let his gaze wander to Marcelina.

"Pretty girls you have in this country," he remarked, turning a little
sidewise to Babe, but watching her from beneath his hat. "Don't speak
any English, I suppose?"

"Nope," replied Babe, sullenly, "her mother don't like cowboys. _Oyez,
Marcelina, vaya se a su madre, chiquita!_" But though her mother was
calling, the wilful Marcelina did not move. Like an Aztec princess she
stood silent and impassive, gazing out from beneath her dark lashes
and waiting to catch some further word of praise from this dashing
stranger. Undoubtedly, Marcelina was growing to be a woman.

"Name's Marcelina, eh?" soliloquized the cowboy, innocently. "Pity she
can't savvy English—she's right pretty, for a Mex."

At that last unconscious word of derogation the regal beauty of
Marcelina changed to a regal scorn and flashing her black eyes she
strode towards the door like a tragic queen.

"_Gr-ringo!_" she hissed, turning upon him in the doorway, and seizing
upon her pail of lard she scampered up the trail.

"Hell's fire!" exclaimed the _Tehanno_. "Did she understand what I
said?"

"That's what," replied Babe, ungraciously, "you done queered yourself
with her for life. She won't stand for nothin' aginst her people."

"Huh!" grumbled the newcomer, "that's what comes from drinkin' yore
pisen whiskey. I begin to savvy now, Pardner, why you passed up that
sheep-herder dope and took water."

He grinned sardonically, making a motion as of a pin-wheel twirling in
his head, but the bar-keeper did not fall in with his jest. "Nothin'
of the kind," he retorted. "W'y, boy, I could drink that whole bottle
and walk a tight rope. I guess you don't know me—I'm Angevine Thorne,
sometimes known as 'Babe'!" He threw out his chest, but the cowboy
still looked puzzled.

"Did you come through Geronimo," inquired Babe, returning to the
attack, "and never heard of me? Well then, Pardner, I'll have to put
you wise—I'm Angevine Thorne, the Champion Booze-fighter of Arizona!"
He dropped back to his pose and the cowboy contemplated him with grave
curiosity.

"Mr. Thorne," he said, holding out his hand, "my name is Dalhart—Pecos
Dalhart, from Texas—and I'm proud to make your acquaintance. Won't you
have a drink on the strength of it?"

"Thank you just as much," replied Mr. Thorne, affably, "but I've sworn
off. I've been the greatest booze-fighter of Arizona for twenty years,
but I've sworn off. Never, never, will I let another drop of liquor
pass my lips! I have been sentenced to the Geronimo jail for life for
conspicuous drunkenness; I have passed my days in riotous living and my
nights in the county jail, but the love of a good mother has followed
me through it all and now I am going to quit! I'm saving up money to go
home."

"Good for you," commented Pecos Dalhart, with the good-natured
credulity which men confer upon drunkards, "stay with it! But say, not
to change the subject at all, where can I git something to eat around
here? I'm ganted down to a shadder."

"You're talkin' to the right man, son," returned Babe, hustling out
from behind the bar. "I'm one of the best round-up cooks that ever
mixed the sour-dough—in fact, I'm supposed to be cookin' for Crit's
outfit right now and he just saws this bar-keep job off on me between
times, so's to tempt me and git my money—when I git drunk, you savvy.
He's a great feller, Old Crit—one of the boys up the river has got a
penny Crit passed off on him in the dark for a dime and he swears to
God that pore Injun's head is mashed flat, jest from bein' pinched so
hard. Pinch? W'y, he's like a pet eagle I had one time—every time he
lit on my arm he'd throw the hooks into me—couldn't help it—feet built
that way. An' holler! He'd yell _Cree_ so you c'd hear him a mile if
anybody tried to steal his meat. Same way with Crit. Old Man Upton over
here on the Tonto happened to brand one of his calves once and he's
been hollerin' about that maverick ever since. You've heard of this war
goin' on up here, hain't you? Well that's just Old Crit tryin' to git
his revenge. If he's burnt one U calf he's burnt a thousand and they
ain't cowboys enough in Texas to hold up his end, if it ever comes to
fightin'. This here is the cow-camp—throw yore horse in the corral over
there and I'll cook up a little chuck—jest about to eat, myse'f."



CHAPTER II

GOOD EYE, THE MAVERICK KING


Angevine Thorne was still talking mean about his boss when the cowboys
came stringing back from their day's riding, hungry as wolves. At the
first dust sign in the northern pass the round-up cook had piled wood
on the fire to make coals and as the iron-faced punchers rode up he
hammered on a tin plate and yelled:—

"Grub pile! Come a-runnin'!"

They came, with the dirt of the branding still on their faces and
beards and their hands smeared with blood. Each in turn glanced
furtively at Pecos Dalhart, who sat off at one side contemplating the
landscape, grabbed a plate and coffee cup and fell to without a word.
Last of all came Isaac Crittenden, the Boss, tall, gaunt, and stooping,
his head canted back to make up for the crook in his back and his one
good eye roving about restlessly. As he rode in, Pecos glanced up and
nodded and then continued his industry of drawing brands in the dust.
The Boss, on his part, was no more cordial; but after the meal was
finished he took another look at the newcomer, spoke a few words with
the cook, and strolled over for a talk.

"Howdy, stranger," he began, with a quick glance at the brands in the
sand; "travellin' far?"

"Nope," responded Pecos, "jest up the trail a piece."

A shadow crossed the Boss's face—Upton's was "up the trail a piece"—but
he did not follow that lead.

"Know any of them irons?" he inquired, pointing to the sand-drawings,
which represented half the big brands between the Panhandle and the
Gila.

"Sure thing," replied the cowboy, "I've run 'em."

"And burnt 'em, too, eh?" put in Crittenden, shrewdly; but Pecos
Dalhart was not as young as he looked.

"Not on your life," he countered, warily, "that don't go where I come
from."

"Of course not, of course not," assented the cowman, instantly
affecting a bluff honesty, "and it don't go here, neither, if any one
should inquire. A man's brand is his property and he's got a right
to it under the law. I've got a few cows here myself—brand IC on the
ribs—and I'd like to see the blankety-blank that would burn it. I'd
throw 'em in the pen, if it was the last act. Where you travellin'?"

He jerked this out as a sort of challenge, and the cowboy rose to his
feet.

"Upton's," he said briefly.

"Upton's!" repeated Crittenden, "and what do you figure on doin' up
there?"

"Well, I heard he was a good feller to work for—thought I'd take on for
a cow hand."

Pecos stated the proposition judicially, but as he spoke he met the
glowering glance of Crittenden with a cold and calculating eye.
The cattle-stealing war between John Upton of Tonto Basin and Old
Crit of Verde Crossing was no secret in Arizona, though the bloody
Tewkesbury-Graham feud to the north took away from its spectacular
interest and reduced it to the sordid level of commercialism. It
was, in fact, a contest as to which could hire the nerviest cowboys
and run off the most cattle, and Pecos Dalhart knew this as well as
Isaac Crittenden. They stood and glared at each other for a minute,
therefore, and then Old Crit broke loose.

"Whoever told you that John Upton is a good feller is a liar!" he
stormed, bringing his fist down into his hand. "He's jest a common,
low-down cow-thief, as I've told him to his face; and a man that will
steal from his friends will do anything. Now, young man, before we go
any farther I want to tell you what kind of a reptile John Upton is.
Him and me run our cattle over in Tonto Basin for years, and if we'd
ever have any question about a calf or a _orehanna_ I'd always say,
'Well, take 'im, John,' jest like that, because I didn't want to have
no racket with a friend. But they's some people, the more you give in
to 'em the more they run it over you, and they come a day when I had to
put my foot down and say, 'No, that calf is mine,' and I put my iron on
'im right there. Now that calf was mine, you understand, and I branded
him IC on the ribs, in the corral and before witnesses, accordin' to
law, but about a week afterward when I come across that critter, John
Upton had run a big U after my brand, makin' it ICU. Well, you may
laugh, but that's no kind of a joke to play on a friend and I jest
hopped down off'n my horse and run a figger 2 after it, making it ICU2;
and about the time John Upton gits his funny ICU brand in the book I
goes down and registers ICU2, goin' him one better. Now that's carryin'
a joke pretty far, and I admit it, but Upton wasn't funnin'; that
crooked-nose dastard had set out to steal my cows from the start and,
seein' I'd euchered him on the ICU racket he went ahead and slapped a
big J in front of my IC iron, and began branding my cows into what he
called his Jay-Eye-See brand. Well, that settled it. I'm an honest man,
but when a man steals cows from me I don't know any way to break even
in this country but to steal back, and while he was putting his J's on
my IC critters I jumped in and put IC2's on his U's until he was ready
to quit. He's _afraid_ to burn my brand now—he dassent do it—and so
he's beginnin' to squeal because I've got 'im in the door; but say—" he
beckoned with his head—"come over here by the corral, I want to talk to
you."

Throughout this long tale of woe Pecos Dalhart had shown but scant
interest, having heard it already, with variations, from Babe.
According to that faithless individual Old Crit would steal fleas
from a pet monkey and skin them for the hide and tallow; his favorite
pastime, outside of cattle-rustling, being to take on cowboys and then
hold out their pay, a rumor which caused Pecos Dalhart to regard him
warily.

"Now say," began the Boss of Verde Crossing, as soon as they were out
of hearing, "you don't need to go to that hoss-thief Upton in order
to git a job. I'm always lookin' for the right kind of man, myself.
Have you had any experience at this kind of thing?" He went through
the dexterous pantomime of burning a brand through a blanket, but the
cowboy only turned away scornfully.

"If I had I'd never be dam' fool enough to talk about it," he said.

"Oho!" observed Crit, rubbing the side of his nose slyly, "you're
travelling for your health, are you?"

"No!" snarled the Texan. "The only people that are lookin' for me are
tryin' to keep away from me, so you don't need to work that auger any
deeper. Now, Mr. Crittenden, I'm a man of few words—what can I do for
you?"

"We-ell," began the cowman, and once more he paused to meditate.

"Since you inquire," continued the cowboy, "I don't mind tellin' you
that I'm travellin' for excitement—and to grab some money. If you've
got any proposition that might appeal to me, spit it out—if not, they's
no harm done."

"Well, wait a minute!" cried Old Crit, peevishly.

"My time's valuable," observed Pecos, sententiously. "You can trust me
as good as I can trust you—mebby better. I don't hear nobody accuse you
of being sure pay, but if I take your job I want you to remember that I
draw my money at the end of every month or else I collect and quit. Now
if you can jar that proposition out of your system, I'll listen to it."

"I guess you'll do," said the cowman, as if quieting his own
misgivings. "I've got a little special work that I want done on the
quiet, markin' over some cows and calves. The man that does it will
have to hide out up in that rough country and I'll pay him—forty
dollars."

"Eighty," said the Texan.

"W'y, I'm only payin' my round-up hands thirty," protested Crittenden,
weakly; "I'll give you fifty, though."

"Eighty, cash," said the cowboy. "You'll make that on the first ten
calves."

"Sixty!" pleaded Crit.

"I want my money in my hand at the end of every month," added Pecos,
and then there was a silence.

"All right," grumbled the cowman, at last, "but you understand I expect
something to show for all that money. Now I want you to go around the
corner thar like you was mad, 'n' saddle up and ride on, like you was
goin' to Upton's. Then when it comes night I want you to ride back
and camp out there by that big ironwood over against the mesa. As
soon as me and the boys are out of sight in the mornin' my Mexican,
Joe Garcia, will come out to you with some grub and take you over to
Carrizo Springs, and I want you to _stay_ there as long as I keep
driftin' U cows in over the Peaks. Now look—here's your job—I want you
to burn every one of them Upton cows over into a Wine-glass"—he made
the figure [Illustration: Y [++] Brand in the shape of a wine-glass.]
in the sand—"and run it on the calves. Savvy? Well, git, then, and
remember what I said about lookin' mad—I don't want my punchers to git
onto this!"



CHAPTER III

THE DOUBLE CROSS


A month passed, drearily; and while Ike Crittenden and his punchers
gathered U cows on one side of the Four Peaks and shoved them over the
summit Pecos Dalhart roped them as they came in to Carrizo Springs for
water and doctored over their brands. The boys were following in the
wake of Upton's round-up and the brands on the calves were freshly
made and therefore easy to change, but it called for all of Pecos's
professional skill to alter the cow brands to match. In order not to
cause adverse comment it is necessary that the cow and calf shall show
the same mark and since the mother's brand was always old and peeled
Pecos called into requisition a square of wet gunny-sack or blanket
to help give the antique effect. Spreading this over the old U he
retraced the letter through it with a red-hot iron and then extended
the brand downward until it formed a neat Wine-glass ([Illustration: Y
[++] Brand in the shape of a wine-glass.]), scalded rather than seared
into the hair. Such a brand would never look fresh or peel, though it
might grow dim with years, and after working the ear-marks over on cow
and calf the transformation was complete. But while the results of his
labor was a fine little bunch of Wine-glass cows hanging around Carrizo
Springs, to Pecos himself, tying a knot in a buckskin string to count
off each weary day, the month seemed interminable.

There was a sound of music in the store as he rode into Verde Crossing
and he spurred forward, eager for the sight of a human face and a
chance to sit down and talk. But at the thud of hoofs and the chink of
spurs Angevine Thorne brought his song to an untimely close and, as
Pecos dismounted, Marcelina Garcia slipped out through the door and
started towards home, favoring him in passing with a haughty stare.

"Good-morning, Mex!" he exclaimed, bowing and touching his heart in an
excess of gallantry, "fine large day, ain't it?"

"_Gringo!_" shrilled Marcelina, flaunting her dark hair, "_Pendejo
Texano!_ Ahhr!" She shuddered and thrust out her tongue defiantly,
but as the "fool Texan" only laughed and clattered into the store she
paused and edged back towards the door for further observations.

"W'y, hello, Angy!" cried Pecos, racking jovially up to the bar, "how's
the champeen? Sober as a judge, hey? Well, gimme another shot of that
snake-pisen and if it don't kill me I may swear off too, jest to be
sociable! Say, what does 'pen_day_ho' mean?" He glanced roguishly back
towards the door, where he knew Marcelina was listening, and laughed
when he got the translation.

"Dam' fool, hey? Well, I thought it was something like that—kinder
p'lite and lady-like, you know. Marcelina hung that on me as I come in,
but I called her a Mex and I'll stand by it. Where's Old Crit?"

Angevine Thorne drew himself up and regarded the cowboy with grave
displeasure.

"Mr. Crittenden is out riding," he said, "and I'll thank you not to
refer to the nativity of my friend, Miss Garcia."

"Certainly not—to be sure!" protested Pecos Dalhart. "If you will jest
kindly give me an introduction to the young lady I'll—"

"See you in hell first," broke in Angy, with asperity. "Where you been
all the time?"

"Ramblin' around, ramblin' around," answered Pecos, waving his hand
vaguely. "What's the chances for a little music and song to while the
time away? I'm lonely as a dog."

"Joe Garcia tells me he's been packin' grub out to you at Carrizo—what
you been doin' in that God-forsaken hole?"

"Yore friend Joe talks too much," observed Pecos, briefly, "and I
reckon _you_ tell everything you know, don't you? Well and good, then,
I'll keep you out of trouble with the Boss by listenin' to what you
know already. Can you sing the 'Ranger,' or 'California Joe'? No?
Can't even sing 'Kansas,' can you? Well, it's too bad about you, but
I'm going to show you that they's another canary bird on the Verde,
and he can sure sing." With this declaration Pecos leaned back against
the bar, squared his shoulders, and in a voice which had many a time
carolled to a thousand head of cattle burst into a boastful song.

    "Ooh, I can take the wildest bronco
          Of the wild and woolly West;
          I can back him, I can ride him,
          Let him do his level best.
          I can handle any creature
          Ever wore a coat of hair,
          And I had a lively tussle
          With a tarnal grizzly bear."

He glanced slyly towards the door, threw out his chest, and essayed
once more to attract the attention of his girl, if she was anywhere
within a mile.

    "Ooh, I can rope and tie a long-horn,
          Of the wildest Texas brand,
          And in any disagreement,
          I can play a leading hand.
          I—"

A dark mass of hair shading a pair of eyes as black and inquisitive as
a chipmunk's appeared suddenly in the vacant square of the doorway and
instantly the bold cowboy stopped his song.

"Good-morning, Miss Garcia," he said, bowing low, "won't you come
in—now, Angy, do your duty or I'll beat you to death!" At this hasty
aside Angevine Thorne did the honors, though with a bad grace.

"Marcelina, this is Mr. Dalhart—you better go home now, your mother's
callin' you."

"I will not shake hands with a _Texano_!" pronounced Marcelina,
stepping into the open and folding her arms disdainfully.

"Come on in then and hear the music," suggested Pecos, peaceably.

"Pah! The _Tehannos_ sing like coyotes!" cried Marcelina, twisting
up her lips in derision. "They are bad, bad men—_mi madre_ say so.
No, I go home—and when you are gone Babe will sing _sweet_ moosic for
me." She bowed, with a little smile for Babe, and glided through the
doorway; and though he lingered about until Old Crit came in, Pecos
Dalhart failed to catch another glimpse of this new queen of his heart.

It was dusk when Crittenden rode into camp, and at sight of Pecos
Dalhart sitting by the fire the cowman's drawn face, pinched by hunger
and hard riding, puckered up into a knot.

"What you doin' down here?" he demanded, when he had beckoned him to
one side.

"Come down for my pay," responded the cowboy, briefly.

"Your pay," fumed Crittenden, "your pay! What do you need with money up
at Carrizo? Say, have you been gittin' many?" he whispered, eagerly.
"Have they been comin' in on you?"

"Sure thing. Branded forty-two cows, thirty calves, and sixteen twos.
But how about it—do I draw?"

"Only thirty calves! W'y, what in the world have you been doin'? I
could pick up that many mavericks on the open range. You must've been
layin' down under a tree!"

"That's right," agreed Pecos, "and talkin' to myse'f, I was that
lonely. But if you'll kindly fork over that eighty that's comin' to
me we'll call it square, all the same—I only branded about a thousand
dollars' worth of cows for you."

"Eighty dollars!" cried Old Crit. "W'y, I never agreed to nothin' like
that—I said I'd give you sixty. But I'll tell you what I'll do," he
added, quickly, "I'll make it eighty if you'll go up there for another
month."

"After I git my first month's pay they will be time to discuss that,"
replied Pecos Dalhart, and after a thousand protestations the cowman
finally went down into his overalls and produced the money.

"Now what about next month?" he demanded, sharply.

"Nope," said Pecos, pocketing his eighty dollars, "too lonely—too much
trouble collectin' my pay—don't like the job."

"Give you eighty dollars," urged Crit, "that's a heap o' money for one
month."

"Nope, this'll last me a while—so long." He started toward the corral
but Crittenden caught him by the arm instantly.

"Here, wait a minute," he rasped, "what's the matter with you anyhow?
I'm ridin' early and late on my round-up and dependin' on you to finish
this job up! You ain't goin' to quit me right in the middle of it, are
you?"

"That's what," returned Pecos. "I ain't so particular about brandin'
a maverick once in a while—every cowman does that—but this idee of
stealin' from a man you never saw goes agin' me. I git to thinkin'
about it, an' it ain't right!"

"Aw, sho, sho, boy," protested Crittenden, "you don't want to mind a
little thing like that—I thought you was a man with nerve. Now here,
I can't stop to go out there now and I want to git that work finished
up—I'll give you _eight-y-five dol-lars_ to stay another month! This
man Upton is the biggest cow-thief in the country," he went on, as
Pecos shook his head, "it ain't stealin' to rob a thief, is it?"

"Oh, ain't it?" inquired the cow-puncher, gravely, and he smiled grimly
to himself as Crittenden endeavored to set his mind at rest. "All right
then," he said, cutting short the cowman's labored justification of
cattle-rustling, "I'll go you—for a hundred."

"A hundred!" repeated Crittenden, aghast. "Well, for—all right, all
right," he cried, as Pecos moved impatiently away. "Now you pull out of
here the way you did before and I'll have Joe pack you over some more
grub. A hundred dollars," he murmured, shaking his head at the thought,
"that boy will ruin me."

Early the next morning Pecos Dalhart rode slowly up the trail that led
to Carrizo Springs and the deserted country beyond, a land where as
yet the cowmen had not extended their sway. To his left rose the sharp
granite spires of the Four Peaks, to the right gleamed the silvery
thread of the Salagua, that mighty river that flowed in from the east;
and all the country between was a jumble of cliffs and buttes and
ridges and black cañons, leading from the mountains to the river.

"So it ain't no crime to rob a thief, hey?" he muttered, when, topping
the last ridge, he gazed down at Carrizo Springs and across at the
white-worn trail which led into the wilderness beyond. "Well, if that's
the case I might as well search out that country over there and git
busy on Old Crit. A man's a dam' fool to steal a thousand dollars'
worth of cattle and only git eighty dollars for it."

Three days later, riding by a trail that led ever to the east, Pecos
came upon a narrow valley filled with cottonwoods and wild walnuts and
echoing to the music of running water. A fine brook, flowing down from
the brushy heights of the Peaks, leaped and tumbled over the bowlders
and disappeared through a narrow cleft below, where the two black walls
drew together until they seemed almost to block the cañon. As Pecos
rode cautiously down the creek-bed he jumped a bunch of cattle from
the shade of the alders and, spurring after them as they shambled
off, he saw that they bore the familiar U, even to the young calves.
Undoubtedly they belonged to the same bunch that he had been working
on over at Carrizo Springs—the fresh-branded calves and U cows that
Crittenden was shoving over the Peaks. Riding farther down the gulch
Pecos came upon a cave at the base of the overhanging cliff. In time
past the Indians had camped there, but the ashes of their fires were
bedded and only their crude pictures on the smoke-grimed rocks remained
to tell the tale. It was the cave of Lost Dog Cañon.

On their trip over the simple-minded José had spoken of a lost cañon
somewhere over in the mountains but Pecos had never dreamed of finding
a paradise like this. According to José the Cañon of Perro Perdito was
haunted by a spirit which was _muy malo_, throwing down great rocks
from the sides of the cañon and howling like a lost dog at night, but
in the broad light of noonday Pecos was undaunted and he rode on into
the tunnel-like box cañon until it pinched down to a mere cleft. It was
an eerie place, but there never was a ghost yet that threw a track like
a cow and, led on by their familiar foot-prints among the rocks, Pecos
forged ahead until he stepped out suddenly into a new world. Behind
him the pent and overhanging walls shut out the light of day but here
the sun was shining into a deep valley where in exquisite miniature
lay parks and grassy meadows, while cathedral spires of limestone,
rising from the cañon floor, joined their mighty flanks to the
rim-rock which shut the whole space in. The glittering waters of the
Salagua, far below, marked a natural barrier to the south and as Pecos
Dalhart looked at the narrow trail which had brought him in he began
instinctively to figure on a drift fence, to close the entrance to the
pocket, and make the hidden valley a mile-wide pasture and corral. All
nature seemed conspiring to make him a cattle-rustler and this hidden
pasture, with its grass and water and the gate opening at his very
door, cast the die. Two days later he moved his camp to Lost Dog Cañon
and flew at the fence with feverish energy. Within a week he had the
box cañon barricaded from wall to wall and then, as the U cows came
down to the creek to drink, he roped them, worked over their brands,
and threw them into his new pasture. By this time, with his tongue in
his cheek, he attached a circle instead of a bar to the U and named his
new brand the Monkey-wrench ([Illustration: [++] Brand in the shape of
a monkey-wrench]). If he had any qualms as to the morality of this last
act Pecos did not let them interfere with his industry in any way. The
ethics of the cattle business will not stand too stern a scrutiny, even
at this late date, and the joke on Old Crit was so primordial in its
duplicity that it obscured the finer moral issues. Like many another
cowman of those early days Pecos Dalhart had made his start with the
running iron and with luck and judgment he might yet be a cattle king.



CHAPTER IV

THE SHOW-DOWN


It is a great sensation to feel that you are a prospective cattle
king, but somehow when Pecos Dalhart rode back to Verde Crossing
his accustomed gaiety had fled. There were no bows and smiles for
Marcelina, no wordy exchanges with the garrulous Babe—there is a
difference, after all, between stealing cows for eighty dollars a month
and stealing for yourself, and while a moralist might fail to see the
distinction it showed in its effect on Pecos's spirits.

"I'm goin' down to Geronimo," he grumbled, after an uneasy hour at
the store, during which he had tried in vain the cheering power of
whiskey; "you can tell Crit I'll be back to-morrow night for my time,"
and without volunteering any further information he rode down to
the river, plunged across the rocky ford and was swallowed up in the
desert. Two days later he returned, red-eyed and taciturn, and to all
Babe's inquiries he observed that the Geronimo saloons were the worst
deadfalls west of the Rio Grande, for a certainty. His mood did not
improve by waiting, and when Crittenden finally rode in after his long
day's work he demanded his money so brusquely that even that old-timer
was startled.

"Well, sho, sho, boy," he soothed, "don't git excited over nothin'!
To be sure I'll pay you your money." He went down into his overalls
with commendable promptitude, but Pecos only watched him in surly
silence. Something in his pose seemed to impress the shifty cowman; he
drew forth a roll of bills and began to count them out, reluctantly.
"Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred—there it is—now what's all
this racket about?"

"Nothin'," responded Pecos, stowing away the greenbacks, "but you can
git somebody else to finish up that job."

"Well, here," snapped the cowman, warming up a little as Dalhart cooled
down, "don't I git no accountin' for this month's work? How many did
you brand and what you quittin' for?"

"I branded sixty-seven cows, fifty-five calves, and thirty
two-year-olds," replied the cowboy, boldly, and Crittenden, not knowing
in what iron they were branded, chuckled gleefully.

"Umm," he murmured, "wall, say now, that ain't so bad. Old Upton will
make a buck-jump at the moon when he finds this out. But lookee here,
boy, I'm goin' to be driftin' cows into that country for another month
yet, and that'll be as long as we can brand and ear-mark on account
of the flies in June. Now I want to make a dicker with you for jest
one more month and I'll be generous with you—how about a hundred and
ten—that's pretty nigh four months' wages for a cow-punch!"

"No, I've done quit!" protested Pecos, vigorously. "Steal your own
cattle! When I want to go into the rustlin' business I'll rustle for
myse'f!"

"Jest one more month," insisted Old Crit, "I'll give you a hundred and
twenty!"

The cowboy looked at him a minute and smiled sneeringly. "Well, bein'
as yore money seems to be burnin' a hole in yore pocket," he said, "I
guess I'll have to take it away from you, but I'll tell you right now
I don't approve of this cow-stealin'—it's likely to git a man into
trouble!"

"All right, all right," said Crittenden, making haste to clinch the
bargain, "a hundred and twenty, then; and they hain't nobody ever been
convicted in Geronimo County yet for stealin' cows, so you don't need
to worry none. Pull your freight, now, and I'll be over later on to see
what you've done."

As Pecos Dalhart and José Garcia rode up the Carrizo trail the next
morning driving their pack animals before them, the conversation was
chiefly between José and his mules. Pecos did not approve of Mexicans
and José did not approve of Pecos—he had been making love to his girl,
Marcelina. But about a mile out of Verde Crossing they came across an
object that was worthy of comment—an old cow and her calf, both so
curiously marked that no cowboy could pass them unnoticed. The cow was
covered from shoulder to flank with minute red and white spots and,
plastered generously across her face, was a variegated blotch of the
creamy dun color peculiar to Chihuahua stock. The calf was like its
mother, even to the dun face and spotted neck and ears, but she, on
account of her brand and ear-marks, held the entire attention of the
Texan.

"What brand you call that, Joe?" he inquired, as the old cow
contemplated them from the hillside.

"_Mi fiero!_" exclaimed the Mexican, proudly tapping himself on the
chest.

"Oh, it's yourn, is it?" commented Pecos. "Looks like an Injun arrer
struck by lightnin', don't it? Well, these Mexican irons are too many
for me—I see you got winders in her ears!"

"You bet," assented Joe, "that my mark, un _ventano_, un slash, un
_anzuelo_!"

"A window, a slash, and an underbit, hey—you don't figure on anybody
stealin' _her_, unless they cut 'er ears off, do you? How many cows you
got?"

"Oh, six—eight," answered José, pride of possession loosening up his
tongue, "this good milk cow."

"Milk cow, eh?" repeated Pecos, and then he stopped and pondered a
while. Only the day before he had recorded his Monkey-wrench brand at
Geronimo, although he did not have an honestly acquired cow in the
world—here was a chance to cover his hand. "How much you take for cow,
Joe?" he asked. "I like milk, my camp."

"You take calf too?" inquired the Mexican, shrewdly.

"Sure," said Pecos, "give you twenty dollars for the cow and ten for
the calf!" He drew a roll of bills from his pocket and began to peel
them off temptingly.

"You geev twenty-five for cow," suggested Joe, his slow wits beginning
to move at the sight of real money.

"All right," said Pecos, briskly, "I'll give you twenty-five for the
cow and five for the calf—but you have to give me bill of sale."

"_Stawano_," assented the Mexican, "and I vent her when we geet to
camp, too. Dam' Ol' Crit," he observed, as he pocketed the money, "I
work for heem long time—he make me take trade een store—all time in
debt!"

He threw the spotted cow and calf in with the pack animals and when
they had arrived at Carrizo Springs he roped her and, true to his
promise, ran his Indian arrow brand on her shoulder, thus making her a
living document and memorandum of sale. In the cow country that "vent"
on the shoulder is the only bill of sale required, but Pecos drew up a
formal paper giving the ear-marks and brand, and after Joe had signed
it and gone he roped Old Funny-face again and ran a Monkey-wrench
on her ribs beneath the original mark, all of which is strictly
according to law. After that he herded her close, letting the little
Monkey-wrench calf have all the milk, while he waited expectantly for
Old Crit to drop in.

At the beginning of his long month of waiting Pecos Dalhart was
watchful and conservative. He branded up all the cattle that had
drifted into Lost Dog Cañon, drove them down into his hidden pasture
and closed the breach in his drift fence—then he moved back to Carrizo
and went soberly about his work. Old Funny-face and her spotted calf
were the only Monkey-wrench cows at Carrizo Springs and though he held
a bill of sale for them Pecos was finally compelled to drive them
over the trail to his Lost Dog pasture in order to keep them from
sneaking back home to Verde Crossing and tipping his hand prematurely
to Isaac Crittenden. He was a hard man, Old Crit, especially when his
pocket-book was touched, and Pecos looked for a gunplay when the Boss
finally found him out; but if Crittenden got wind of his duplicity in
advance he might come over with all his Texas cowboys and wipe Mr.
Pecos Dalhart off the map. So at the start he was careful, running
nothing but Wine-glasses on the U cows that still came drifting in
over the mountains, but as the days went by and his courage mounted up
against the time when he was to face Old Crit a spirit of bravado crept
in on him and made him over-bold. All he wanted now was a show-down,
and he wanted it quick—one Monkey-wrench brand would tell the story.
With a sardonic grin Pecos put his rope on a likely young maverick and
burned a Monkey-wrench on his ribs; then, in order that there should be
no mistake, he worked over the brand on a U cow and put his iron on the
calf. As the last days of the month dragged by and the fighting spirit
within him clamored for action he threw caution to the winds, running a
Monkey-wrench on every cow-brute he caught.

For weeks Pecos had watched the brow of the hill where the Verde trail
came in, and he wore his six-shooter constantly, even at his branding,
but when at last Crittenden finally rode in on him he was so intent
about his work that he almost overlooked him. Only the fidgeting of
his horse, which was holding the rope taut on a big U cow that he had
strung out, saved him from being surprised at his task and taken at
a disadvantage. One glance was enough—it was Crit, and he was alone.
Pecos stood up and looked at him as he came slowly down the hill—then,
as the cow struggled to get up, he seized his running iron from the
fire, spread a wet sack over her brand, and burned a big Monkey-wrench
through the steaming cloth.

"Hello!" hailed the cowman, spurring eagerly in on him. "Are you
catchin' many?"

"Oodles of 'em!" answered Pecos, loosening his tie-down strings and
swinging up on his horse. "Git up there, cow, and show yourse'f off
to the Boss!" He slackened the taut reata that was fastened around
her hind feet and as the old cow sprang up, shaking off the sack, the
smoking Monkey-wrench on her ribs stood out like hand-writing on the
wall.

"Wh-what's that?" gasped Crit, staring at the mark. "I thought I told
you to run a Wine-glass!"

"That's right," assented Pecos, dropping his hand to his hip, "but
I got tired of runnin' your old brand, so I studied out a little
improvement!"

He laughed hectoringly as he spoke and the realization of the fraud
that had been perpetrated upon him made Crittenden reel in the saddle.

"Hev—hev you recorded that brand?" he demanded, tensely.

"I certainly have," responded Pecos, "and I didn't see no Wine-glass
registered before me, neither. If I'd been real foxy, like some people
I know, I would've put that in the book too and euchered you out of the
whole bunch. But I'm good-natured, Mr. Crittenden, and bein' as I
was takin' your money I branded most of these U cows in the Wine-glass.
I hope you'll be able to take this reasonable."

"Reasonable!" screamed Crittenden, "reasonable! W'y, if I wasn't the
most reasonable man on earth I'd shoot you so full of lead it'd take a
wagon to haul you to the graveyard. But you don't know who you're up
against, boy, if you think you can fool me like this—the man don't live
that can give Ike Crittenden the double cross. I been in the business
too long. Now I give you jest five minutes to make me out a bill of
sale for your entire brand, whatever you call it. Ef you _don't_—"

He rose up threateningly in his stirrups and his one good eye glared
balefully, but Pecos had been expecting something like this for a month
or more and he did not weaken.

"Go ahead," he said, "my brand is the Monkey-wrench; I come by it as
honest as you come by the Wine-glass, and I'll fight for it. If you
crowd me too hard, I'll shoot; and if you try to run me out of the
country I'll give the whole snap away to Upton."

"W'y, you son of a—" began the cowman malignantly, but he did not
specify. Pecos's ever-ready pistol was out and balanced in his hand.

[Illustration: Pecos's ever-ready pistol was out and balanced in his
hand]

"That'll do, Mr. Crittenden," he said, edging his horse in closer. "I
never took that off o' nobody yet, and 'tain't likely I'll begin with
you. If you're lookin' for trouble you'll find I can accommodate you,
any time—but listen to reason, now. This ain't the first time a cowman
has got himse'f into trouble by hirin' somebody else to do his stealin'
for him—I've been around some, and I know. But they ain't no use of us
fightin' each other—we're both in the same line of business. You leave
me alone and I'll keep shut about this—is it a go?"

The fires of inextinguishable hate were burning in Old Crit's eye and
his jaw trembled as he tried to talk.

"Young man," he began, wagging a warning finger at his enemy, "young
man—" He paused and cursed to himself fervently. "How much will you
take for your brand?" he cried, trying to curb his wrath, "and agree to
quit the country?"

"I ain't that kind of a hold-up," replied Pecos, promptly. "I like this
country and I'm goin' to live here. They's two or three hundred head of
cattle running in here that I branded for you for a hundred and eighty
dollars. They're worth two or three thousand. I've got a little bunch
myself that I picked up on the side, when I wasn't stealin' for you.
Now all I ask is to be left alone, and I'll do the same by you. Is it a
go?"

The cold light of reason came into Crittenden's fiery orb and glittered
like the hard finish of an agate.

"Well," he said, grudgingly, "well—oh hell, yes!" He urged his horse
sullenly up the hill. "Another one of them smart Texicans," he
muttered, "but I'll cure him of suckin' eggs before I'm through with
'im."



CHAPTER V

LOST DOG CAÑON


The silence of absolute loneliness lay upon Lost Dog Cañon like a pall
and to Pecos Dalhart, sprawling in the door of his cave, it seemed as
if mysterious voices were murmuring to each other behind the hollow
gurgling of the creek. From far down the cañon the bawling of cows,
chafing against the drift fence, echoed with dreary persistence among
the cliffs, and the deep subterranean rumbling which gave the place
its bad name broke in upon his meditations like the stirring of some
uneasy devil confined below. On the rim of the black cañon wall that
rose against him a flock of buzzards sat in a tawdry row, preening
their rusty feathers or hopping awkwardly about in petty, ineffectual
quarrels—as shabby a set of loafers as ever basked in the sun. For
a week Pecos had idled about his cave, now building pole houses to
protect his provisions from the rats, now going out to the point to
watch the Verde trail, until the emptiness of it had maddened him. At
first he had looked for trouble—the veiled treachery of some gun-man,
happening in on him accidentally, or an armed attack from Old Crit's
cowboys—but now he would welcome the appearance of Crit himself. In
action Pecos could trust his nerves absolutely, but he chafed at delay
like a spirited horse that frets constantly at the bit. If it was to
be a game of waiting Crittenden had won already. Pecos threw away his
cigarette impatiently and hurried down the cañon to catch his horse.

"Where's Old Crit?" he demanded when, after a long ride, he stalked
defiantly into the store at Verde Crossing.

"Damfino," replied Babe, looking up from a newspaper he was reading,
"gone down to Geronimo, I guess."

"Is he lookin' for me?" inquired Pecos, guardedly.

"W'y, not so's you notice it," answered the bar-keeper, easily. "It'd
be the first case on record, I reckon, bein' as he owes you money. In
fact, until you collect your last month's pay the chances are good that
you'll be lookin' for him. Did you see the new sign over the door?"

"No," said Pecos, "what is it?"

"Post Office!" replied Babe, proudly. "Yes, sir, Old Good Eye has
certainly knocked the persimmon this time and put Verde Crossing on the
map. They's lots of ranchers up and down the river—and you, of course,
over there at Carrizo—and Crit figured it out some time ago that if he
could git 'em to come here for their mail he'd catch their trade in
whiskey; so what does he do but apply to the Post Office Department for
a mail route from here to Geronimo and bid in the contract himself!
Has to send Joe down about once a week, anyhow, you understand, and he
might as well git the Government to pay for it. So you can write home
to your folks now to send your mail to Verde Crossing—tell your girl
too, because if we don't git ten letters a week we lose our route."

Pecos twisted uneasily on his chair. Like many another good Texan he
was not writing home.

"Ain't got no girl," he protested, blushing beneath his tan.

"No?" said Angy, "well that's good news for Marcelina—she was inquirin'
about you the other day. But say, here's some advertisements in this
paper that might interest you. Umm—lemme see, now—'Genuine Diamonds,
rings, earrings, and brooches, dollar forty-eight a piece, to introduce
our new line.' That's pretty cheap, ain't it! 'Always acceptable to
a lady,' it says. Yes, if you don't want 'em yourself you can give
'em away, see? You know, I'm tryin' to git the fellers around here
interested, so's they'll write more letters."

He threw this out for a feeler and Pecos responded nobly. "Well, go
ahead and order me them rings and earrings," he said, "I'm no cheap
sport. What else you got that's good?"

Angevine Thorne dropped his paper and reached stealthily for a large
mail-order catalogue on the counter. "Aprons, bath-tubs, curtains,
dishes," he read, running his finger down the index. "Here's some silk
handkerchiefs that might suit you; 'green, red, blue, and yaller, sixty
cents each; with embroidered initials, twenty cents extra.'"

"I'll go you!" cried the cowboy, looking over his shoulder. "Gimme half
a dozen of them red ones—no squaw colors for me—and say, lemme look at
them aprons."

"Aprons!" yelled Angy. "Well—what—the—"

"Aw, shut up!" snarled Pecos, blushing furiously. "Can't you take a
joke? Here, gimme that catalogue—you ain't the only man on the Verde
that can read and write—I've had some schoolin' myself!"

He retired to a dark corner with the "poor man's enemy" and pored
over it laboriously, scrawling from time to time upon an order blank
which Angy had thoughtfully provided. At last the deed was done, all
but adding up the total, and after an abortive try or two the cowboy
slipped in a twenty-dollar bill and wrote: "Giv me the rest in blue
hankerchefs branded M." Then he sealed and directed the letter and
called on Babe for a drink.

"How long before I'll git them things?" he inquired, his mind still
heated with visions of aprons, jewelry, and blue handkerchiefs, branded
M,—"two or three weeks? Well, I'll be down before then—they might come
sooner. Where's all the punchers?"

"Oh, they're down in Geronimo, gettin' drunk. Round-up's over, now, and
Crit laid 'em off. Gittin' kinder lonely around here."

"Lonely!" echoed Pecos. "Well, if you call this lonely you ought to
be out in Lost Dog Cañon, where I am. They's nothin' stirrin' there
but the turkey-buzzards—I'm gittin' the willies already, jest from
listenin' to myself think. Say, come on out and see me sometime, can't
you?"

"Nope," said Babe, "if you knew all the things that Crit expects me
to do in a day you'd wonder how I git time to shave. But say, what you
doin' out there, if it's a fair question?"

"Who—me? Oh, I've made me a little camp over in that cave and I'm
catchin' them wild cattle that ooze along the creek." He tried to make
it as matter-of-fact as possible, but Angevine Thorne knew better.

"Yes, I've heard of them wild cows," he drawled, slowly closing one
eye, "the boys've been driftin' 'em over the Peaks for two months.
Funny how they was all born with a U on the ribs, ain't it?"

"Sure, but they's always some things you can't explain in a cow
country," observed Pecos, philosophically. "Did Crit tell you anything
about his new iron? No? Called the Wine-glass—in the brand book by this
time, I reckon."

"Aha! I see—I see!" nodded Angy. "Well, Old Good Eye wants to go easy
on this moonlightin'—we've got a new sheriff down here in Geronimo
now—Boone Morgan—and he was elected to put the fear of God into the
hearts of these cowmen and make 'em respect the law. W'y, Crit won't
even pay his taxes, he's that ornery. When the Geronimo tax-collector
shows up he says his cows all run over in Tonto County; and when the
Tonto man finally made a long trip down here Crit told _him_ his
cows all ran in Geronimo County, all but a hundred head or so, and
John Upton had stole them. The tax-collectors have practically give
up tryin' to do anything up here in the mountains—the mileage of the
assessor and collector eats up all the profits to the county, and
it's easier to turn these cowmen loose than it is to follow 'em up.
This here Geronimo man jumped all over Crit last time he was up here,
but Crit just laughed at him. 'Well,' he says, 'if you don't like the
figgers I give, you better go out on the range and count them cows
yourself, you're so smart.' And what could the poor man do? It'd cost
more to round up Old Crit's cattle than the taxes would come to in a
lifetime. But you want to look out, boy," continued Angy earnestly,
"how you monkey around with them U cattle—Boone Morgan is an old-timer
in these parts and he's likely to come over the hill some day and catch
you in the act."

"Old Crit says they never was a man sent up in this county yet for
stealin' cattle," ventured Pecos, lamely.

"Sure not," assented Angevine Thorne, "but they's been a whole lot of
'em killed for it! I don't suppose he mentioned that. Have you heard
about this Tewkesbury-Graham war that's goin' on up in Pleasant Valley?
That all started over rustlin' cattle, and they's over sixty men killed
already and everybody hidin' out like thieves. A couple of Crit's bad
punchers came down through there from the Hash-knife and they said
it was too crude for them—everybody fightin' from ambush and killin'
men, women, and children. I tell you, it's got the country stirred up
turrible— that's how come Boone Morgan was elected sheriff. The people
down in Geronimo figured out if they didn't stop this stealin' and
rustlin' and alterin' brands pretty soon, Old Crit and Upton would lock
horns—or some of these other cowmen up here in the mountains—and the
county would go bankrupt like Tonto is, with sheriff's fees and murder
trials. No, sir, they ain't been enough law up here on the Verde to
intimidate a jackrabbit so far—it's all down there in Geronimo, where
they give me that life sentence for conspicuous drunkenness—but you
want to keep your ear to the ground, boy, because you're goin' to hear
something drap!"

"What d'ye think's goin' to happen, Babe?" asked the cowboy, uneasily.
"Old Crit can't be scared very bad—he's laid off all his punchers."

"Huh! you don't know Crit as well as I do," commented Babe. "Don't
you know those punchers would've quit anyhow, as soon as they got
their pay? He does that every year—lays 'em off and then goes down
to Geronimo about the time they're broke, and half of 'em in jail,
mebby, and bails 'em out. He'll have four or five of 'em around here
all summer, workin' for nothin' until the fall round-up comes off. I
tell you, that man'll skin a flea anytime for the hide and taller. You
want to keep out of debt to him or he'll make you into a Mexican peon,
like Joe Garcia over here. Joe's been his corral boss and teamster
for four years now and I guess they's a hundred dollars against him
on the books, right now. Will drink a little whiskey once in a while,
you know, like all the rest of us, and the Señora keeps sendin' over
for sugar and coffee and grub, and somehow or other, Joe is always
payin' for a dead horse. Wouldn't be a Mexican, though," observed Babe,
philosophically, "if he wasn't in debt to the store. A Mexican ain't
happy until he's in the hole a hundred or so—then he can lay back and
sojer on his job and the boss is afraid to fire 'im. There's no use of
his havin' anything, anyhow—his relatives would eat 'im out of house
and home in a minute. There was a Mexican down the river here won the
grand prize in a lottery and his relatives come overland from as far as
Sonora to help him spend the money. Inside of a month he was drivin'
a wood-wagon again in order to git up a little grub. He was a big man
while it lasted—open house day and night, _fiestas_ and _bailes_ and a
string band to accompany him wherever he went—but when it was all over
old Juan couldn't buy a pint of whiskey on credit if he was snake-bit.
They're a great people, for sure."

"That's right," assented Pecos, absently, "but say, I reckon I'll be
goin'." The social qualities of the Spanish-Americans did not interest
him just then—he was thinking about Boone Morgan. "Gimme a dollar's
worth of smoking tobacco and a box of forty-fives and I'll hit the
road."

"There's one thing more you forgot," suggested Angevine Thorne, as he
wrapped up the purchases.

"What—Marcelina?" ventured Pecos, faintly.

"Naw—your _mail_!" cried Angy, scornfully, and dipping down into a
cracker box he brought out a paper on the yellow wrapper of which was
printed "Pecos Dalhart, Verde Crossing, Ariz."

"_I_ never subscribed for no paper!" protested Pecos, turning it over
suspiciously. "Here—I don't want it."

"Ump-umm," grunted Angy, smiling mysteriously, "take it along. All the
boys git one. You can read it out in camp. Well, if you're goin' to be
bull-headed about it I'll tell you. Crit subscribed for it for every
man in Verde—only cost two-bits a year. Got to build up this mail route
somehow, you know. It's called the _Voice of Reason_ and it's against
the capitalistic classes."

"The which?" inquired Pecos, patiently.

"Aw, against rich fellers—these sharks like Old Crit that's crushin'
the life outer the common people. That's the paper I was showin'
you—where they was advertisin' diamonds for a dollar forty-eight a
piece."

"Oh," said Pecos, thrusting it into his chaps, "why didn't you say so
before? Sure, I'll read it!"



CHAPTER VI

"THE VOICE OF REASON"


The fierce heat of summer fell suddenly upon Lost Dog Cañon and all the
Verde country—the prolonged heat which hatches flies by the million
and puts an end to ear-marking and branding. Until the cool weather
of October laid them and made it possible to heal a wound there was
nothing for Pecos to do but doctor a few sore ears and read the _Voice
of Reason_. Although he had spent most of his life in the saddle the
school-teacher back on the Pecos had managed to corral him long enough
to beat the three R's into him and, being still young, he had not yet
had time to forget them. Only twenty summers had passed over his head,
so far, and he was a man only in stature and the hard experience of his
craft. He was a good Texan—born a Democrat and taught to love whiskey
and hate Mexicans—but so far his mind was guiltless of social theory.
That there was something in the world that kept a poor man down he
knew, vaguely; but never, until the _Voice of Reason_ brought it to his
attention, had he heard of the conspiracy of wealth or the crime of
government. Not until, sprawling at the door of his cave, he mumbled
over the full-mouthed invective of that periodical had he realized what
a poor, puny creature a wage-slave really was, and when he read of the
legalized robbery which went on under the name of law his young blood
boiled in revolt. The suppression of strikes by Pinkertons, the calling
out of the State Militia to shoot down citizens, the blacklisting of
miners, and the general oppression of workingmen was all far away and
academic to him—the thing that gripped and held him was an article on
the fee system, under which officers of the law arrest all transient
citizens who are unfortunate enough to be poor, and judges condemn them
in order to gain a fee.

"_Think, Slave, Think!_" it began. "You may be the next innocent man to
be thrown into some vile and vermin-infested county-jail to swell the
income of the bloated minions who fatten upon the misery of the poor!"

Pecos had no difficulty in thinking. Like many another man of
wandering habits he had already tasted the bitterness of "ten dollars
or ten days." The hyenas of the law had gathered him in while he was
innocently walking down the railroad track and a low-browed justice of
the peace without asking any useless questions had sentenced him to
jail for vagrancy. Ten days of brooding and hard fare had not sweetened
his disposition any and he had stepped free with the firm determination
to wreak a notable revenge, but as the sheriff thoughtfully kept his
six-shooter Pecos had been compelled to postpone that exposition of
popular justice. Nevertheless the details of his wrongs were still
fresh in his mind, and when he learned from the _Voice of Reason_
that the constable and judge had made him all that trouble for an
aggregate fee of six dollars Pecos was ready to oppose all law, in
whatsoever form it might appear, with summary violence. And as for the
capitalistic classes—well, Pecos determined to collect his last month's
pay from Old Crit if he had to take it out of his hide.

When next he rode into Verde Crossing the hang-dog look which had
possessed Pecos Dalhart since he turned rustler was displaced by a
purposeful frown. He rolled truculently in the saddle as he came down
the middle of the road, and wasted no time with preliminaries.

"Where's that blankety-blank Old Crit?" he demanded, racking into the
store with his hand on his hip.

"Gone down to Geronimo to git the mail," replied Babe, promptly.

"Well, you tell him I want my pay!" thundered Pecos, pacing up and down.

"He'll be back to-night, better stay and tell him yourself," suggested
Babe, mildly.

"I'll do that," responded Pecos, nodding ominously. "And more'n
that—I'll collect it. What's doin'?"

"Oh, nothin'," replied Babe. "There was a deputy assessor up here the
other day and he left this blank for you to fill out. It gives the
number of your cattle."

"Well, you tell that deputy to go to hell, will you?"

"Nope," said Babe, "he might take me with him. It happens he's a deputy
sheriff, too!"

"Deputy,—_huh_!" grumbled Pecos, morosely. "They all look the same to
me. Did Crit fill out his blank?"

"Sure did. Reported a hundred head of Wine-glasses. Now what d'ye think
of that?"

Pecos paused and meditated on the matter for an instant. It was
doubtful if Crittenden could gather more than a hundred head of
Wine-glasses, all told. Some of them had drifted back to their old
range and the rest were scattered in a rough country. "Looks like that
deputy threw a scare into him," he observed, dubiously. "What did he
say about my cattle?"

"Well, he said you'd registered a new brand and now it was up to you to
show that you had some cattle. If you've got 'em you ought to pay taxes
on 'em and if you haven't got any you got no business with an iron that
will burn over Upton's U."

"Oh, that's the racket, is it? Well, you tell that deputy that I've got
cattle in that brand and I've got a bill of sale for 'em, all regular,
but I've yet to see the deputy sheriff that can collect taxes off of
me. D'ye think I'm goin' to chip in to help pay the salary of a man
that makes a business of rollin' drunks and throwin' honest workingmen
into the hoosegatho when he's in town? Ump-um—guess again!"

He motioned for a drink and Babe regarded him curiously as he set out
the bottle.

"You been readin' the _Voice_, I reckon," he said, absent-mindedly
pouring out a drink for himself. "Well, say, did you read that article
on the fee system? It's all true, Pardner, every word of it, and more!
I'm a man of good family and education—I was brought up right and my
folks are respectable people—and yet every time I go to Geronimo they
throw me into jail. Two-twenty-five, that's what they do it for—and
there I have to lay, half the time with some yegg or lousy gang of
hobos, until they git ready to turn me loose. And they call that
justice! Pecos, I'm going back to Geronimo—I'm going to stand on the
corner, just the way I used to when I was drunk, and tell the people
it's all _wrong_! You're a good man, Pecos—Cumrad—will you go with me?"

Pecos stood and looked at him, wondering. "Comrade" sounded good to
him; it was the word they used in the _Voice of Reason_—"Comrade Jones
has just sent us in four more subscriptions. That's what throws a crook
into the tail of monopoly. Bully for you, Comrade!" But with all his
fervor he did not fail to notice the droop to Angy's eyes, the flush on
his cheeks, and the slack tremulousness of his lips—in spite of his
solemn resolutions Angy had undoubtedly given way to the Demon Drink.

"Nope," he said, "I like you, Angy, but they'd throw us both in. You'd
better stay up here and watch me put it on Crit. 'Don't rope a bigger
bull than you can throw,' is my motto, and Old Crit is jest my size.
I'm goin' to comb his hair with a six-shooter or I'll have my money—and
then if that dog-robber of a deputy sheriff shows up I'll—well, he'd
better not crowd me, that's all. Here's to the revolution—will you
drink it, old Red-eye?"

Angy drank it, and another to keep it company.

"Pecos," he said, his voice tremulous with emotion, "when I think how
my life has been ruined by these hirelings of the law, when I think
of the precious days I have wasted in the confinement of the Geronimo
jail, I could rise up and _destroy_ them, these fiends in human form
and their accursed jails; I could wreck every prison in the land
and proclaim liberty from the street-corners—whoop!" He waved one
hand above his head, laughed, and leapt to a seat upon the bar. "But
don't you imagine f'r a moment, my friend," he continued, with the
impressive gravity of an orator, "that they have escaped unscathed.
It was not until I had read that wonderful champion of the common
people, the _Voice of Reason_, that I realized the enormity of this
conspiracy which has reduced me to my present condition, but from
my first incarceration in the Geronimo jail I have been a Thorne in
their side, as the Geronimo _Blade_ well said. I remember as if it
were yesterday the time when they erected their first prison, over
twenty years ago, on account of losing some hoss-thieves. It was a new
structure, strongly built of adobe bricks, and in a spirit of jest the
town marshal arrested me and locked me up to see if it was tight. That
night when all was still I wrenched one of the iron bars loose and dug
my way to freedom! But what is freedom to revenge? After I had escaped
I packed wood in through the same hole, piled it up against the door,
and set the dam' hell-hole afire!"

He paused and gazed upon Pecos with drunken triumph. "That's the kind
of an _hombre_ I am," he said. "But what is one determined man against
a thousand? When the citizens of Geronimo beheld their new calaboose
ruined and in flames they went over the country with a fine-tooth comb
and never let up until they had brought me back and shackled me to
the old Cottonwood log down by the canal—the one they had always used
before they lost the hoss-thieves. That was the only jail they had
left, now that the calaboose was burned. In vain I pleaded with them
for just one drink—they were inexorable, the cowardly curs, and there
they left me, chained like a beast, while they went up town and swilled
whiskey until far into the night. As the first faint light of morning
shot across the desert I awoke with a terrible thirst. My suffering
was awful. I filled my mouth with the vile ditch-water and spat it out
again, unsatisfied—I shook my chains and howled for mercy. But what
mercy could one expect from such a pack of curs? I tested every link
in my chain, and the bolt that passed through the log—then, with the
strength of desperation I laid hold upon that enormous tree-trunk and
rolled it into the water! Yes, sir, I rolled the old jail-log into the
canal and jumped straddle of it like a conqueror, and whatever happened
after that I knew I had the laugh on old Hickey, the Town Marshal,
unless some one saw me sailing by. But luck was with me, boy; I floated
that big log clean through town and down to Old Manuel's road-house—a
Mexican deadfall out on the edge of the desert—and swapped it for two
drinks of mescal that would simply make you scream! By Joe, that liquor
tasted good—have one with me now!"

They drank once more, still pledging the revolution, and then Angy
went ahead on his talking jag. "Maybe you've heard of this Baron
Mun-chawson, the German character that was such a dam' liar and
jail-breaker the king made a prison to order and walled him in? Well,
sir, Mun-chawson worked seven years with a single nail on that prison
and dug out in spite of hell. But human nature's the same, wherever
you go—always stern and pitiless. When those Geronimo citizens found
out that old Angy had stole their cottonwood log and traded it to a
wood-chopper for the drinks, they went ahead and built a double-decked,
steel-celled county jail and sentenced me to it for life! Conspicuous
drunkenness was the charge—and grand larceny of a jail—but answer me,
my friend, is this a free country or is the spirit that animated our
forefathers dead? Is the spirit of Patrick Henry when he cried, 'Give
me liberty or give me death,' buried in the oblivion of the past? Tell
me that, now!"

"Don't know," responded Pecos, lightly, "too deep a question for me—but
say, gimme one more drink and then I'm goin' down the road to collect
my pay from Crit. I'm a man of action—that's where I shine—I refer
all such matters to Judge Colt." He slapped his gun affectionately
and clanked resolutely out of the door. Half a mile down the river
he sighted his quarry and rode in on him warily. Old Crit was alone,
driving a discouraged team of Mexican horses, and as the bouquet of
Pecos's breath drifted in to him over the front wheel the Boss of Verde
Crossing regretted for once the fiery quality of his whiskey.

"I come down to collect my pay," observed Pecos, plucking nervously at
his gun.

"Well, you don't collect a cent off of me," replied Crit, defiantly, "a
man that will steal the way you did! Whenever you git ready to leave
this country I might give you a hundred or so for your brand, but you
better hurry up. There was a deputy sheriff up here the other day,
lookin' for you!"

"Yes, I heard about it," sneered Pecos. "I reckon he was lookin' for
evidence about this here Wine-glass iron."

A smothered curse escaped the lips of Isaac Crittenden, but, being old
at the game, he understood. There was nothing for it but to pay up—and
wait.

"Well, what guarantee do I git that you don't give the whole snap
away anyhow?" he demanded, fiercely. "What's the use of me payin' you
anything—I might as well keep it to hire a lawyer."

"As long as you pay me what you owe me," said Pecos, slowly, "and
treat me square," he added, "I keep my mouth shut. But the minute you
git foxy or try some ranikaboo play like sayin' the deputy was after
me—look out! Now they was a matter of a hundred and twenty dollars
between us—do I git it or don't I?"

"You git it," grumbled Crittenden, reluctantly. "But say, I want you
to keep away from Verde Crossing. Some of them Wine-glass cows have
drifted back onto the upper range and John Upton has made a roar. More
than that, Boone Morgan has undertook to collect our taxes up here and
if that deputy of his ever gits hold of you he's goin' to ask some
mighty p'inted questions. So you better stay away, see?"

He counted out the money and held it in his hand, waiting for consent,
but Pecos only laughed.

"Life's too short to be hidin' out from a deputy," he answered,
shortly. "So gimme that money and I'll be on my way." He leaned over
and plucked the bills from Crit's hand; then, spurring back toward the
Crossing he left Old Crit, speechless with rage, to follow in his dust.

A loud war-whoop from the store and the high-voiced ranting of
Babe made it plain to Crit that there was no use going there—Angy
was launched on one of his periodicals and Pecos was keeping him
company—which being the case there was nothing for it but to let them
take the town. The grizzled Boss of Verde stood by the corral for a
minute, listening to the riot and studying on where to put in his time;
then a slow smile crept over his hardened visage and he fixed his
sinister eye on the adobe of Joe Garcia. All was fair, with him, in
love or war, and Marcelina was growing up to be a woman.

"Joe," he said, turning upon his corral boss, "you tell your wife I'll
be over there in a minute for supper—and say, I want you to stay in the
store to-night; them crazy fools will set the house afire."

"_Stawano_," mumbled José, but as he turned away there was an angry
glint in his downcast eye and he cursed with every breath. It is not
always pleasant, even to a Mexican, to be in debt to the Boss.



CHAPTER VII

THE REVOLUTION


The coyotes who from their seven hills along the Verde were accustomed
to make Rome howl found themselves outclassed and left to a thinking
part on the night that Pecos Dalhart and Angevine Thorne celebrated
the dawn of Reason. The French Revolution being on a larger scale,
and, above all, successful, has come down in history as a great social
movement; all that can be said of the revolution at Verde Crossing
is packed away in those sad words: it failed. It started, like most
revolutions, with a careless word, hot from the vitriolic pen of some
space-writer gone mad, and ended in that amiable disorder which, for
lack of a better word, we call anarchy. Whiskey was at the bottom of
it, of course, and it meant no more than a tale told by an idiot,
"full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." At the same time, it
managed by degrees to engross the entire attention of Verde Crossing
and after the fall of the Bastile, as symbolized by the cracking of a
bottle, it left Pecos and Babe more convinced than ever that the world
was arrayed against them.

In the early part of the evening, according to orders, José Garcia
watched them furtively through the open door, returning at intervals,
however, to peer through the window of his own home. At each visit
it seemed to him that Angy was getting drunker and the Boss more
shameless in his attentions to Marcelina. At last, when he could stand
the strain no longer, he threw in with the merry roisterers, leaving
it to the Señora to protect the dignity of their home. A drink or
two mellowed him to their propaganda—at the mention of Crit he burst
into a torrent of curses and as the night wore on he declared for the
revolution, looking for his immediate revenge in drinking up all the
Boss's whiskey. In the end their revelry rose to such a height that
Crittenden was drawn away from his rough wooing and finally, under the
pretence of delivering the United States mail, he walked boldly in upon
them, determined to protect his property at any risk. The penalty for
interfering with the United States mail, as everybody who has ever read
the card on a drop-box knows, is a fine of $1,000, or imprisonment, or
both. In defence of that precious packet Crittenden could have killed
all three of them and stood justified before the law, but although he
had a reputation as a bad man to crowd into a corner, Old Crit was not
of a sanguinary disposition. No man could hold down a bunch of gun-men
of the kind that he employed in his predatory round-ups and not have a
little iron in his blood, but the Boss of Verde Crossing had seen all
too well in his variegated career the evils which cluster like flies
about an act of violence, and he was always for peace—peace and his
price.

"Here; here, here," he expostulated, as he found Angy in the act of
drinking half a pint of whiskey by measure, "you boys are hittin' it
pretty high, ain't ye?"

"The roof's the limit," replied Babe, facetiously. "As the Champeen
Booze-fighter of Arizona I am engaged in demonstratin' to all beholders
my claim to that illustrious title. Half a pint of whiskey—enough to
kill an Injun or pickle a Gila-monster—and all tossed off at a single
bout, like the nectar of the gods. Here's to the revolution, and to
hell with the oppressors of the poor!"

"That's right," chimed in Pecos, elevating his glass and peering
savagely over its rim at the Boss, "we done declared a feud against
the capitulistic classes and the monneypullistic tendencies of the
times. Your game's played out, Old Man; the common people have riz in
their might and took the town! Now you go away back in the corner,
d'ye understand, and sit down—and don't let me hear a word out of you
or I'll beat the fear o' God into you with _this_!" He hauled out his
heavy six-shooter and made the sinister motions of striking a man over
the head with it, but Crit chose to ignore the threat.

"All right," he said, feigning an indulgent smile, "you boys seem to
be enjoyin' yourselves, so I'll jest deliver this United States mail
as the law requires and leave you to yourselves." He stepped in behind
the bar, chucked a couple of demijohns of whiskey into the corner where
they might be overlooked, and threw the mail pouch on the counter.

"Better come up and git your mail, boys," he observed, dumping
the contents out for a lure. "Hey, here's a package for you, Mr.
Dalhart—something pretty choice, I 'spect. Nothin' for you, Joe," he
scowled, as his faithless retainer lurched up to claim his share.
"Here's your paper, Babe. Letter for you, Mr. Dalhart," he continued,
flipping a large, official envelope across the bar, "you're developin'
quite a correspondence!" He ducked down behind the counter, grinning at
his stratagem, and while Pecos and Babe were examining their mail he
managed to jerk the money drawer open and slip the loose change into
his pockets.

"Well, we'll be goin' home now, Joe," he said, taking the corral
boss briskly by the arm. "Come on, _hombre_, you ain't got no mail!"
Under ordinary circumstances José would have followed peaceably, thus
reducing the revolutionary forces to a minimum, but the covert insult
to his daughter, magnified by drink, had fired his Latin blood.

"No, Señor," he replied, fixing his glittering eyes upon the hateful
boss. "_Yo no go! Carramba, que malo hombre!_ You dam' coward,
Creet—you scare my wife—you scare—"

"Shut up!" hissed Crit, hastily cuffing him over the head. "Shut your
mouth or I'll—"

"_Diablo!_" shrieked the Mexican, striking back blindly. "I keel you!
You have to leave _mi niña_ alone!"

"What's that?" yelled Angevine Thorne, leaping with drunken impetuosity
into the fray, "hev you been—"

"Leave him to me!" shouted Pecos, wading recklessly into
the scrimmage. "I'll fix the blankety-blank, whatever
he's gone and done! Throw him loose, boys; I'll take the
_one-eyed_—_hump-backed_—_dog-robbin'_—_dastard_"—he accompanied each
epithet with a blow—"and tie 'im into a bow knot!" He grabbed Old Crit
out of the _mêlée_ and held him against the wall with a hand of iron.
"What do you mean by slappin' my friend and cumrad?" he thundered,
making as if to annihilate him with a blow. "I want you to understand,
Old Cock Eye, that Mr. Garcia is my friend—he comes from a fine old
Spanish family, away down in Sonory, and his rights must be respected!
Ain't that so, Angy?"

"From the pure, Castilian blood," declaimed Angy, waving his hand
largely, "a gentleman to whom I take off my hat—his estimable wife and
family—"

"Now here, boys," broke in Crittenden, taking his cue instantly, "this
joke has gone far enough. Mr. Garcia's wife asked me to bring him
home—you see what his condition is—and I was tryin' to do my best.
Now jest take your hand off of me, Mr. Dalhart—yes, thanks—and Angy,
you see if you can't git 'im to go home. A man of family, you know," he
went on, craftily enlisting their sympathies, "ought to—"

"Sure thing!" responded Angevine Thorne, lovingly twining his arm
around his Spanish-American comrade. "Grab a root there, Pecos, and
we'll take 'im home in style!"

"Wait till I git my package!" cried Pecos, suddenly breaking his hold,
and he turned around just in time to see Crit skipping out the back
door.

"Well, run then, you dastard!" he apostrophized, waving one hand as he
tenderly gathered up his mail-order dry goods. "I can't stop to take
after ye now. This here package is f'r my little Señorita, Marcelina,
and I'm goin' to present it like a gentleman and ast her for a kiss.
Hey, Angy," he called, as he re-engaged himself with José, "how do you
say 'kiss' in Spanish? Aw, shut up, I don't believe ye! Stan' up here,
Joe—well, it don't sound good, that's all—I'm goin' to ast her in U.
S., and take a chance!"

The procession lurched drunkenly up the road and like most such was not
received with the cordiality which had been anticipated. The Señora
Garcia was already furious at Old Crit and when Pecos Dalhart, after
delivering her recreant husband, undertook to present the dainty aprons
and the blue handkerchiefs, marked M, which he had ordered specially
for her daughter, she burst into a torrent of Spanish and hurled them
at his head. "_Muy malo_," "_borracho_," and "_vaya se_," were a few of
the evil words which followed them and by the gestures alone Pecos knew
that he had been called a bad man and a drunkard and told in two words
to go. He went, and with him Angy, ever ready to initiate new orgies
and help drown his sorrows in the flowing cup. The noise of their
bacchanalia rose higher and higher; pistol-shots rang out as Pecos shot
off the necks of bottles which personified for the moment his hated
rival; and to Crit, lingering outside the back door, it seemed as if
their howling and ranting would never cease. It was no new experience
for him to break in on one of Angy's jags, but things were coming too
high and fast with Pecos Dalhart present, and he decided to wait for
his revenge until they were both thoroughly paralyzed.

"But what is this 'cumrad' talk and them yells for the revolution?" he
soliloquized, as Angy and Pecos returned to their religion. "Is it a
G. A. R. reunion or has Joe worked in a Mexican revolution on us? Yes,
holler, you crazy fools; it'll be Old Crit's turn, when you come to pay
the bills."

The first gray light of dawn was striking through the door when
Crittenden tip-toed cautiously into the store and gazed about at the
wreckage and the sprawling hulks of the revellers. Pecos lay on his
face with his huge silver mounted spurs tangled in the potato sack that
had thrown him; and Babe, his round moon-face and bald crown still
red from his unrestrained potations, was draped along the bar like a
shop kitten. Old Crit shook him roughly and, receiving no response,
turned his attention to Pecos Dalhart. His first care was to snap the
cartridges out of his six-shooter and jamb the action with a generous
handful of dirt; then he felt his pockets over carefully, looking for
his roll, for Pecos had undoubtedly consumed a great deal of liquor and
ought not to be deprived of the cowboy's privilege of waking up broke.
But as luck would have it he was lying upon his treasure and could
not pay his reckoning. The only article of interest which the search
produced was a grimy section of a newspaper, stored away in his vest
pocket, and Crit seized upon it eagerly. It was a not uncommon failing
of Texas bad men, as he knew them, to carry newspaper accounts of their
past misdeeds upon their persons and he unfolded the sheet with the
full expectation of finding a sheriff's offer of reward.

"_It's a crime to be Poor!!!_" was the heading, "And the penalty is
hard labor for life!" it added, briefly. There is something in that,
too; but philosophy did not appeal to Crittenden at the moment—he was
looking for Pecos Dalhart's name and the record of his crime. "The
grinding tyranny of the capitalistic classes—" he read, and then his
eye ran down the page until he encountered the words: "Yours for the
Revolution!" and "Subscribe for the _Voice of Reason_!" Then a great
light came over him and he gnashed his teeth in a fury.

"Well, the dam', yaller, two-bit-a-year sheet!" he raved, snatching
a fresh copy of the _Voice of Reason_ from the sacred United States
mail and hastily scanning its headlines, "and if these crazy fools
hain't gone and took it serious!" He tore it in two and jumped on it.
"Two-bits a year!" he raged, "and for four-bits I could've got the
_Fireside Companion_!" He rummaged around in the box and gathered up
every copy, determined to hurl them into the fireplace, but on the way
the yellow wrapper with the United States stamp arrested his eye,
and he paused. After all, they were United States mail—penalty for
destroying $1,000—and would have to go back into the box.

"Well," he grumbled, dumping them sullenly back, "mebby it was that
new bar'l of whiskey—I s'pose they've got to holler about something
when they're drunk, the dam' eejits!" He strode up and down the floor,
scowling at the unconscious forms of the roisterers who had beaten him
the night before—then he turned back and laid violent hands upon Angy.

"Git off'n there, you low-down, lazy hound!" he yelled, dragging him
roughly to the floor. "You _will_ start a revolution and try to kill
your boss, will you? _You're fired!_" he shouted when, after a liberal
drenching, he had brought Babe back to the world.

"Well, gimme my pay, then," returned Angy, holding out his hand and
blinking.

"You don't git no pay!" declared Crit, with decision. "Who's goin' to
pay for all that liquor that was drunk last night? Look at them empty
bottles, will you? You go and bring in all your friends and open up
the town and the next mornin' I look in the till and they ain't a dam'
cent!"

"Well, I want my pay," reiterated Babe, drunkenly. "I been workin' a
long time, now—I'm goin' to draw my money an' go home! '_My mother's
heart is breakin', breakin' f'r me, an' that's all_—'" he crooned, and,
rocking to and fro on the floor, he sang himself back to sleep.

Old Crit watched him a moment, sneering; then with vindictive
exultation he turned his attention to Pecos. "Git up," he snarled,
kicking the upturned soles of his feet, "this ain't no bunk-house!
Git out'r here, now; you been pesterin' around these parts too long!"
He seized the prostrate cowboy by his broad shoulders and snaked him
summarily out the door, where he lay sprawling in the dirt, like
a turtle on its back, a mock of his strong, young manhood. To the
case-hardened Babe the venom of Old Crit's whiskey was no worse than
a death-potion of morphine to an opium fiend, but Pecos was completely
paralyzed by the poison. He responded neither to kicks and man-handling
nor to frequent dashes of water and at last Crittenden dragged him
out behind the corral and left him there, a sight for gods and men.
The Garcia dogs crept up furtively and sniffed at him and the Señora
pointed him out to her children as an awful example of _Texano_
depravity, and also as the bad man who had corrupted their _papa_. Even
Marcelina wavered in her secret devotion, but after he had finally
clambered up on his horse and ridden blindly off toward Lost Dog Cañon
the thought of those blue silk handkerchiefs, branded M, rose up in her
mind and comforted her.



CHAPTER VIII

THE DAY AFTER


In a land where the desert is king the prolonged absence of even so
undesirable a citizen as Pecos Dalhart is sure, after a while, to
occasion comment. For Pecos had ridden out on the Carrizo trail without
water, and the barren mesa had already claimed its dead from thirst.
He was also hardly in his right mind, and though his horse knew the
way home he might easily have arrived there without his master. José
Garcia was the first to mention the matter to Old Crit, and received a
hearty cursing for his pains. Another week passed by, making three, and
still the cowboy did not come in for his mail. The bunch of dissipated
punchers who lingered around the bunk-house under pretence of riding
the range finally worked up quite a hectic interest in the affair, but
none of them volunteered to make a search. The chances were that Mr.
Dalhart, if still alive, was in an ugly mood—perhaps locoed by Crit's
well-known brand of whiskey—and it would be dangerous for an IC man to
ride in on him. As for Crit, his asperity wore down a little as the
days of absence lengthened away; he retracted several statements which
he had made to the effect that he hoped the blankety-blank was dead,
and when one of Boone Morgan's deputies finally rode in to investigate
the rumor he told him he was afraid the poor fellow had wandered out
across the desert and perished of hunger and thirst.

Bill Todhunter was Boone Morgan's regular mountain deputy—sent out to
look into all such affairs as this, and incidentally to get evidence
which would come handy in the big tax-collecting that was being planned
for the fall. He asked a few questions, whistled through his teeth
and pondered the matter for a while, meanwhile scrutinizing the hard
countenance of his informant with the speculative cynicism of his
profession. This was not the first sad case that he had looked into
where a man who was not really needed in the community had mysteriously
disappeared, and in one desert tragedy which he had in mind the corpse
had assayed more than a trace of lead.

"Did this man Dalhart ever fill out that assessor's blank I left for
'im?" he inquired, after a long pause, meanwhile squatting down and
drawing cattle brands in the dirt.

"Don't know," replied Crit, shortly.

"Let's see, his brand was a Wine-glass, wasn't it?"

"Nope—Monkey-wrench."

"Oh, yes! Sure! I knew they was two new irons in there, but I got 'em
mixed. The Wine-glass is yourn, ain't it?"

Crittenden nodded sullenly. It was the particular phase of his
relations with Pecos Dalhart which he would rather not discuss with an
officer. As for the deputy, he spun the wheel in his spur, whistled
"Paloma," and looked out toward the east.

"Has he got any mail here waitin' for 'im?" he asked, rising slowly
from his heels. "Well, you better give it to me, then—and a little
grub. I've always wanted to take a look at that Lost Dog country,
anyway."

It was a long trail and the tracks were a month old, but Pecos's had
been the last shod horse to travel it and what few cattle there were
in the country had not been able to obscure the shoe-marks. Following
those ancient signs Bill Todhunter worked his way gradually into what
had been up to that time, No Man's Land, not forgetting to count the
Wine-glass cattle as he passed the water holes. Not so many years
before the Apaches had held full sway over all the Tonto and Verde
country and when the first settlers came in they had naturally located
along the rivers, leaving the barren mountains to the last. It was
a long way from nowhere, that mysterious little Lost Dog Cañon, and
when the deputy rode into it looking for a man whose trail was a month
old he felt the sobering influence of its funereal cliffs. Black and
forbidding, they bent bodingly over the tiny valley with its grove
of cottonwoods and wild walnuts, and upon the western rim a squalid
group of buzzards dozed as if they had made a feast. At the edge of
the stream Todhunter reined in his horse, but though his flanks were
gaunted the animal would not drink. Instead he raised his head and
snuffed the air, curiously. It looked ominous, for they were at the
end of the trail and the tracks still pointed in. The deputy spurred
nervously across the stream, still with his eye out for signs, and
fetched up with a jerk. There, fresh and clean in the moist sand, were
the imprints of a man's boots, coming down to the water—and not once or
twice, but a dozen times.

"Ahem," coughed Todhunter, turning into the path, "stan' up hyar,
bronc—what's the matter with you!" He jerked his unoffending horse out
of the trail and clattered him over the rocks, for your true officer
does not crowd in with drawn pistol on a man he cannot see. The deputy
was strictly a man of peace—and he tried to look the part. His badge
was pinned carefully to the inside flap of his vest and if he had a gun
anywhere it did not show. He swung his quirt in one hand, idly slapping
it against his chaps, and then, having offered every sign that he came
openly and as a friend, he rode cautiously up to the camp.

There was a fire smouldering upon a stone-walled mound at the entrance
to the cave and beside it, reclining in a rustic chair, sat Pecos
Dalhart—watchful, silent, alert. In one hand he held a cigarette and
the other supported a grimy newspaper which he had been reading. Behind
him on tall poles were boxes filled with food, protected by tin cans,
mushroomed out around the posts to keep the rats from climbing. His
saddle was hung up carefully on a rack and his carbine leaned against
the chair where he was sitting, but though he had seen no one for a
month Pecos barely glanced up from his paper as the stranger drew near.

"How'd do," observed the deputy, sitting at ease in his saddle.

"Howdy," Pecos grunted, and languidly touching his dead cigarette to
a coal he proceeded with his reading. Todhunter looked his camp over
critically, took note of the amount of food stored in the rat-proof
boxes and of the ingenious workmanship on the rustic chair; then his
eyes wandered back and fixed themselves on Pecos. Instead of the
roistering boy he had expected he beheld a full-grown man with a
month's growth of curly beard and his jaw set like a steel-trap, as
if, after all, he was not unprepared for trouble. His hat, however,
was shoved back carelessly on his bushy head, his legs crossed, and
his pose was that of elegant and luxurious ease. To the left arm of
his chair he had attached a horse's hoof, bottom up, in the frog of
which he laid his cigarettes; to the right was fastened a little box
filled with tobacco and brown papers, and the fire, smouldering upon
its altar, was just close enough to provide a light. Evidently the
lone inhabitant of the cañon had made every endeavor to be comfortable
and was not above doing a little play-acting to convey the idea of
unconcern, but the deputy sheriff did not fail to notice the carbine,
close at hand, and the pistol by his side. It seemed to him also that
while his man was apparently deeply immersed in his month-old paper,
his eyes, staring and intent, looked past it and watched his every
move. The conversation having ceased, then, and his curiosity having
been satisfied, Bill Todhunter leaned slowly back to his saddle bags
and began to untie a package.

"Are you Mr. Dalhart?" he inquired, as the cowboy met his eye.

"That's my name," replied Pecos, stiffly.

"Well, I've got s'm' papers for you," observed the deputy,
enigmatically, and if he had been in two minds as to the way Pecos
would take this statement his doubts were instantly set at rest. At the
word "papers"—the same being used for "warrants" by most officers of
the law—the cowboy rose up in his chair and laid one hand on the butt
of his revolver.

"Not for me!" he said, a cold, steely-blue look comin' into his eyes.
"It'll take a better man than you to serve 'em!"

"These are newspapers," corrected the deputy, quietly. "Yore friends
down on the Verde, not havin' seen you for some time, asked me to take
out yore mail and see if you was all right."

"Oh!" grunted Pecos, suspiciously.

"And, bein' as you seem to be all O. K.," continued Todhunter,
pacifically, "I'll jest turn 'em over to you and be on my way." He
threw the bundle at his feet, wheeled his horse and without another
word rode soberly down the trail.

"Hey!" shouted Pecos, as the stranger plunged through the creek, but if
Todhunter heard him he made no sign. There are some people who never
know when to go, but Bill Todhunter was not that kind.

"No, you bet that feller ain't dead," he observed, when Crittenden and
the chance residents of Verde Crossing gathered about him to hear the
news. "He's sure up an' comin', and on the prod bigger 'n a wolf. I
wouldn't like to say whether he's quite right in the head or not but I
reckon it'll pay to humor 'im a little. He'll be down here for grub in
about another week, too."

The week passed, but not without its happenings to Verde Crossing. The
first event was the return of Angevine Thorne from Geronimo, after a
prolonged stay in the city Bastile. Crit sent the bail money down by
Todhunter immediately upon hearing the news that Pecos Dalhart was
alive and on the prod. The only man on the Verde who had any influence
with Pecos was his old "cumrad," Babe, and Crittenden was anxious to
get that genial soul back before Pecos came in for supplies. But the
same buckboard that brought the Champion of Arizona back to his old
haunts took his little friend Marcelina away, and the only reason the
Señora would give was that her daughter was going to school. In vain
Babe palavered her in Spanish and cross-questioned the stolid José. The
fear of her lawless wooer was upon them—for were they not in debt to
Crit—and not even by indirection would the fiery Señora give vent to
the rage which burned in her heart.

"This is not a good place for my daughter," she said, her eyes
carefully fixed upon the ground. "It is better that she should go to
the Sisters' school and learn her catechism." So Marcelina was sent
away from the evil men of Verde, for she was already a woman; but in
the haste of packing she managed to snatch just one of the forbidden
blue handkerchiefs, branded M.

It was a sombre welcome which awaited the lone rustler of Lost Dog
Cañon when, driven perforce to town, he led his pack-horse up to the
store. For a minute he sat in his saddle, silent and watchful; then,
throwing his bridle-reins on the ground, he stalked defiantly through
the door. A couple of IC cowboys were sitting at the card-table in the
corner, playing a three-handed game of poker with Angy, and at sight of
him they measured the distance to the door with their eyes.

"W'y, hello there, Pecos!" cried Angy, kicking over the table in his
haste to grasp him by the hand. "Where you been all the time—we thought
for a time here you was dead!"

"Might as well 'a been," said Pecos, gruffly, "for all anybody _give_ a
dam'!"

"Why? What was the matter? Did you git lost?"

"I lay out on the mesa for two days," answered the cowboy, briefly,
"and about a month afterwards a feller come out to my camp to see
if I was dead. This is a hell of an outfit," he observed, glancing
malevolently at the IC cowboys, "and by the way," he added, "where was
_you_ all the time, Angy?"

Angevine Thorne's lips trembled at this veiled accusation and he
stretched out his hands pleadingly. "I swear, Pardner," he protested,
"I never heard a word about it until last Saturday! I was in the
Geronimo jail."

"Oh!" said Pecos, and without more words he gave him his own right
hand. The cowboys, who had been uneasy witnesses of the scene, seized
upon this as a favorable opportunity to make their escape, leaving the
two of them to talk it out together.

"What in the world happened to us, Angy?" demanded Pecos in a hushed
voice, when the effusion of reconciliation had passed, "did Crit put
gun-powder in our whiskey or was it a case of stuffed club? I was plumb
paralyzed, locoed, and cross-eyed for a week—and my head ain't been
right since!" He brushed his hand past his face and made a motion as of
catching little devils out of the air, but Angy stayed his arm.

"Nothin' like that, Pecos," he pleaded, hoarsely, "I'm on the ragged
edge of the jim-jams myself, and if I get to thinkin' of crawly things
I'll sure get 'em! No, it was jest that accursed liquor! I don't know
what happened—I remember Crit takin' me down to Geronimo and givin'
me five dollars and then it was all a dream until I found myself in
the jag-cell. But it's the liquor that does it, Pecos—that and the
capitalistic classes and the officers of the law. They's no hope for
the common people as long as they keep on drinkin'—there's always some
feller like Crit to skin 'em, and the constables to run 'em in. It's a
conspiracy, I tell you; they're banded together to drug and rob us—but,
Pardner, there is one man who is going to balk the cowardly curs.
Never, never, never, will I let another drop of liquor pass my lips!"
He raised his hand to heaven as he swore the familiar oath, hoping and
yet not hoping that some power would come down to him to help him fight
his fate. "Will you join me, Cumrad?" he asked, laying hold of Pecos's
shoulder. "You will? Well, let's shake on it—here's to the revolution!"

They shook, and turned instinctively toward the bar, but such a pledge
cannot be cemented in the usual manner, so Angy led the way outside and
sought a seat in the shade.

"Where's my little friend Marcelina?" inquired Pecos, after a long look
at the white adobe with the brush _ramada_ which housed the Garcia
family, "hidin' behind a straw somewhere?"

"Gone!" said Angy, solemnly. "Gone, I know not where."

"What—you don't mean to say—" cried Pecos, starting up.

"Her mother sent her down to Geronimo the day that I came up,"
continued Babe, winking fast. "It looks as if she fears my influence,
but she will not say. Poor little Marcelina—how I miss her!" He wiped
his eyes with the back of his hand and shook his head sadly. "Verde
ain't been the same to me since then," he said, "an' life ain't worth
livin'. W'y, Pecos, if I thought we done something we oughten to when
we was drunk that time I'd go out and cut my throat—but the Señora is
powerful mad. Kin you recollect what went on?"

A vision of himself trying to barter his mail-order package for a kiss
flashed up before Pecos in lines of fire, but he shut his lips and
sat silent. The exaltation and shame of that moment came back to him
in a mighty pang of sorrow and he bowed his head on his arms. What
if, in the fury of drink and passion, he had offered some insult to
his Señorita—the girl who had crept unbeknown into his rough life and
filled it with her smile! No further memory of that black night was
seared into his clouded brain—the vision ended with the presentation
of the package. What followed was confined only to the limitations of
man's brutal whims. For a minute Pecos contemplated this wreck of all
his hopes—then, from the abyss of his despair there rose a voice that
cried for revenge. Revenge for his muddled brain, for the passion
which came with drink: revenge for his girl, whom he had lost by some
foolish drunken freak! He leapt to his feet in a fury.

"It's that dastard, Crit!" he cried, shaking his fists in the air. "He
sold us his cussed whiskey—he sent us on our way! And now I'm goin' to
git him!"

Angy gazed up at him questioningly and then raised a restraining hand.

"It's more than him, Cumrad," he said solemnly. "More than him! If
Crit should die to-morrow the system would raise up another robber to
take his place. It's the System, Pecos, the System—this here awful
conspiracy of the capitalistic classes and the servile officers of the
law—that keeps the poor man down. Worse, aye, worse than the Demon
Rum, is the machinations which puts the power of government into the
monopolistic hands of capital and bids the workingman earn his bread
by the sweat of his brow. There is only one answer to the crime of
government—the revolution!"

"Well, let 'er go then," cried Pecos, impulsively. "The revolution she
is until the last card falls—but all the same I got my eye on Crit!"



CHAPTER IX

DEATH AND TAXES


The iron hand of the law after hovering long above the Verde at last
descended suddenly and with crushing force upon the unsuspecting
cowmen. For a year Boone Morgan had been dallying around, even as other
sheriffs had done before him, and the first fears of the wary mountain
men had speedily been lulled into a feeling of false security. Then the
fall round-ups came on and in the general scramble of that predatory
period Morgan managed to scatter a posse of newly appointed deputies,
disguised as cowboys, throughout the upper range. They returned and
reported the tally at every branding and the next week every cowman
on the Verde received notice that his taxes on so many head of
cattle, corral count, were due and more than due. They were due for
several years back but Mr. Boone Morgan, as deputy assessor, deputy
tax-collector, and so forth, would give them a receipt in full upon the
payment of the fiscal demand. This would have sounded technical in the
mouth of an ordinary tax-collector but coming from a large, iron-gray
gentleman with a six-shooter that had been through the war, it went.
Upton paid; Crittenden paid; they all paid—all except Pecos Dalhart.

It was at the store, shortly after he had put the thumb-screws on Ike
Crittenden and extracted the last ultimate cent, that Boone Morgan
tackled Pecos for his taxes. He had received a vivid word-picture of
the lone resident of Lost Dog from his deputy, Bill Todhunter, and
Pecos had been equally fortified against surprise by Angevine Thorne.
They came face to face as Pecos was running over the scare-heads of the
_Voice of Reason_, and the hardy citizens of Verde Crossing held their
breaths and listened for thunder, for Pecos had stated publicly that
he did not mean to pay.

"Ah, Mr. Dalhart, I believe," began the sheriff in that suave and
genial manner which most elected officials have at their command. "Glad
to meet you, Mr. Dalhart. There's a little matter of business I'd like
to discuss, if you'll jest step outside a moment. Yes, thank you.
Nice weather we're having now—how's the feed up on your range? That's
good—that's fine. Now, Mr. Dalhart, I don't suppose you get your mail
very regular, and mebby you ain't much of a correspondent anyway, but
my name's Morgan—I'm a deputy tax-collector right now—and I'd like to
have you fill out this blank, giving the number of assessable cattle
you have. Sent you one or two by mail, but this is jest as good. Sorry,
you understand, but the county needs the money."

"Yes, I'm sorry, too," observed Pecos, sardonically, "because it'll
never git none from me."

"Oh, I dunno," replied the sheriff, sizing his man up carefully,
"Geronimo County has been able to take care of itself, so far; and when
I put the matter in its proper light to men who have been a little
lax in the past—men like Upton and Mr. Crittenden, for instance—they
seem perfectly willing to pay. These taxes are to support the county
government, you understand—to build roads and keep up the schools and
all that sort of thing—and every property-owner ought to be glad to do
his share. Now about how many head of cows have you got up at Lost Dog
Cañon?"

"I've got jest about enough to keep me in meat," answered Pecos,
evasively.

"Um, that'd be about two hundred head, wouldn't it?"

Two hundred was a close guess, and this unexpected familiarity with
his affairs startled the cowboy, but his face, nevertheless, did not
lose its defiant stare. Two hundred was really the difference between
what U cows Upton had lost last spring and the total of Crittenden's
Wine-glass bunch, and Boone Morgan was deeply interested in the
whereabouts of that particular two hundred head. To Old Crit, this
tax-collecting was only a mean raid on his pocket-book—to Morgan it was
the first step in his campaign against cattle rustling. When he had
determined the number of head in every brand he might be able to prove
a theft—but not till then.

"Call it two hundred," he suggested, holding out the paper
encouragingly, but Pecos drew back his hand scornfully.

"Not if it was a cow and calf," he said, "I wouldn't pay a cent. D'ye
think I want to pay a government of robbers? What does yore dam'
government do for me, or any other pore man, but make us trouble?"

"Well, sometimes that's all a government can do for a certain class of
people," observed the sheriff, eying him coldly, "and I'd like to say
right now, Mr. Dalhart, that in such a case it can make a hell of a lot
of trouble."

Pecos grunted.

"Now, jest for instance," continued Morgan, warming up a little, "in
case you don't pay your taxes on them two hundred head of cattle I can
get judgment against you, seize any or all of 'em, and sell the whole
shooting-match for taxes. I'll do it, too," he added.

"Well, turn yoreself loose, then," flared back Pecos, "the bars are
down. But I'll tell you right now, the first deputy tax-collector
that puts a rope on one of my cows, I'll bounce a rock off'n him—or
something worse!"

"I ain't accustomed to take no threats, Mr. Dalhart," bellowed Boone
Morgan, his temper getting away with him, "and especially from a
man in your line of business! Now you go your way, and go as far
as you please, but if I don't put the fear of God into your black,
cattle-rustling heart my name is 'Sic 'em' and I'm a dog. I'll collect
them taxes, sir, _next week_!"

"Like hell you will," snarled Pecos, throwing out his chin. He scowled
back at the irate officer, cast a baleful glance at the IC punchers,
and mounted from the far side of his horse, but when he rode away Ike
Crittenden went out behind the corral and laughed until he choked.
After all the trouble this man Dalhart had made him, just to think of
him locking horns with Boone Morgan! And all from his crazy reading of
the _Voice of Reason_! The memory of his own enforced tax-paying fell
away from him like a dream at the thought of Pecos Dalhart putting up a
fight against the sheriff of Geronimo County, and on the strength of it
he took a couple of drinks and was good-natured for a week.

If Pecos had had some self-appointed critic to point out just how
foolish he was he might have seen a new light, gathered up about twenty
head of Monkey-wrench steers and sold them to pay his taxes; but his
only recourse in this extremity was to the _Voice of Reason_, and
whatever its other good qualities are, that journal has never been
accused of preaching moderation and reason. It was war to the knife
with Pecos, from the jump, and the day after his return he took his
carbine, his cigarette makings, and the last _Voice of Reason_ and
went up the trail to lie in wait for Boone Morgan. The country around
Lost Dog Cañon is mostly set on edge and the entrance to the valley is
through a narrow and crooked ravine, filled with bowlders and faced
with sun-blackened sandstone rocks, many of which, from some fracture
of their weathered surface, are pock-marked with giant "wind-holes."
Into one of these natural pockets, from the shelter of which a single
man could stand off a regiment, Pecos hoisted himself with the dawn,
and he did not leave it again till dark. As the wind came up and,
sucking in through the opening, hollowed out each day its little more,
the loose sand from the soft walls blew into Pecos's eyes and he gave
up his fervid reading; but except for that and for the times when
from the blackness of his cavern he searched the narrow trail for his
enemies, he pored over the _Voice of Reason_ as a Christian martyr
might brood over his Bible. It was his religion, linked with that far
more ancient religion of revenge, and if Boone Morgan or any other
deputy tax collector had broken in upon his reveries they certainly
would have stopped something worse than a bouncing stone.

But no one played into his hand to that extent. They say the Apaches
educated the whole United States army in the art of modern warfare and
Boone Morgan as a frontier Indian fighter had been there to learn his
part. In the days when Cochise and Geronimo were loose he had travelled
behind Indian scouts over all kinds of country, and one of the first
things he had mastered was the value of high ground. He had learned
also that one man in the rocks is worth a troop on the trail and while
he was gathering up a posse to discipline Pecos Dalhart he sent Bill
Todhunter ahead to prospect. For two long days that wary deputy haunted
the rim-rock that shut in Lost Dog Cañon, crawling on his belly like
a snake, and at last, just at sundown, his patience was rewarded by
the sight of the lost Pecos, carbine in hand, rising up from nowhere
and returning to his camp. As the smoke rose from his newly lighted
fire Todhunter slipped quietly down the ravine and, stepping from rock
to rock, followed the well-trampled trail till he came to the mouth
of the wind-cave. Peering cautiously in he caught the odor of stale
tobacco smoke and saw the litter of old papers on the sandy floor,
signs enough that Pecos lived there—then, as the strategy and purpose
of the cattle-rustler became plain, he picked his way back to his
lonely camp and waited for another day. With the dawn he was up again
and watching, and when he saw Pecos come back and hide himself in his
wind-cave he straightened up and set about his second quest—the search
for the Monkey-wrench cattle. At the time of his first visit to Lost
Dog he had seen a few along the creek but there must be more of them
down the cañon, and the farther away they could be found the better
it would suit his chief. It was not Boone Morgan's purpose to start a
war—all he wanted was enough Monkey-wrench cattle to pay the taxes,
and a way to get them out. The indications so far were that Pecos had
them in a bottle and was waiting at the neck, but if the water ran
down the cañon there must be a hole somewhere, reasoned the deputy, or
better than that, a trail. Working his way along the rim Bill Todhunter
finally spied the drift-fence across the box of the cañon, and soon
from his high perch he was gazing down into that stupendous hole in
the ground that Pecos had turned into a pasture. From the height of
the towering cliffs the cattle seemed like rabbits feeding in tiny
spots of green, but there they were, more than a hundred of them, and
when the deputy beheld the sparkling waters of the Salagua below them
and the familiar pinnacles of the Superstitions beyond he laughed and
fell to whistling "Paloma" through his teeth. Boone Morgan had hunted
Apaches in the Superstitions, and he knew them like a book. With one
man on the rim-rocks to keep tab on Pecos, Boone and his posse could
take their time to it, if there was any way to get in from that farther
side. Anyhow, he had located the cattle—the next thing was to get word
to the Old Man.

As a government scout Boone Morgan had proved that he was fearless,
but they did not keep him for that—they kept him because he brought
his men back to camp, every time. The effrontery of Pecos Dalhart's
daring to challenge his authority had stirred his choler, but when
Bill Todhunter met him at the river and told him how the ground lay he
passed up the temptation to pot Pecos as he crawled out of his hole in
the rock, and rode for the lower crossing of the Salagua. The trail
which the hardy revolutionist of Lost Dog Cañon was guarding was,
indeed, the only one on the north side of the river. From the pasture
where his cows were hidden the Salagua passed down a box cañon so deep
and precipitous that the mountain sheep could not climb it, and even
with his cowboy-deputies Boone Morgan could hardly hope to run the
Monkey-wrench cows out over the peaks without drawing the fire of their
owner. But there was a trail—and it was a bad one—that led across the
desert from the Salagua until it cut the old Pinal trail, far to the
south, and that historic highway had led many a war party of Apaches
through the very heart of the Superstitions. East it ran, under the
frowning bastions of the great mountain, and then northeast until it
came out just across the river from Pecos Dalhart's pasture. It was a
long ride—sixty miles, and half of it over the desert—but the river was
at its lowest water, just previous to the winter rains, and once there
Boone Morgan felt certain they could make out to cross the cattle.

"And mind you, boys," he said to his posse, as they toiled up the
wearisome grade, "don't you leave a single cow in that pasture or I'm
going to be sore as a goat. The county pays mileage for this, and the
taxes will be a few cents, too—but I'm going to put one rustler out of
business at the start by a hell-roaring big sheriff's sale. I'm going
to show some of these Texas hold-ups that Arizona ain't no cow-thief's
paradise—not while old Boone's on the job."

The second night saw them camped on the edge of the river just across
from the pasture, and in the morning they crossed on a riffle, every
man with his orders for the raid. By noon the cattle began to come
down the valley, tail up and running before the drive; not a word was
spoken, for each man knew his business, but when the thirsty herd of
Monkey-wrench cows finally waded out into the river to drink, a sudden
rush of horsemen from behind crowded the point animals into swimming
water, and before the leaders knew what had happened they were half way
across the river and looking for a landing.

"_Ho—ho—ho—ho—ho!_" shouted the sheriff, riding in to turn them
upstream, and behind him a chorus of cowboy yells urged the last
bewildered stragglers into the current. They crossed, cows and calves
alike, and while the jubilant posse came splashing after them or rode
howling up to the ford Boone Morgan poured the water out of his boots
and smiled pleasantly.

"Jest hold 'em in the willows a while, boys," he said, "until they git
quieted down and drink, and then we'll hit the trail. There's over a
hundred head of cattle there, but I'm going to sell every dam' one
of 'em—sheriff's sale. Then when that crazy Texican gets back on the
reservation I'll give him back his money—what's left—along with some
good advice."

He motioned to the boys to string the cattle out and soon in a long
line the much-stolen Monkey-wrench cows were shambling over the rough
trail, lowing and bellowing for the peaceful valley that lay empty of
its herd. From the high cliffs above Lost Dog Cañon, Bill Todhunter
saw the slow procession wending its way toward town and he made haste
to follow its example. The old silence settled down upon the valley
of Perro Perdito, a silence unbroken even by the lowing of cattle,
and as Pecos lay by his fire that night he felt the subtle change.
His mind, so long set against his enemies, opened up, and he began to
wonder. Boone Morgan had certainly said he would collect those taxes
within a week, and the week was up. Moreover, hiding in a wind-hole
from daylight till dark was getting decidedly monotonous. From the
beginning Pecos had realized that he was one man against many but he
had hoped, by remaining hid, to catch them at a disadvantage. If they
sneaked up and looked over into the lonely cañon they might easily
think he had fled and come in boldly—but somehow nothing came out as he
had expected. He slept on the matter, and woke again to that peculiar
hushed silence. What was it that he missed? His horses were safe in
their pole corral; Old Funny-face and her speckled calf were still
hanging around the camp; the cattle were along the creek as usual—ah,
yes! It was the lowing of cows against the drift-fence bars! With a
vigorous kick he hurled his blanket aside, stamped on his boots and
ran, only stopping to buckle on his six-shooter. At the bars he paused
long enough to see that there were no fresh tracks and then dashed down
the pent-in gorge that led to the pasture rim. The shadow of the high
cliffs lay across the sunken valley like a pall, but there were no
humped-up cattle sleeping beneath the trees. It was time for them to be
out and feeding in the sun, but the meadows and hillsides were bare.
He was astounded and could not believe his eyes—the pasture was empty
as the desert. Cursing and panting Pecos plunged madly down the steep
trail until he came to the first water, and there he threw down his
gun and swore. Fresh and clean on the margin of the water-hole was the
track of a shod horse, pointing toward the river! It was enough—Pecos
knew that he was cleaned! Indians and mountain renegades do not ride
shod horses, and if Boone Morgan had his cows across the river already
he could never get them back. Another thought came to Pecos, and he
scrambled wildly up the trail to defend his remaining herd, but there
was no one there to fight him—his upper cattle were safe. Yet how long
would it take to get them, in order to finish him up? All Boone Morgan
and Upton had to do was to wait until he went down to the store for
provisions and then they could rake his upper range the same way. And
would they do it? Well, say! Pecos pondered on the matter for a day or
two, keeping mostly behind the shelter of some rock, and the sinister
import of Morgan's remarks on what a government can do for a certain
class of people bore in upon him heavily. Undoubtedly he was included
in that class of undesirables and if he was any reader of character
Boone Morgan was just the kind of a man to make him a lot of trouble.
Upton was against him because he had stolen his U cows, and Crit was
against him worse because he had given him the cross—every cowman on
the range would be against him because he was a rustler. Pecos watched
the rim-rock vindictively after that, hoping to get a chance to pot
some meddlesome cowman, but no inquisitive head was poked over. At
last he stole up the ravine one morning and took to the high ground at
dawn. There, sure enough, were the boot-marks among the rocks and he
noticed with a vague uneasiness that some one had been watching him
for days—watching his wind-hole, too,—probably could have shot him a
hundred times, but now the tracks were old. A hot and unreasonable
resentment rose up in Pecos at the implication. Nobody cared for him
now, even to the extent of watching him! He could crawl into his hole
and die now, and everybody would just laugh. Well, he would show Mr.
Everybody what kind of a sport he was. After which circumlocuted
reasoning Pecos Dalhart, the bad man from Perro Perdito Cañon, being
really lonely as a dog, threw the saddle on his horse and hit the trail
for the Verde.



CHAPTER X

STAMPEDED


For two weeks after Pecos Dalhart disappeared into the wilderness
Angevine Thorne spent the greater part of his time sitting in the
doorway of the store with his eyes fixed upon the tiny notch where
the Carrizo trail cut down through the mesa's rim. Never, until that
day when he had defied Boone Morgan, had Angy realized the heroic
devotion of his comrade to the cause of the revolution, and his heart
was strong to help him, even at the risk of his job. If Crit would
only have let him have a horse he would have gone to Lost Dog Cañon
long ago, to carry the news of Morgan's raid and his subsequent visit
to Verde Crossing in search of Pecos, but lacking any means of travel
he had to be content to wait and watch the trail. The two weeks passed
drearily and still, as each afternoon wore on, Babe seated himself in
the shade of the brush _ramada_ and speculated upon the fate of Pecos.
But in this he was not alone. Early in the game Isaac Crittenden had
noted the set gaze of his faithless roustabout, and though he still
rode out with his cowboys, he also managed to keep his one eye cocked
on the eastern horizon, for he had interests in those parts. There were
a hundred head of Monkey-wrench cattle still running loose in Lost Dog
Cañon, and that would make good pickings if Pecos went over the road.
As to what particular road the cattle-rustler took, whether to the
pen or parts unknown, or to his home on high, was immaterial to Isaac
Crittenden, providing always that he heard about it first. A bunch of
mavericks without an owner was likely to get snapped up quick in those
parts—John Upton might turn out to be the lucky man, but not if I. C.
knew himself, and he thought he did.

It is a long day's ride from Lost Dog Cañon—dragging a pack-animal a
man would get in about sundown—and as the days wore on Crittenden made
it a point to ride so that he could cut the Carrizo trail between four
and five. This was a desperate game that he was playing, for Pecos
Dalhart was undoubtedly in an ugly mood; but a little nerve will carry
a man a long way sometimes, and at a pinch Crit could shoot a gun
himself. So it happened that on the day that Pecos rode to the edge
of the bench and sat looking down doubtfully upon the distant Verde
Crossing, he heard a horse pounding in on his right and finally made
out Isaac Crittenden, in wild and unnecessary pursuit of a cow. At a
suitable distance the cowman looked up, let his cow go, and ambled
cautiously over toward his former agent. Holding his hands in sight to
show that his intentions were pacific, he came in closer and at last
motioned to Pecos to come away from the mesa rim.

"What's the matter with you?" he called, frantically repeating his
signal. "D' you want to let Boone Morgan see you?"

"Boone Morgan?" repeated Pecos, reining in his horse. "Why—what—"

"Haven't you heard the news?" demanded Crittenden, hectoringly. "Boone
Morgan took a hundred head of your Monkey-wrench critters down the
Pinal trail, and every dam' one of 'em had been burnt over from a U. He
was up here inquirin' for you a day or two ago."

Their eyes met and Pecos tried to pass it off in bravado, but Crit
had him at a disadvantage. "The best thing you can do is drift," he
observed, meaningly.

"Oh, I don't know," said Pecos, "I got a hundred head an' more of cows
over in Lost Dog Cañon yet. What'll you—"

"They ain't worth a dam'," cut in Crittenden, harshly.

"No, I know they ain't," assented the cowboy, patiently, "not to me—but
to a man with a big outfit they'd be worth about fifteen hundred
dollars."

"Well, _I_ don't want 'em," snapped Crit. "I got troubles enough,
already, without hidin' out from Boone Morgan."

"I'll sell you that brand cheap," supplicated Pecos, but the cowman
only showed his teeth in derision.

"Wouldn't take 'em as a gift," he said, shortly.

"Well, go to hell, then!" snarled the rustler, and jerking his horse
around he started toward Verde Crossing.

"Hey, where you goin'?" called Crittenden, but Pecos did not reply.
"You'll git into trouble," he persisted, following anxiously after him.
"Say, do you want to break into jail?"

Pecos halted on the rim of the mesa, turned deliberately about and
faced him.

"No," he said, "do you?"

"Why, what d' you mean?" demanded the cowman, leaving off his
blustering and coming nearer.

"Well, if they throw me in I'll tell all I know," replied Pecos.
"That's all. They may soak me for the Monkey-wrenches, but I'll sure
git you on them Wine-glasses, so you better not try any funny business.
What I'm lookin' for now is travellin' expenses—I'm not so stuck on
this country that I couldn't be induced to leave it!"

"No-o," sneered the cowman, "I don't reckon you are. They ain't a man
between Tonto and the Gila that don't know you for a rustler now. More
'n that, you've defied the officers of the law. No, Mr. Dalhart," he
said, a cold glint coming into his eye, "I won't give you a dam' cent
for your burnt-over cattle and if you take my advice you'll hit the
high places for New Mexico."

"Well, I won't take it, then," replied Pecos, sullenly. "I'm goin' down
to the Crossing to see Angy and—hey! there's the old boy now, flaggin'
me from the store. Well, good-bye, old Cock Eye, don't worry about me
none, I know my way around!" He favored his former employer with a
flaunting gesture of farewell, leaned over to catch the forward jump
of his horse, and went scampering down the slope and across the level,
yipping playfully at every bound.

"Well, the blank-blanked fool!" exclaimed Crittenden, slapping his leg
viciously with his quirt at this sudden wrecking of his hopes. "Well,
_dam'_ 'im, for a proper eejit!" He ground his teeth in vexation. "W'y,
the crazy dum-head!" he groaned, as the cloud of dust receded. "Boone
Morgan is shore to come back to the Crossing to-night and catch 'im in
the store! Him and that booze-fightin' Angy—I got to git rid of him—but
what in the world am _I_ goin' to do?"

From his station on the edge of the mesa he could see the dust to the
east where his cowboys were bringing the day's beef-cut down to the
river and then, far up toward the northern pass, a couple of horsemen
jogging down the Tonto trail. Boone Morgan rode a bay horse, and one
of these was solid color, but the other rode an animal that showed a
patch of white—looked kind of familiar, too. He watched them until
they showed up clear against a clay-bank and then, making sure that the
man on the bay was Morgan, he spurred across the flat to the store.
Whatever happened, he must be sure to get Pecos out of town, for Upton
had been talking Wine-glass to Morgan, and they might summon him for a
witness.

There was a sound of clanking glasses inside the door as Crittenden
rode up, and the voice of Angevine Thorne, flamboyantly proclaiming a
toast.

"Then here's to the revolution," he ended up, "and a pleasant journey
to you, Cumrad, wherever you go!"

They drank, and Crit, sitting outside on his horse, slapped his thigh
and laughed silently. "A pleasant journey," eh? Well, let it go at that
and he would put up the whiskey.

"You'll be sure and write me often," continued Angy, caressingly, "and
I'll send your _Voice of Reason_ to you, so you can keep up with the
times."

"All right, Pardner," answered Pecos, "but say, give Marcelina my best
and tell her I'll be back in the spring. Tell 'er something real nice
for me, Angy, will you? Aw, to hell with the cows; it'll be her I come
back for! Gittin' a little too warm for me right now, but I'll be here
when she comes home in the spring. Well, let's take another drink to
the sweetest little girl that ever lived and then I'll be on my way!"
The glasses clicked again and as Angy began another peroration Old Crit
pulled his horse around with an oath and started up the road. So that
was why he had been turned down by Marcelina—Pecos was making love to
her while he was gone! And he'd be back in the springtime, eh? Well,
not if there was room in the county jail and Boone Morgan would take
him down! Hot with his new-made scheme for revenge he spurred his horse
to a gallop and was just swinging around the first turn in the trail
when he fetched up face to face with Morgan and John Upton!

The world is full of hatred in a thousand forms but there is none more
bitter than that between two men who have seen a former friendship
turn to gall and wormwood. So bitter was the enmity between Upton and
Old Crit that it needed but the time and occasion to break out into
a war. Short, freckle-faced, and red-headed, with a week's growth of
stubby beard and a clear green eye, John Upton was not a man that one
would pick for an enemy, and the single swift move that he made toward
his pistol expressed his general sentiments plainer than any words. As
for Crittenden, his emotions were too badly mixed to lead to action,
but the one-eyed glare which he conferred upon his cow-stealing rival
convinced Boone Morgan at a glance that Old Crit was dangerous.

"I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Crittenden," he said, taking
command on the instant, "and since Mr. Upton is interested in this
matter I have asked him to come along down. We won't discuss the
business I have in hand until we get to town, but now that I've got
you two gentlemen together I'd like to ask you to be a little more
careful about your branding. My deputies reported to me that on the
last round-up calves were found bearing a different iron from their
mothers and that mavericks were branded on sight, anywhere on the open
range. The law provides, as you know, that no cow-brute can be branded
anywhere except in a corral or at a round-up and no man has the right
to brand any maverick, _orejano_, leppy, or sleeper except in the
presence and with the consent of witnesses. There have been certain
irregularities up here in the past, as is to be expected in a new
country, but I want to tell you right now that in the future I'm going
to hold you cowmen to the law. I was elected and sworn in to uphold
the peace and dignity of Geronimo County, so if you have any little
feuds or differences to work off, I'll thank you to do it outside my
jurisdiction."

He paused, and as they rode down the broad trail that merged into
Verde's main street the rival cattle kings exchanged malignant glances
behind his broad and soldierly back. But the sheriff's eyes were to the
fore and at sight of Pecos Dalhart's horse tied to the ground in front
of the store he chuckled to himself.

"Well, well," he said, reaching down into his inside vest pocket, "I'm
just in time to deliver these papers—or am I mistaken in thinking
that that hoss yonder belongs to Mr. Dalhart?" He glanced across at
Crittenden, who shrugged his shoulders and scowled. "Quite correct, eh?
Well, then, if you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment I'll go in and
see Mr. Dalhart."

He swung down from his horse with military precision and strode toward
the door, carrying a bulky official envelope in his left hand and a
cigar stump in his right, but just as he crossed the threshold Pecos
Dalhart, startled by his voice, dodged out the back way and ran around
the store. It was a break for liberty with him and he took no thought
of the cost. Three seconds after the sheriff entered the doorway he
came tearing around the corner, heading for his horse. At sight of
Upton and Old Crit he paused and reached for his gun—for one tense
moment they glared at each other—then, flinging himself into the saddle
and hugging his horse's neck, Pecos went spurring away down the trail,
reckless of everything but the one main chance of escape.

"Hey! Wait a minute!" roared Boone Morgan, dashing out the doorway and
waving his envelope. "Come back heah, you pore dam' fool! Well, don't
that beat the devil?" he inquired, turning to Crit and Upton. "_I_
didn't have no warrant for him! No! I jest wanted—" he paused and,
noticing the wolfish eagerness with which the cowmen awaited his final
words, he suddenly changed his mind. "Well, what's the difference,"
he grumbled, tucking the big envelope back into his pocket, "he'll
keep." He followed the cloud of dust that stood for Pecos Dalhart until
it tore up over the rim of the mesa and disappeared, and a deep and
subterranean rumbling in his chest paid tribute to the joke. There was
something like a thousand dollars in that big official envelope—the
balance of the Monkey-wrench tax sale—and all he wanted of Pecos was
his written receipt for the money.



CHAPTER XI

THE CATTLE WAR


When Pecos Dalhart, flying from his own evil conscience, went
stampeding out into the wilderness, Isaac Crittenden and John Upton
gazed after him with but a single thought—who would get his cattle?
With Pecos out of the way, Crittenden saw a clear field ahead of him in
the Lost Dog country and he joined Morgan in a throaty laugh, but Upton
viewed his mad flight with disappointment and chagrin.

"Well, laugh then, you robber," he snarled, turning angrily on Crit,
"I s'pose it tickles you to death to see that dam' cow-thief hit the
pike—he might talk and git you into trouble. Say, Mr. Morgan," he
protested, "ain't you takin' quite a responsibility onto yourself to
let that man git away?—you know what we came down here for," he added,
jerking his head toward Crit.

"Well, what did you come down here for, you little sawed-off runt?"
demanded Crittenden, belligerently. "Hollerin' around, as usual, I
s'pose!"

"I come down here to find out about them U cows of mine that you
branded into a Wine-glass," retorted Upton, "but you and the sheriff
here seem to have some kind of an understandin', lettin' the principal
witness git away, and all that, so I reckon I better pull."

"Not before you eat them words, Mr. Upton," cut in the sheriff,
fiercely. "I don't let no man make insinuations like that about me
without callin' on him to retract—and I ain't never been disappointed
yet!"

"Well, you jest let that Dalhart feller git away, didn't you?" demanded
Upton, defiantly.

"I certainly did, sir," replied Boone Morgan, with ponderous dignity,
"and when you git ready to start I shall accord you the same courtesy!
There are no papers out for Mr. Dalhart and unless I detect him in some
breach of law or receive a warrant for his arrest I've got no right to
lay a finger on him. Now you know very well I've got no understanding
with Crittenden, and I'm goin' to ask you to apologize for that
statement you jest made."

"Well, I didn't mean no offence," protested the cowman, meekly, "and I
apologize, all right—but at the same time it don't seem right to let
that dam' cattle-rustler git away like that."

"No," responded the sheriff, with heavy sarcasm, "it don't. But bein'
as he's gone you _cowmen_ will have a chance to show what good citizens
_you_ are. I don't know jest what Mr. Dalhart's plans are, but when
it comes around to the spring round-up I want to find every one of
them Monkey-wrench cattle _thar_! He's paid his taxes in full and
he's entitled to the full protection of the law, so long as he keeps
the peace. You hear me talking, now; this brand-burnin' has gone far
enough."

"But how about them U cows I lost?" put in Upton, pertinently. "Do Crit
and this Pecos Dalhart git to keep all the critters they stole?"

"Stole, nothin'!" retorted Crittenden hotly. "How about them J I C cows
of yourn?"

"You make a business of burnin' my brand!" rejoined Upton, shaking
his finger threateningly. "You hire men to rob me and rake my whole
upper range! I'm losin' more now than I did when the Apaches was in
the hills; but I'll git even with you yet, you dam', humped-back old
cow-thief!"

"Well, I see you gentlemen are goin' to keep on quarrellin'," observed
Boone Morgan, picking up his bridle-rein, "and I might as well go on
about my business. You got no more respect for the law, either one of
you, than a common cattle-rustler, and I'm goin' to quit wrastlin' with
you, right now. But you can cut this out and paste it in your hats—the
first man that steals a cow in Geronimo County, and I catch 'im, is
goin' to git the limit. Angy, gimme a bag of crackers and some of that
jerked beef—I'm tired of hearin' this yawp."

So genuine was his disgust that Boone Morgan plunged through the cold
river at nightfall and took the long trail for Geronimo, but the memory
of his last words lingered in the minds of the warring cowmen for many
a day, and though Pecos Dalhart was known to be over in New Mexico
somewhere his Monkey-wrench herd remained safe in Lost Dog Cañon. As
for the sheriff, having abandoned all idea of peace, he transacted his
business in the mountains by deputy and sat quiet in Geronimo, waiting
only for the first break to come back and make his word good. It had a
wonderful restraining influence upon Crit and Upton, this prolonged and
ominous absence, but as spring came on and the new crop of calves began
to gambol on the mesas, the old spirit of grab rose up and overleapt
the dull fear of last winter. Once more both Crit and Upton began to
take on nervy cowboys—men who by their boasts or by their silence let
it be known that they were game—and the cow-camp at Verde Crossing
sheltered gun-men from all over the Far West. From the Tonto country
there came rumors that Upton was bringing in bad men from Pleasant
Valley, fresh from the bloody combats where the Grahams and Tewkesburys
met. Bill Todhunter rode in when the round-up was well begun and looked
the outfits over with grave unconcern, dropping out of sight on the
trail and turning up at Geronimo two days later to report that all was
well in Lost Dog Cañon. There were no deputy sheriffs in disguise on
this round-up—both Crittenden and Upton satisfied themselves of that
early in the day—and as the work went on and the lust for spoils grew
with each branded maverick, the war spirit crept in and grew apace.

Ike Crittenden was the first to renew the feud—he came across an old
ICU cow and branded her to ICU2. One of Upton's range riders picked her
up after the branding and Upton promptly altered the brand on an IC
cow, to break even. Then came the grand _coup_ for which Crittenden
had long been preparing. On the morning after Upton took his revenge,
the whole IC outfit—forty cowboys and every man armed—went galloping
over the Carrizo trail to Lost Dog Cañon. By noon they had gathered
every animal in the valley; at night they camped with the herd at
Carrizo Springs; and the next day every Monkey-wrench cow was safe
in the Verde corrals with her Monkey-wrench burnt to a Spectacle
([Illustration: [++] Cattle brand in the shape of eyeglasses.]) and her
ears chopped down to her head. The ear-marks having been altered once
already there was nothing for it but to make the new marks deeper
and more inclusive—swallow-fork the left and crop the right. The
swallow-fork was deep in the left, to take in an underbit that Pecos
had cut, and Old Funny-face, who had returned home with the herd, lost
the fancy Mexican window and _anzuelo_ in her right ear altogether,
along with all other signs of a former ownership. But even then the
artistic knife-work of José Garcia was not allowed to perish from
the earth. As Funny-face rose up from this last indignity and menaced
the perspiring cowboys with her horns, the little Garcia children,
hanging over the fence, dashed out through the dust and turmoil and
rescued the close-cropped ears. Already, in spite of threats and
admonitions, they had gathered quite a collection of variegated crops
and swallow-forks to serve as play-cows in their toy corral; but when
Marcelina came upon this last bloody evidence of the despite that was
shown her lover she snatched the ears away and hid them in the thatched
roof. Old Funny-face was Pecos's cow—she knew that as well as she knew
the red-spotted, dun-colored ears that had adorned her speckled head.
Pecos had bought Funny-face and her calf from her father for thirty
dollars, to keep around his camp to milk, and now there was nothing to
show for his ownership but the ears. But perhaps Pecos would be glad
even for them, if ever he came back. In a letter to Babe he had said he
was coming back, now that the sheriff was his friend. But Crit—ha-ah,
Ol' Creet—he was stealing all of Pecos's cows, and the sheriff did not
care! She stood by a post of the brush _ramada_ and scowled at him as
he raged about on his horse, cursing and shouting and waving his arms
and hurrying his men along. He was a bad man—ahr, how she hated him—and
now he was such a thief!

As the quick work of branding was brought to an end and the herd
driven pell-mell down the river and into the heavy willows, the Boss
of Verde Crossing sent half of his cowboys down to guard them and
began to clean up the corral. First he put out the fires and quenched
the hot running-irons and rings; then he removed the branding outfit,
dug a deep hole in the river-bed and set his men to work in details,
gathering up the clipped ears and swallow-forks from the trampled dirt
of the corral. A single ear left lying would be a record of his theft,
and when one of the Garcia _niños_, by an ill-timed dash for more ears,
set Crit upon the trail of their play cows he rushed in and ravished
all their toy corrals, even though Marcelina stood by the _ramada_ and
curled her lip at his haste.

"You will rob even the cheeldren, Meester Creet!" she remarked, as he
dumped them all into his hat.

"Mind your own business!" he answered, sharply, and scuttled away like
a crab, bearing his plunder with him.

"Ah, you ba-ad man!" observed Marcelina, making faces at his bent back.
"I hope Paycos come back and _keel_ you!"

But Isaac Crittenden was not worrying about any such small fry as
Pecos Dalhart. Boone Morgan and John Upton were the men he had on his
mind and it was about time for Upton to show up. A solitary horseman,
high up on the shoulder of the peaks, had watched their departure from
Carrizo Springs that morning, and if Upton had not known before he
certainly knew very well now that the Monkey-wrench brand was no more.
As for Boone Morgan—well, there was an IC cow in the corral, altered
by John Upton to JIC, and it was just as big a crime to steal one cow
as it was to steal a hundred. One thing was certain, no man from the
IC outfit would call on the sheriff for aid; and if Upton was the
red-headed terror that he claimed to be, the matter would be settled
out of court.

In this particular incident Mr. Crittenden was more than right. The
matter was already adjudicated by range law, and entirely to the
satisfaction of Upton. For while Crit was hustling his Monkey-wrench
herd over to Verde Crossing, the U outfit—also forty strong—had
hopped over the shoulder of the Peaks, rounded up every Wine-glass
cow that they could gather, and were at that moment busily engaged at
Carrizo Springs in altering them to a Circle-cross ([Illustration:
[++] Brand in the shape of a female gender symbol]). It made a very
pretty brand too; but after studying on it for a while and recalling
his past experience with Crit, Upton decided to play safe and make
it a double cross ([Illustration: Brand in the shape of circle with
a double cross]). No more ICU2's for John Upton—he had been there
once—and Circle Double-cross it went on every animal they marked. The
next morning, with every cow and calf well in hand, the U boys began to
drift the Circle Double-cross herd back over the mountain, and just as
Crittenden was marshalling his fighting men to win back the ravished
stock there was a clatter of hoofs down at the Crossing and Boone
Morgan rode into camp, followed by a posse of deputies.

"Well, what's the trouble up here, Mr. Crittenden?" he inquired,
glancing with stern displeasure at the armed men who gathered about
their chief. "Is there an Injun uprisin' or have you gone on the
warpath yourse'f?"

"You jest come down to my corral," spat back Crittenden, "and I'll show
you what's the matter! That low-lived John Upton has been burnin' my
brand!" He led the way at a gallop to where the IC cow that had been
altered to JIC was tied by the horns to a post. "You see that brand?"
he inquired, "well, that was made three days ago by John Upton—you can
see the J is still raw."

"Umph!" grunted the sheriff, after a careful scrutiny of the brand,
"did anybody see him do it?"

"No, but he done it, all right!"

"Would you swear to it? Can you prove it? How do you know somebody else
didn't do it?"

"No, I can't swear to it—and I can't prove it, neither—but one of my
boys picked that cow up three days ago right in the track of Upton's
outfit, and, knowin' the little whelp as I do, I don't need no lawyer's
testimony to make a case!"

"Well, I do," replied Boone Morgan, resolutely, "and I don't want this
to go any further until I get the facts! What you goin' to do with all
those two-gun cowboys?"

"I'm goin' to take over the mesa after John Upton and his dam',
cow-stealin' outfit," cried Crittenden, vehemently, "and if you're
lookin' for legal evidence, he went out of Carrizo Springs this
mornin' drivin' nigh onto two hundred head of Wine-glass cows, as one
of my boys jest told me. Law, nothin'!" shouted the cowman, recklessly.
"I ain't goin' to sit around here, twiddlin' my fingers, and waitin'
for papers and evidence! What I want is action!"

"Well, you'll get it, all right," replied Morgan, "and dam' quick, too,
if you think you can run it over me! I want you to understand, Mr.
Crittenden, that I am the sheriff of this county, and the first break
you make to go after John Upton I'll send you down to Geronimo with the
nippers on, to answer for resisting an officer! Now as for these men of
yours, I give every one of 'em notice, here and now, that I want this
racket to stop, and the first man that goes up against me will wind up
in the county jail. Bill," he continued, turning to his trusted deputy,
"I leave you in charge of this layout while I go after John Upton. Keep
the whole outfit in camp until I come back, if you have to kill 'em.
I've got enough of this."

He rode down to the store with his posse, bought a feed of grain for
his horses and provisions for his men, and half an hour afterward went
galloping out the Carrizo trail, his keen eye scanning the distant
ridges and reading the desert signs like a book. It did not take an
Indian trailer to interpret the deep-trampled record of that path. Two
days before a big herd of cows and calves had come into Verde Crossing
from Carrizo, driven by many shod horses and hustled along in a hurry.
As he approached Carrizo fresher tracks cut across the old signs, the
tracks of cows and calves fleeing from scampering ponies, and at the
Springs the fresh signs closed in and trampled out all evidence of the
old drive. It was the last page of the story, written indelibly in
the sandy earth. On the open _parada_ ground the cropped ears had all
been gathered, but the bruised bushes, the blood and signs of struggle
told the plain story of Upton's branding, just as the vacancy of the
landscape and the long trail leading to the north spelled the material
facts of the drama. The Wine-glass cows that used to be about Carrizo
Springs were gone—John Upton had driven them north. But why? The answer
lay beyond Carrizo Springs, where the white trail leads down from Lost
Dog Cañon. There the trampled tracks that led into Verde Crossing stood
out plain again in the dust—three days old and pressed on by hurrying
horses. If the law could accept the record of Nature's outspread book
Crit and Upton were condemned already, the one for stealing Pecos
Dalhart's herd, the other for branding over the Wine-glasses. But the
law demands more than that. It demands evidence that a lawyer can
read; the sworn testimony of honest and unprejudiced witnesses; the
identification of men, brands, and cows, proved beyond a doubt; and
all this in a country where all cows look alike, all witnesses are
partisans, and an honest man is the noblest work of God. Boone Morgan
took up the long trail to the north with fire in his eye, and he rode
furiously, as was his duty, but deep down in his heart he knew he was
after the wrong man, and would not even get him.



CHAPTER XII

MOUNTAIN LAW


As the sheriff's posse spurred their tired horses up the long slope
of the rocky mountain and down into the rough country beyond, the
trail grew fresher with every hour, until the blood from mutilated
ears showed wet in the trampled dirt. But as the herd made its way
into the broken ground the heavy trail split up and divided; at each
fork of the cañon a bunch was cut off from the drag of the herd and
drifted by a hand or two down onto the lower range, and when at last
the trail broke out into the open country again the posse was following
the tracks of only three men and twenty or thirty cows. Then they
picked up a stray, burned clean into a Circle-Double-cross and freshly
ear-marked, and after that the remnant of the band, standing wearily
by a water-hole. Every one of them had been freshly branded with a
hot iron—no hair-brand or attempt at burning through a sack—and half
of their ears were bloody from being torn in the brush; but there were
no cowboys loitering near, waiting to be caught with the goods. The
horse-tracks still led on until at last they scattered out and mounted
the neighboring ridges. But if the trail was lost there were other
signs to lead Morgan on his way. The sun was hanging low now, and their
horses were jaded from hard riding, but at the familiar bellowing of a
cow-herd they pricked up their ears and forged ahead. The valley opened
out suddenly before them and there on their regular _parada_ grounds
was the entire U outfit, holding a big herd and cutting, roping,
and branding by days' works. Innocence and industry were the twin
watchwords in that aggregation—they were too busy even to look up—and
when Boone Morgan saw the game he rode past them without speaking and
tackled the cook for supper.

"Boys are workin' kinder late to-night, ain't they?" he observed,
filling his plate from the Dutch ovens.

"Sure are," answered the cook, sententiously. He had caught a glimpse
of a star on a deputy's vest, and his orders were not to talk.

"Can't even stop to eat, hey?" continued the sheriff, nodding at an
ovenful of cold biscuits that had been wastefully thrown in the dirt.
"Well, that's a pity, too, because you sure do make good bread. But a
sour-dough biscuit ain't never no good unless it's eaten fresh."

"No," grumbled the cook, taken off his guard, "and ef they's anything I
do despise it is to cook up a good oven of bread and then have it spile
thataway."

"Well, we're certainly appreciatin' this batch," remarked Morgan,
glancing genially around at his busy men. "The boys bein' away
yesterday kind of threw you out, I reckon."

"Thet's right," agreed the cook, oblivious of his intent, "I hed a big
kittle of beans spile on me, too."

"They'll sure be hungry when they do hit camp," said the sheriff,
continuing his lead, "livin' on cold grub that way. Hello," he
exclaimed, looking up as John Upton came hurrying in, "here comes Mr.
Upton now—ganted down to a shadow."

"Oh, I don't know!" replied Upton, guardedly, "b'lieve I could eat a
little, though."

"Well, I reckon you ought to," said Morgan, "after goin' two days on
cold grub."

"Cold grub!" repeated the cowman, glancing at the cook.

"Why, sure. And that's a long, hard ride over to Carrizo, too." The
sheriff took a big mouthful and waited.

"What in hell you talkin' about?" demanded the cowman, sullenly.

"Why, wasn't you over to Carrizo yesterday?"

"Nope."

"And never eat no cold grub?" inquired the sheriff, gazing quizzically
toward Joe, the cook.

"Dam' yore heart, Joe!" burst out Upton, looking daggers at the
startled pot-tender, "have you been blabbin' already?"

"That'll be all, Mr. Upton," said Boone Morgan, quietly, "I'm up
here lookin' for the owner of this new Circle Double-cross brand. Is
that your iron? It is? Well, I'll have to ask you to go back with me
to-morrow and explain where them cows come from."

"Well, by the holy—jumpin'—" The cowman paused in his wrath and fixed
his fiery eyes on Boone Morgan. "Did Ike Crittenden put you up to
this?" he demanded, and taking silence for consent he went off into a
frenzy of indignation. "Well, what you chasin' _me_ for?" he yelled,
choking with exasperation. "Old Crit goes over into Lost Dog and runs
off every dam' one of them Monkey-wrench cows, and you come right
through his camp and jump _me_! They wasn't a critter in Lost Dog
that hadn't been burnt over my U, and you know it; but ump-um—Crit's
a friend of mine—never make him any trouble—go over and tackle
Upton—he's a _Tonto_ County man!"

The sheriff listened to this tirade with a tolerant smile, feeding
himself liberally the while. He had long ago learned that the world's
supply of self-righteousness is not held in monopoly by the truly
good—also that every horse must go to the length of his picket rope
before he will stop and eat. But when the fireworks were over he
remarked by way of conversation, "Crit's got one of your JIC cows down
there in his corral—a red three, bald-faced and kind of spotted on the
shoulders. Looks like it had been branded lately."

"Yes, an' I've got one of his ICU2's down in my corral," retorted
Upton, "and it sure has been branded lately—you could smell the burnt
hair when I picked it up five days ago. They ain't a man in my outfit
that don't know that old cow for an ICU, too."

"Um," commented Morgan, "you think he stole it, hey?"

"I know it!" replied Upton, with decision. "You can see her yoreself,
down in my headquarters corral, and I picked her up in the track of
Crit's round-up."

"Well, you better swear out a warrant, then, and we'll take the
cow down for evidence. You were hintin' that I'm standin' in with
Crittenden, but jest swear to a complaint and see how quick I'll serve
the papers."

For a moment the cowman cocked his head and regarded him shrewdly—then
he shook his head. "I've got too much loose stock runnin' on his
range," he said.

"I'll protect your property," urged the sheriff. "Come on, now—quit
your kickin' and make a complaint."

"Nope—too dangerous! I can take care of myself in the hills, but if
them Geronimo lawyers ever git holt of me I'm done for. You can take me
down to-morrer, if you want to, but I'd rather stick to my own game."

"All right," said the sheriff, "we'll see what Crit will do."

There was a big crowd around the store at Verde Crossing when Boone
Morgan and his posse rode in, and at sight of John Upton by his side
there was a general craning of necks on the part of Crittenden's
cowboys. This was the first time that a sheriff had attempted to stop
the lawless raids and counter-raids of these two cattle kings and the
gun-men looked upon him with disfavor, for even a professional bad
man is jealous of his job. An appeal to the courts would divert their
extra wages into the pockets of the lawyers—it would dock their pay and
double their work, and to a man they were against it. Yet here came
Upton with the sheriff, and Bill Todhunter had already spotted some
Spectacle cows that had drifted back to the corrals. As for Crit, his
nerve was good, for he felt the fighting courage of his men behind him,
and he went out to meet his ancient enemy with a taunting sneer.

"Well, I'm glad to see one man git what's comin' to him," he observed,
taking note of Upton's guard.

"Yes," retorted Upton, caustically, "and if I'd jest tell a half of
what I know, you'd be mixin' 'dobes down at the Pen."

"Uhr!" grunted Crittenden, turning away in scorn; but at the same time
he took his cue from the words.

"Well, Mr. Crittenden," began Morgan, "here's the man you wanted
so bad. Now if you'll jest step into the store and fill out this
complaint—"

"Nothin' like that—nothin' like that!" protested the Verde Boss,
holding up his hand. "I never said I wanted him arrested!"

"No, but you took me down and showed me that JIC cow and said he stole
it, didn't you? And you complained to me that he was in the act of
runnin' off your Wine-glass cows, didn't you? Well, that's the same
thing, when you're talkin' to an officer."

"Well, it may be all the same, but I don't want 'im arrested. That
ain't the way I do business."

"Oh, it ain't, hey? Well, what is your way of doin' business?"

"First principle is never to holler for help," replied Crittenden,
grimly. "I know dam' well that little cuss over there burnt my IC cow
and run off all my Wine-glasses—but I can't prove nothin' before the
law, so you might as well turn 'im loose. Oh, you don't need to laugh,
you little, sawed-off runt!" he yelled, addressing himself to Upton,
"I'm jest keepin' you out of jail so's I can git at you myself! I'll—"

"Aw, shut up," growled the sheriff, brushing roughly past him. "Come
on, boys, let's get out of this before they holler their heads off."
He swung angrily up on his horse, jerked its head toward the river and
took the crossing in silence, leaving the rival cattle kings to fight
it out together. The time might come when one or the other of them
would "holler for help," but just at that moment the Verde country was
not educated up to the law.



CHAPTER XIII

WELCOME HOME


After the war of words was over and the tumult and shouting had died
away, the Angel of Peace, which had been flying high of late, fluttered
down and hovered low over Verde Crossing. John Upton rode back up the
Tonto trail still breathing forth hostile threats; Crittenden and his
men buckled on their extra guns and rode blithely out to the adventure;
and the store, from being a general hang-out for noisy and drunken
cowboys, became once more a shrine to Venus and a temple of the Muse,
with Babe the minstrel and Marcelina the devotee. "Billy Veniro" was
the theme—that long, sad tale of the far frontier—sung in tragic tenor
to a breathless audience of one. She was very pretty, the little
Marcelina, now that she had become a woman. The Sisters had taught her
her catechism and something more—the grace and sweetness that come from
religious adoration, and the quiet of the cell. The great world, too,
as personated by Geronimo, had done its share; her hair was done up in
dark masses, her long skirt swept the floor, and with the added dignity
of a train her womanhood was complete. She sat by the door where she
could watch the Tonto trail—for it was by that road that Pecos was to
come—and her melancholy eyes glowed as she listened to the song.


BILLY VENIRO

    "Billy Veniro heard them say, in an Arizona town one day,
    That a band of Apache Indians were on the trail of death.
    He heard them tell of murder done, of the men killed at Rocky Run.
    'There is danger at the cow-ranch!' Veniro cried beneath
        his breath.

    "In a ranch forty miles, in a little place that lay
    In a green and shady valley, in a mighty wilderness,
    Half a dozen homes were there and in one a maiden fair
    Helt the heart of Billy Veniro—Billy Veniro's little Bess.

    "So no wonder he grew pale, when he heard the cowboy's tale—
    Of the men that he'd seen murdered the day before at Rocky Run.
    'As sure as there is a God above, I will save the girl I love.
    By my love for little Bessie, I must see there is something done!'

    "When his brave resolve was made, not a moment more he stayed.
    'Why, my man,' his comrades told him when they heard his
        daring plan,
    'You are riding straight to death!' But he answered, 'Hold
        your breath,
    I may never reach the cow-ranch, but I'll do the best I can.'

    "As he crossed the alkali bed all his thoughts flew on ahead
    To the little band at the cow-ranch, thinking not of danger near,
    With his quirt's unceasing whirl and the jingle of his spurs
    Little brown Chapo bore the cowboy far away from a far frontier.

    "Lower and lower sank the sun, he drew reins at Rocky Run.
    'Here those men met death, my Chapo!' and he stroked his
        horse's mane.
    'So shall those we go to warn, ere the breaking of the morn,
    If I fail, God help my Bessie!' And he started out again.

    "Sharp and keen the rifle shot woke the echoes of the spot.
    'I am wounded!' cried Veniro, as he swayed from side to side.
    'Where there is life there is always hope, onward slowly
        I will lope.
    I may never reach the cow-ranch—Bessie dear shall know I tried.

    "'I will save her yet,' he cried, 'Bessie Lee shall know I died
    For her sake!' And then he halted in the shadow of a hill.
    From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak
    In the warm blood that spurted from the wound above his heart.

    "From his chaps he took, with weak hand, a little book,
    Tore a blank leaf from it, saying, 'This shall be my will.'
    He arose and wrote: 'Too late! Apache warriors lay in wait.
    Good-bye, Bess, God bless you, darling!' And he felt the warm
        blood start.

    "And he made his message fast—love's first letter and its last—
    To his saddle horn he tied it, while his lips were white with pain.
    'Take this message, if not me, safe to little Bess,' said he.
    Then he tied himself to the saddle and gave his horse the rein.

    "Just at dusk a horse of brown, wet with sweat, came panting down
    Through the little lane at the cow-ranch and stopped at
        Bessie's door.
    But the cowboy was asleep and his slumbers were so deep
    That little Bess could not awake him, if she were to
        try forevermore.

           *       *       *       *       *

    "Now you have heard this story told, by the young and by the old,
    Way down there at the cow-ranch the night the Apaches came.
    Heard them speak of the bloody fight, how the chief fell in
        the flight
    And of those panic-stricken warriors, when they speak
        Veniro's name."

           *       *       *       *       *

"Ay, _los_ Ah-paches!" sighed Marcelina, looking wistfully up the
trail. "No _ai_ Ah-paches in mountains now, Babe?"

"No, Marcelina," soothed Angy, "all gone now. Soldiers watch 'em—San
Carlos."

"_Que malo, los Indios!_" shuddered Marcelina. "I am afraid—_quien
sabe?_—who can tell?—I am afraid some bad men shall keel—ah, when say
Paycos, he will come?"

"'I'll come a-runnin'—watch for my dust'—that's all he wrote when I
told him you was home. Can't you see no dust nor nothin'?"

"There is leetle smoke, like camp-fire, up the valley—and Creet's
vaqueros come home down Tonto trail. Pretty soon sundown—nobody come."

Angevine Thorne stepped through the doorway and, shading his bloodshot
eyes with a grimy hand, gazed long at the column of thin smoke against
the northern sky. "Like as not some one is brandin' an _orejano_" he
said, half to himself. "Might even be Pecos, makin' a signal fire. Hey,
look at them bloody cowboys, ridin' in on it! Look at 'em go down that
_arroyo_; will you? Say—I hope—"

"Hope what?"

"Well, I hope Pecos don't come across none of them Spectacle cows on
the way in—that's all."

"Ahh, Paycos weel be mad—he weel—_Mira!_ Look, look!"

A furious mob of horsemen came whirling down the trail, crowding about
a central object that swayed and fought in their midst; they rushed
it triumphantly into the open, swinging their ropes and shouting, and
as the rout went by Angy saw Pecos, tied to his horse, his arms bound
tight to his sides and a myriad of tangled reatas jerking him about in
his saddle.

[Illustration: As the rout went by Angy saw Pecos, tied to his horse,
his arms bound tight to his sides]

"Hang the cow-thief!" howled the cowboys, circling and racing back, and
all the time Pecos strained and tugged to get one hand to his gun. Then
his wild eyes fell on Marcelina and he paused; she held out her hands,
and Angy rushed behind the bar for his gun.

"Here, what the hell you mean?" he yelled, breaking from the door.
"Quit jerkin' him around like that, or I'll knock you off your horse!"
He ran straight through the crowd, belting every horse he met with the
barrel of his forty-five, until he brought up with his back to Pecos
and his pistol on the mob. "Let go that rope, you—!" he cried, bringing
his six-shooter to a point, and as the nearest cowboy threw loose and
backed away he shifted his gun to another. "Throw off your dally," he
commanded, "and you too, you low-flung Missouri hound! Yes, I mean
you!" he shouted, as Crit still held his turns. "What right have you
got to drag this man about? I'll shoot the flat out of your eye, you
old dastard, if you don't let go that rope!"

Old Crit let go, but he stood his ground with a jealous eye on his
prize.

"Don't you tech them ropes," he snarled back, "or I'll do as much for
you. I caught him in the act of stealin' one of my cows and—"

"You _did_ not!" broke in Pecos, leaning back like a wing-broke hawk to
face his exultant foe, "that calf was mine—and its mother to boot—and
you go and burn it to a pair of Spectacles! Can't a man vent his own
calf when it's been stole on 'im durin' his absence? Turn me loose,
you one-eyed cow-thief, or I'll have yore blood for this!"

"You don't git loose from me—not till the sheriff comes and takes you
to the jug. Close in here, boys, and we'll tie him to a tree."

"Not while I'm here!" replied Angy, stepping valiantly to the front.
"They don't a man lay a finger on 'im, except over my dead body. You'll
have to kill me—or I'll pot Old Crit on you, in spite of hell!" He
threw down on his boss with the big forty-five and at a sign from Crit
the cowboys fell back and waited.

"Now, lookee here, Angy," began Crittenden, peering uneasily past the
gun, "I want you to keep yore hand outer this. Accordin' to law, any
citizen has a right to arrest a man caught in the act of stealin' and I
claim that feller for my prisoner."

"Well, you don't git 'im," said Angy, shortly. "What's the row, Pecos?"

Pecos Dalhart, still leaning back like a crippled hawk that offers beak
and claws to the foe, shifted his hateful eyes from Crittenden and
fixed them on his friend.

"I was ridin' down the _arroyo_," he said, "a while ago, when I came
across my old milk cow that I bought of Joe Garcia." He paused and
gulped with rage. "One ear was cropped to a grub," he cried, "and the
other swallow-forked to 'er head—and her brand was fresh burnt to
a pair of hobbles! The calf carried the same brand and while I was
barring them Spectacles or Hobbles, or whatever you call 'em, and
putting a proper Monkey-wrench in their place, this pack of varmints
jumped in and roped me before I could draw a gun, otherwise they would
be some dead."

"Nothin' of the kind!" shouted back Crittenden. "You never bought a cow
in your life, and you know it! I caught you in the act of stealin' my
Spectacle calf and I've got witnesses to prove it—ain't that so, boys?"

"Sure!" chimed the IC cowboys, edging in behind their boss.

"And I demand that man for my prisoner!" he concluded, though
pacifically, for Angy still kept his bead.

The negotiations for the custody of Pecos were becoming heated when
there was a familiar clatter at the ford and Bill Todhunter rode
into camp. His appearance was not such an accident as on the surface
appeared, since he had been scouting around the purlieus of Verde
Crossing for some days in the hope of catching Old Crit in some overt
act, but he put a good face on it and took charge of the prisoner at
once. Prisoners were the fruits of his profession, like game to a
hunter or mavericks to a cowman, and he pulled the gun out of Pecos's
holster and threw loose the tangled ropes with the calm joy of a man
who has made a killing.

"Caught 'im in the act, did ye?" he said, turning to Crittenden.
"Uh-huh—got any witnesses? All right—where's the calf? Well, send a
man up for it, and bring the cow down, too. We'll have a preliminary
examination before the J. P. to-morrow and I want that cow and calf
for evidence. Now come on, Mr. Dalhart, and remember that anything you
say is liable to be used against ye."

Denying and protesting, Pecos did as he was bid; and, still denying
his guilt, he went before the magistrate in Geronimo. Crittenden was
there with his cowboys; the calf was there with his barred brand and
bloody ears—and as the examination progressed Pecos saw the meshes of a
mighty net closing relentlessly in upon him. In vain he protested that
the calf was his—Isaac Crittenden, the cowman, swore that the animal
belonged to him and his cowboys swore to it after him. In vain he
called upon José Garcia to give witness to the sale—Joe was in debt to
the Boss several hundred dollars and Old Funny-face, the cow, was being
hazed across the range by a puncher who had his orders. His written
bill of sale was lost, the mother with her brands and vents was gone,
and a score of witnesses against him swore to the damning fact that he
had been taken red-handed. After hearing all the evidence the Justice
of the Peace consulted his notes, frowned, and held the defendant
for the action of the grand jury. The witnesses filed out, the court
adjourned, and a representative assemblage of cowmen congratulated
themselves, as law-abiding citizens of Geronimo County, that there was
one less rustler in the hills. At last, after holding up her empty
scales for years, the star-eyed Goddess of Justice was vindicated; the
mills of the law had a proper prisoner to work upon now and though they
were likely to grind a little slow—the grand jury had just adjourned
and would not be convened again until fall—they were none the less
likely to be sure. Fortunately for the cause of good government the
iron hand of the law had closed down upon a man who had neither money,
friends, nor influence, and everybody agreed that he should be made an
awful example.



CHAPTER XIV

THE KANGAROO COURT


There are some natures so stern and rugged that they lean against a
storm like sturdy, wind-nourished pines, throwing back their arms,
shaking their rough heads, and making strength from the elemental
strife. Of such an enduring breed was Pecos Dalhart and as he stood
before the judge, square-jawed, eagle-eyed, with his powerful shoulders
thrown back, he cursed the law that held him more than the men who
had sworn him into jail. But behind that law stood every man of the
commonwealth, and who could fight them all, lone-handed? Lowering his
head he submitted, as in ancient days the conquered barbarians bowed to
the Roman yoke, but there was rebellion in his heart and he resolved
when the occasion offered to make his dream of the revolution a waking
reality. The deputy who led him over to jail seemed to sense his
prisoner's mood and left him strictly alone, showing the way in silence
until they entered the sheriff's office.

The reception room to the suite of burglar-proof apartments familiarly
known as the Hotel de Morgan was a spacious place, luxuriously
furnished with lounging chairs and cuspidors and occupied at the moment
by Boone Morgan, a visiting deputy, three old-timers, and a newspaper
reporter. The walls were decorated with a galaxy of hard-looking
pictures labelled "Escaped" and "Reward," many of which had written
across their face "Caught," and some "Killed"; there was a large desk
in the corner, a clutter of daily papers on the floor, and the odor
of good cigars. Upon the arrival of Pecos Dalhart the sheriff was
engaged in telling a story, which he finished. Then he turned in his
swivel-chair, sorted out a pen and opened a big book on the desk.

"Mr. Dalhart, I believe," he said, smiling a little grimly.

Pecos grunted, and the deputy taking the cue, began a systematic search
of his pockets.

"Grand larceny—held for the grand jury," he supplemented, and the
sheriff wrote it down in the book thoughtfully.

"Sorry I can't give you the bridal chamber, Mr. Dalhart," he continued,
"but it's occupied by a check-raiser; and I wouldn't think of puttin'
a cowman in the jag-cell with all them sheep-herders—so I'll have to
give you Number Six, on the first floor front. Pretty close quarters
there now, but you'll have all the more company on that account, and
I'll guarantee the boys will make you welcome." He paused and winked
at the reporter, who sharpened a pencil and laughed. Boone Morgan's
Kangaroo Court was a local institution which gave him a great deal of
josh copy in the course of a year and he lit a cigar and waited to
observe Pecos Dalhart's reception. The kangaroo _alcalde_ or judge was
a horse-thief, the sheriff was a noted strong-arm man from the East,
the district attorney was an ex-lawyer taking a graduate course in
penology, and altogether they made a very taking _dramatis personæ_ for
little knockdown skits on court-house life.

"Mr. Pecos Dalhart, cowman and brand-expert extraordinary, is down from
the Verde for a few days and is stopping at the Hotel de Morgan pending
the action of the grand jury in regard to one spotted calf alleged to
have been feloniously and unlawfully taken from Isaac Crittenden, the
cattle king. In the absence of the regular reception committee, Michael
Slattery, the kangaroo sheriff, conducted Mr. Dalhart before his honor
the alcalde who welcomed him in a neat speech and conferred upon him
the freedom of the city. After a delightful half-hour of rough-house
the entire company sat down to a choice collation of fruit provided by
the generosity of the guest of honor."

Something like that would go very well and be good for the drinks in
half the saloons in town. Only, of course, he must not forget to put in
a little puff about the sheriff—"Sheriff Morgan is very proud of the
excellent order maintained in the county jail," or something equally
acceptable.

The deputy continued his search of Pecos Dalhart's person, piling
money, letters, jack-knife, and trinkets upon the desk and feeling
carefully along his coat lining and the bulging legs of his boots—but
Pecos said never a word. It was a big roll of bills that he had brought
back from New Mexico—five months' pay and not a dollar spent. Some
fellows would have the nerve to get married on that much money. There
was a genuine eighteen-carat, solitaire-diamond engagement-ring among
his plunder, too, but it was no good to him now. The sheriff examined
it curiously while he was counting the money and sealing the whole
treasure in a strong envelope.

"I'm _dam'_ sorry I can't give you that bridal chamber," he observed,
flashing the diamond and glancing quizzically at the reporter, and
Pecos felt the hot blood leap throbbing to his brain.

"You go to hell, will you?" he growled, and a dangerous light came into
his eyes as he rolled them on the laughing crowd.

"Here, here!" chided the deputy, grabbing him roughly by the arm, and
with the gang following closely upon his heels he led the way to the
cells. A rank smell, like the cagey reek of a menagerie, smote their
nostrils as they passed through the first barred door and at sight
of another prisoner the men inside the tanks let out a roar of joy
and crowded up to the bars. It was the flush time of year, when the
district court was in session, and the authors of six months' crime and
disorder were confined within that narrow space awaiting the pleasure
of the judge. Some there were with the healthy tan of the sun still
upon their cheeks, and the swarthy sons of Mexico showed no tendency
to prison pallor, but most of the faces were white and tense, with
obscenely staring eyes and twitching lips, and all of them were weary
unto death. Like wild beasts that see a victim led to their gate they
stormed and chattered against the bars, shouting strange words that
Pecos could not understand until, at an order from the deputy, they
scuttled back to their cells.

The Geronimo County jail was a massive structure of brick, pierced
by high windows set with iron gratings. A narrow corridor led around
the sides, separating the great double-decked steel tanks from the
outer wall, and within this triumph of the iron-master's craft the
victims of the law's delay swarmed about like chipmunks in a cage.
Down the middle of the steel enclosure there extended a long corridor
with washrooms at the end and on either side were rows of cells, with
narrow, inter-connected gates which could be opened and closed from
without. At the word of command each prisoner slipped deftly through
his door; the deputy unlocked an iron box, heaved away upon a lever,
and with a resounding clang all the gratings on one side came to and
were fastened by the interlocking rods. He opened a box on the opposite
side of the entrance and clanged those doors in place, thus locking up
the last of his dangerous charges and leaving the corridor empty. Then,
producing another key, he unlocked the great sliding gate, pulled its
heavy panels ajar, and shoved Pecos roughly through the aperture. Once
more the gates clashed behind him, the interlocking cell doors flew
open, and with a whoop the uncaged prisoners stepped forth and viewed
their victim.

There is no pretence about a kangaroo court. By luck and good conduct
a citizen of the outer world may entirely escape the punitive hand of
the law, but every man who entered the Geronimo County jail was _ipso
facto_ a delinquent. More than that, he was foredoomed to conviction,
for there is no law so merciless as that of the law's offenders. The
rulings of the kangaroo alcalde are influenced by neither pleadings
nor precedents, and his tyranny is mitigated only by the murmurings
of his constituents and the physical limitations of his strong right
hand. Unless by the heinousness of his former acts he has placed
himself in the aristocracy of crime, he must be prepared to defend his
high position against all comers; and as the insignia of his office he
carries a strap, with the heavy end of which he administers summary
punishment and puts down mutinies and revolts. Pete Monat was the
doughty alcalde in the Geronimo Bastile, and he ruled with an iron
hand. For sheriff he had Michael Slattery, a mere yegg, to do the dirty
work and hale prisoners before the court. The district attorney was
John Doe, a fierce argufier, who if his nerve had been equal to his
ambition would long since have usurped the alcalde's place. There were
likewise jail-lawyers galore, petty grafters who pitted their wits
against the prosecuting attorney in a brave attempt to earn a fee, or
at least to establish a factitious claim against the defendant. Out
they surged, sheriff, lawyers, and alcalde, and bore down on Pecos in a
body, the sheriff to arrest him, the lawyers to get his case, and the
alcalde to tip his chair against the grating, where the reporter could
see all the fun,—and try the case in style.

"Fuzzy!" thundered the yegg sheriff, laying a heavy hand upon Pecos's
shoulder, "I arrest youse in the name of the law!"

"The hell you say!" exclaimed Pecos, backing off; and in an instant
the hardened jail-birds knew that they had a "gay-cat." Only Rubes and
gay-cats resisted arrest in jail—the old-timers stepped up promptly,
before the sheriff could "give them the roust" from behind.

"Yes, an' fer breakin' into jail!" hollered Slattery. "Come on now and
don't make me any trouble or I'll cop youse in the mush!"

"Arraign the prisoner," shouted the alcalde pompously, "bring 'im up
hyar, an' ef he's half as bad as he looks he'll git the holy limit.
Wake up thar, you, an' he'p the sheriff, or I'll set you to scrubbin'
floors."

They came in a struggling mass, dominated by the tall form of the
sheriff, and before Pecos was aware of his destiny he was hustled
before the judge.

"What is the charge against this mug?" inquired Pete Monat, slapping
his strap across his knee for silence.

"Breakin' inter jail, Yer Honor!" responded the sheriff, bowing and
touching his forelock.

"Prisoner at the bar," declaimed the alcalde, "you are charged with
wilfully, feloniously, an' unlawfully breakin' inter this hyar jail—do
you plead 'Guilty' or 'Not guilty'?"

"I don't plead," said Pecos, with suspicious quiet.

"'Don't plead' is the same as 'Not guilty,'" announced the judge, "and
bein' as the district attorney is such a long-winded yap I'll jest pull
off this examination myse'f. How come you're hyar, then, you low-browed
reperbate, ef you didn't break inter jail? Answer me thet, now, an' be
dam' careful to say 'Yer Honor' or I'll soak you for contempt of court!"

"Say," said Pecos, speaking through the gratings to Boone Morgan, "do
I have to stand for this? I do? Well, to hell with such a layout!
Here, keep your hands off o' me now, or somebody'll git badly hurt!"
He placed his back against the grating and menaced the strong-armed
sheriff with a tense fist, turning a scornful eye upon the clamoring
judge.

"_Oyez! Oyez!_ Silence in the court!" bellowed Pete Monat, leaping up
on his chair. "The prisoner is found guilty and sentenced to pay a fine
of one dollar, or pack out the slops for a week! Mr. Sheriff, bring 'im
up, an' ef he resists we'll give 'im thirty slaps with this hyar!" He
held up his black strap threateningly, but Pecos only skinned his teeth
like a wolf that is caught in a trap, and stood at bay.

"I'd like to see the bunch of hobos that can man-handle _me_!" he
snarled, making a pass at the sheriff. "Hey, bring me a dollar!" he
commanded, speaking over his shoulder, and as the deputy went back to
the office to get one from his envelope the Roman mob fell back and
ceased its clamoring. The dollar was what they wanted. There was always
a Mex to clean up, but the dollar went for a feed—fruit, candy, good
things to eat—and not every man who entered could pay his fine. At the
same time they stood off a little from the prisoner at the bar, for he
had a bad look in his eye. The kangaroo sheriff, standing discreetly
aloof, noticed it; the alcalde also; and in the premonitory hush that
ensued even Boone Morgan began to read the signs of trouble. Next to
his dream of breaking up the cattle-stealing business in the mountains,
the Geronimo sheriff cherished the fond hope of building up a kangaroo
court that would take the entire problem of jail discipline off his
hands. It was an old idea, the kangaroo court, dimly reminiscent of
frontier cow-camps but smelling more of hoboism, yet good for law and
order if the right men were in power. Pete Monat was a terror to the
evil-doer, especially if he was a Mex or darker, and Boone Morgan stood
generously behind him, even when his decisions were a little rank.
Right now the situation looked ominous and as Pecos continued to spit
forth his venom, hissing and swelling like a snake at every approach of
the pack, he made bold to interfere in the puppet play.

"Here," he said, passing a dollar through the bars, "I'll advance you
the money—these fellows won't hurt you none."

"Keep your dirty dollar!" snapped Pecos, striking it away, "I got money
of my own!"

"Well, you don't need to git mad about it—I jest wanted to help you."

"Yes, you help me! You throw me into jail for somethin' I never done
and then bring this bunch of town boys in to see me kangarooed. That
big stiff hain't got no right to fine me a dollar, an' you know it,
but I'll give him the money all right—you jest wait!" He grinned
sardonically at Michael Slattery, straightened his back and waited. He
had all the time there was—the grand jury did not meet till Fall, and
that was six months yet. This was the law they talked about—this was
justice—to hold a man six months before he came to trial! Shut him up
in that dark, stinking hole and keep him until he was broken! Sure—and
let a bunch of yeggs spread-eagle him over a chair and beat him with a
strap! For a year Pecos had been at war with society and never struck a
blow for the revolution. But it was not too late. In turning him over
to a kangaroo court Boone Morgan had added the last indignity—it was
war now, and war to the knife.

The deputy returned leisurely, and shoved a dollar bill through the
bars.

"Much obliged," said Pecos, and he spoke so quietly that even the
kangaroo sheriff was deceived. "Here's your dollar," he said, turning
to hold out the money, "come and git it." There was a sinister note
in that last phrase, but Slattery did not catch it. He was a tall,
hulking man, heavy-handed and used to his own way; the cattle-rustler
was short and broad, like a stocky, hard-rock miner, and he stood with
his back to the bars as if he were afraid. "Come and git it," he said,
very quietly, but as Mike Slattery reached out his hand for the money
the cowboy grinned and jerked it back. Slattery grabbed, and like a
flash Pecos put over a blow that was freighted with sudden death. It
landed behind the yegg sheriff's massive jaw, threw him sideways and
whirled him over; then the thud of the blow was followed by a thump
and like a boneless carcass he piled up on the floor. To a man a few
removes farther from the ape the thump on the concrete floor would
have resulted in a cracked skull, but fortunately for Slattery hard
heads and evil dispositions generally go together, and he was safe from
anything short of an axe. It was the blow under the ear that had jarred
his brains—the bump against the concrete only finished the job up
and saved him from something worse. Without looking to see where his
victim fell Pecos Dalhart leapt vengefully into the swarming crowd of
prisoners, knocking them right and left like ten-pins and shouting in a
hoarse voice:

"Come an'—_huh_—git it! Come—_huh_—and _git_ it!" And at every grunt he
sent home a blow that laid his man on the floor.

"Back to your cells!" roared Boone Morgan, rattling the grating like a
lion caged away from a deadly battle. "Git back there and let me have
a chance!" But his voice was drowned in the deep-voiced challenge of
Pecos, the shrieks of trampled Mexicans, the curses and sound of blows.
Pandemonium broke loose and in the general uproar all semblance of
order was lost. On the outside of the bars a pair of shouting deputies
menaced the flying demon of discord with their pistols, calling on him
to stop; Boone Morgan tried to clear the corridor so that he could open
the door; but they might as well have thundered against the wind, for
Pecos Dalhart had gone hog wild and panic lay in his wake.

"Yeee-pah!" he screamed, as the way cleared up before him. "Hunt your
holes, you prairie dogs, or I'll shore deal you misery! Out of my road,
you dastards—I'm lookin' for that alcalde!" He fought his way down the
corridor, leaving his mark on every man who opposed him, and Pete Monat
came half way to meet him. Pete had been a fighter himself when he
first broke into the Geronimo jail and the confinement had not thinned
his sporting blood. He held the alcalde's strap behind him, doubled
to give it weight, and at the very moment that Pecos came lunging in
he laid it across his cheek with a resounding whack. The angry blood
stood out along the scar and before Pecos could dodge back he received
another welt that all but laid him low.

"Hit 'im again! Smash 'im! Fly at 'im, Pete!" yelled the crowd without,
and at the appearance of a leader the beaten gang of hobos came out of
their holes like bloodhounds. Pecos heard the scuffle of feet behind
him and turned to meet them. The fury in his eye was terrible, but he
was panting, and he staggered as he dodged a blow. For a single moment
he appraised the fighting odds against him—then with an irresistible
rush he battered his way past the alcalde and grabbed the back of
his chair. In the sudden turmoil and confusion that humble throne of
justice had been overlooked. It stood against the grating beyond which
Boone Morgan and his deputies cheered on the kangaroos, and as Pecos
whirled it in the air their shouting ceased.

There was a crash, a dull thump, and Pete Monat pitched forward with
his throne hung round his neck. The strap which had left its cruel mark
on Pecos fell to the floor before him, and Pecos, dropping the broken
back of the chair, stooped and picked it up. The alcalde lay silent now
beside the inert body of his sheriff and a great hush fell upon the
prison as he stood over them, glaring like a lion at bay. He held up a
bruised and gory fist and opened it tauntingly.

"Here's your dollar," he said, waving the bloody bill above his head,
"come and git it, you sons of goats! You don't want it, hey? Well,
git back into your cells, then—in with you, or I'll lash you to a
frazzle!" They went, and as the interlocking doors clanged behind them
Pecos turned to Boone Morgan and laughed. "That's what I think of your
Kangaroo Court," he said, "and your own dam' rotten laws. Here's to the
revolution!"

He flung his blood-red arms above his head and laughed again, bitterly;
and after they had carried out the injured he paced up and down the
corridor all night, cursing and raving against the law, while the
battered inmates gazed out through their bars or nodded in troubled
sleep. It was the revolution—no laws, no order, no government, no
nothing! The base hirelings of the law had thrown him into jail—all
right, he would put their jail on the bum.



CHAPTER XV

THE REVOLUTION IN FACT


Outside of the kangarooing of Rubes, the coming and going of prisoners,
and such exceptional entertainment as that put up by Pecos Dalhart
upon his initiation into the brotherhood, there were only two events a
day in the Geronimo jail—breakfast and dinner. Breakfast, as with the
French, was served late, and dinner at the hour of four. On account
of the caterer being otherwise engaged in the early morning the
_café-au-lait_ in bed was dispensed with and _déjeuner_ served promptly
at nine. It was a hard-looking aggregation of citizens that crept out
of their cells at the clanging of the interlocking gates and there was
not a man among them who dared look Pecos in the eye as they slunk
down the corridor to wash. Battered in body and cowed in spirit they
glanced up at him deprecatingly as he stood with the strap in his hand,
and there was no mercy written in the cattle-rustler's scowling visage.
These were the men who would have put their heels in his face if he
had gone down before their rush—they were cowards and ran in packs,
like wolves. They were grafters, too; the slinking, servile slaves of
jail alcaldes, yegg sheriffs, and Boone Morgan's swaggering deputies.
More than that, they would mob him if he gave them half a chance. So he
stood silent, watching them, man after man, and there was not one who
could look him in the face.

It was Bill Todhunter who opened the gates that morning—the same
keen-eyed, silent deputy who had fetched Pecos down from the
mountains—and as his former prisoner, now transformed into the stern
master of Geronimo jail, came near, he looked him over gravely.

"Feelin' any better?" he inquired.

"Nope," scowled Pecos, and there the matter dropped. After the affair
of the night before he had expected to be put in irons, at least, or
thrown into the dungeon, but nobody seemed to be worrying about him,
and the prison routine went on as usual. The drunks in the jag-cell
woke up and began to wrangle; the long-termers in the deck above
scuffled sullenly around over the resounding boiler plate; and from
the outer office they could hear the cheerful voices of old-timers
and politicians discussing affairs of state. A long-term trusty came
clattering down the iron stairs and passed out through the two barred
doors to work up an appetite for breakfast by mowing the court-house
lawn. As for Pecos, he was used to having his breakfast early and his
Trojan exertions of the night before had left him gaunted, though he
carried off his stoic part bravely. Nevertheless he showed a more than
human interest in the steel front gate, and when at last, just as the
clock tolled nine, it swung open, admitting the Chinese _restaurateur_
who contracted for their meals, there was a general chorus of
approval. Hung Wo was the name of this caterer to the incarcerated,
and he looked it; but though his face was not designed for a laughing
picture his shoulders were freighted with two enormous cans which
more than made up for that. Without a word to any one he lowered the
cans to the floor, jerked off the covers, and began to dish up on the
prison plates. To every man he gave exactly the same—a big spoonful of
beans, a potato, a hunk of meat, half a loaf of bread, and a piece of
pie—served with the rapidity of an automaton.

Without waiting for orders the prisoners retreated noisily into their
cells and waited, the more fastidious shoving sheets of newspaper
through the small openings at the bottom of their doors to keep their
plates off the floor. But here again there was trouble. The incessant
hammering of pint coffee cups emphasized the starved impatience of
the inmates; the food grew cold on the plates; only one thing lay in
the way of the belated breakfast—Pecos refused to go into a cell.
Before the fall of the kangaroo court it had been the privilege and
prerogative of Mike Slattery to remain in the corridor and assist
in the distribution of the food, but Mike was in the bridal chamber
now with his jowls swathed in cotton, sucking a little nourishment
through a tube. Pete Monat was there also, his head bandaged to the
limit of the physician's art, and mourning the fate which had left him
such a hard-looking mug on the eve of a jury trial. The verdict would
be guilty, that was a cinch. But at least Pete was able to eat his
breakfast, whereas there were about forty avid kangaroos in the tanks
who were raising their combined voices in one agonizing appeal for
food. It was a desperate situation, but Pecos, as usual, was obdurate.

"Let the Chink come in—I won't hurt 'im!" he said; but Bill Todhunter
shook his head.

"The Chink won't come," he said.

"Whassa malla _Mike_?" inquired Hung Wo nervously. "He go Yuma?"

"No, Charley," returned Todhunter, "last night he have one hell of a
big fight—this man break his jaw."

"Whassa malla _Pete_?"

"This man break his head with chair."

"Ooo!" breathed Hung Wo, peering through the bars, "me no go in."

"Well, now, you see what you git for your cussedness," observed the
deputy coldly. "The Chink won't come in and the chances are you'll
starve to death; that is, providin' them other fellers don't beat you
to death first, for makin' 'em lose their breakfast. Feelin' pretty
cagey, ain't they?"

They were, and Pecos realized that if he didn't square himself with
Hung Wo right away and get him to feed the animals, he would have a
bread riot on his hands later—and besides, he was hungry himself. So he
spoke quickly and to the point.

"What's the matter, Charley?" he expostulated, "you 'fraid of me?"

"Me no likee!" said the Chinaman impersonally.

"No, of course not; but here—lemme tell you! You savvy Pete Monat—all
same alcalde, eh? You savvy Mike—all same boss, hey? Well, last night
me lick Pete and Mike. You see this strap? All right; _me_ boss now—you
give me big pie every day, you come in!"

"Me no got big pie to-day," protested Hung Wo anxiously.

"Oh, that's all right—me takum other feller's pie, this time—you come
in!"

"Allite!" agreed the simple-minded Oriental, and when the iron doors
rolled apart he entered without a quiver. Back where he came from a
bargain is a bargain and it is a poor boss indeed who does not demand
his rake-off. The day was won and, throwing back his head imperiously,
Pecos stalked down the line of cells until he came to the one where the
inmates were making the most noise.

"Here!" he said, and when they looked up he remarked: "You fellers are
too gay to suit me—I'll jest dock you your pieces of pie!" And when the
Chinaman arrived Pecos carefully lifted the pie from each plate and
piled all up on his own. "This'll teach you to keep your mouths shut!"
he observed, and retiring to the iron gates he squatted down on his
heels and ate greedily.

"Well, the son-of-a-gun," murmured Bill Todhunter, as he took notice
of this final triumph, and the men in the cells became as quiet as a
cage of whip-broke beasts when the lion tamer stands in their midst.
As Pecos Dalhart drank his second cup of coffee and finished up the
last slab of pie a realizing sense of his mastery came over him and he
smiled grimly at the watchful faces that peered out through the cell
gratings, blinking and mowing like monkeys in a zoo. They were beaten,
that was plain, but somehow as he looked them over he was conscious of
a primordial cunning written on every savage visage—they bowed before
him; but like the leopards before their tamer, they crouched, too. That
was it—they crouched and bided their time, and when the time came they
would hurl themselves at his throat. But what was it for which they
were waiting? All the morning he pondered on it as he paced to and fro
or sat with his back to the bars, watching. Then, as the day warmed up
and his head sank momentarily against his breast he woke with a start
to behold a prison-bleached hand reaching, reaching for his strap.
Instantly he rose up from his place and dealt out a just retribution,
laying on his strap with the accuracy of a horse-wrangler, but even
with the howling of his victim in his ears he was afraid, for he read
the hidden meaning of that act. With the nerveless patience of the
beast they were waiting for him to go to sleep!

Once before, on the open range, Pecos Dalhart had arrayed himself
against society, and lost, even as he was losing now. Sooner or later,
by day or by night, these skulking hyenas of the jail-pack would catch
him asleep, and he shuddered to think how they might mangle him. He
saw it clearly now, the fate of the man who stands alone, without a
friend to watch over him or a government to protect his life. Not in
two hurly-burly days and nights had he closed his bloodshot eyes,
and as the heaviness of sleep crept upon him he paced up and down
the corridor, wrestling with the spectre that was stealing away his
wits and hoping against hope that Boone Morgan would come to his aid,
for Boone had seen his finish from the first. In sodden abandonment
to his destiny he looked one of the cells over to see if it could be
barricaded, but when one door was open they were all open and there
was no protection against stealth or assault. He had not even the
protection of the cave-dweller who, when sleep overcame him, could
retire and roll a great stone against his door. Yet as the possession
of sleep took hold upon him he routed out the inmates of the cell
nearest to the gate, climbed into the upper bunk and lay there, rigid,
fighting to keep awake.

It was quiet now and the shuffling of the long-termers above him came
fainter and fainter; some drunk out in the jag-cell woke up from his
long slumber and began to sing mournfully; and Pecos, struggling
against the deadly anæsthetic of his weariness, listened intently to
every word.

    "My friends and relations has caused a separation,"

chanted the dirge-like voice of the singer,

    "Concerning the part of some favorite one.
    Besides their vexation and great trubbelation
    They will some time be sorry for what they have done."

The voice sounded familiar to Pecos—or was it the music?—well, never
mind, he would hear it to the end.

    "My fortune is small, I will truly confess it,
    But what I have got it is all of my own,
    I might have lived long in this world and enjoyed it
    If my cruel friends could have left me alone.

    "Farewell to this country, I now must leave it,
    And seek my way to some far distant land.
    My horse and my saddle is a source of all pleasure
    And when I meet friend I'll join heart and hand.

    "Farewell to the girl that I no more shall see,
    This world is wide and I'll spend it in pleasures,
    And I don't care for no girl that don't care for me,
    I'll drink and be jolly and not care for no downfall.

    "I'll drownd my troubles in a bottle of wine;
    I'll drownd them away in a full-flowing bumper
    And ride through the wild to pass away time.
    And when Death calls for me I'll follow him home.

    "No wife, no children will be left to suffer,
    Not even a sweetheart will be left to mourn.
    I'll be honest and fair in all my transactions,
    Whatever I do, I intend to be true.

    "Here is health and good wishes to all you fair ladies—
    It is hard, boys, to find one that will always be true."

A hush fell upon the jail as the singer wailed forth his sad lament,
and when the song was ended a murmur ran along the hall. Pecos
listened, half in a doze, to the muttered comments; then with a jerk he
sat up and stared. The man in the next cell had said,

"That's old Babe, singin' his jag-song. He'll be in here pretty soon."

Babe! And he would be in there pretty soon! At that magic word a new
life swept through Pecos Dalhart's veins; his drowsiness left him, and
rousing up from his bunk he struggled forth and washed his face at the
tap. Time and again he slapped the cool water upon his neck and hair;
he drank a last draught of its freshness and paced the length of the
corridor, his head bowed as if in thought—but listening above all other
noises for the sound of Angy's voice. Bill Todhunter came and glanced
at him impersonally, as he might gaze at a bronc that was about to be
broke, but Pecos made no appeal. He had started out to wreck Boone
Morgan's jail for him, break up his Kangaroo Court, and establish the
revolution, and with Angy's help he would do it, yet. The jail gang
edged in on him a little closer, dogging his steps as the wolf-pack
follows its kill, but at every turn of his shaggy head they slunk away.
Then at last, just as the clock tolled four, the keys clanked in the
outer door; Hung Wo slipped in with his coffee-pot and can, and after
him came Angevine Thorne, escorted by the deputy.

"Hello, Babe!" chimed a chorus from behind the bars. "Hey, Babe—sing
'Kansas'! Oh, Babe!" But Angevine Thorne had no thought for his quondam
prison mates, he was placing himself on record in a protest against the
law.

"The Constitution of the United States guarantees to every man a fair
and speedy trial," he declaimed with drunken vehemence, "but look here
and see what a mockery you have made the law! Look at these poor men,
caged up here yet, waiting for their trial! Is that a fair and speedy
hearing? Look at me; arrested for no offence; confined without cause;
condemned without a hearing; imprisoned for no crime! Is that justice?
Justice forsooth! It is conspiracy—treachery—crime! Yes, I say _crime_!
You are the criminals and we the helpless victims of your hands! I
appeal to God, if there is a God, to bear witness of my innocence!
What? I must go in? Then throw open your prison doors—I die a martyr to
the Cause!"

The clanging of the cell doors gave no pause to his impassioned
eloquence, nor yet his sudden injection into jail; but when, as he
swayed upon his heels, his eyes fell upon the haggard features of Pecos
Dalhart, the apostle of civic equality stopped short and struck his
brow with a despairing hand.

"What!" he cried. "Are you here, Cumrad? Then let me die forthwith,
for tyranny has done its worst! Pecos Dalhart, immured within prison
walls, torn from the fond embrace of his—but hush, I go too far. Pecos,
old boy, in the years to come your name shall go down to posterity
as a martyr to the Cause. You have been arrested, sir, for no crime
in law or fact, but simply for your outspoken opposition to the foul
conspiracy of capitalism. Oh, that I might stand before the people and
plead your cause—But enough; how are you, Old Hoss?"

He gathered Pecos into his arms and embraced him, and to the
astonishment of Hung Wo and the prisoners Pecos hugged him to his
breast.

"I'm dam' glad to see you, Angy," he murmured, "and no mistake.
Here—take this strap and keep them fellers off—I'm dyin' for a sleep."
He reached back for the floor, slipped gently down and stretched out
upon the hard concrete. When Angevine Thorne lifted up his head he was
asleep.

"Poor old Pecos," said Angy, holding out his hands as Mark Antony did
over Cæsar, "there he lies, a victim to his country's laws. But sleep,
old friend, and the first man that disturbs your dreams will feel the
weight of this!" He held up the alcalde's strap for emphasis, and a low
rumble of disapproval went up from the rows of cells.

"He broke every head in jail last night," volunteered the deputy, "an'
it's about time he was kangarooed!"

"Not while I live!" declared Angy tragically. "Right or wrong, the
first man that lays hands on this poor corse will fight it out with me!"

A chorus of defiance and derision was his only answer, but Angevine
Thorne, being a natural-born orator, knew better than to reiterate
his remarks for emphasis. He balanced the big strap in his hand as
a warrior might test his sword, and squatted down to eat. While the
dinner hour lasted he was safe—after that he would feel his way. So
he put his back to the bars and began to take a little nourishment,
gnashing belligerently at his hunk of meat and fortifying himself
with coffee—but that was not to be the limit of his fare. As he
scuttled back and forth with the prison plates, Hung Wo had kept an
attentive eye upon the prostrate form of his boss and, seeing no
signs of returning animation, had looked worried. At last, as Angy's
protectorate became evident, he returned to his copper can and produced
a fine big pie.

"This for boss," he said, and placed it by Pecos's head.

"All right, Wo," responded Angy, "my friend, he sleep. Bimeby wakum
up, I give him pie." He finished up his plate, glanced at the surly
faces behind the bars, and cast a longing look at the fresh-baked pie.
There was going to be a ruction, that was sure, and ructions are bad
for pies. He took Pecos by the shoulder and shook him tentatively; then
with a sigh of Christian resignation he reached over and picked up the
pie. "Dam' shame to go and waste it," he muttered, "an' it's all right,
too."

The prisoners watched him eat his way through the crust and down
through the middle until finally he licked his finger-tips and smiled.

"Him good pie, Wo," he observed, rising to his feet, "make me hip
stlong." He shoved Pecos back into the corner, took his place before
him, and balanced the strap for battle. "All right, deputy," he said,
"turn them tarriers loose, and if I don't tan their hides with this
strap they ain't no hell no mo'!"

The cell doors clanged and flew open, the balked cohorts of the enemy
stepped forth and gathered about him, and as Angy paced back and forth
before his friend he opened wide the flood-gates of his wrath.

"See the skulkin' curs and cowards," he cried, lashing out at them with
his strap, "see them cringe before the whip like the servile slaves
they are. What has this man done that you should fall upon him? Broke
up your court, hey? Well, what was the court to you? Didn't it punish
you whether you were right or wrong? Didn't it tyrannize over you and
force you to do its will? Ah, despicable dogs, that would lick the hand
that strikes you—come out here, any one of you, and I swear I'll beat
you to death. Hah! You are afraid! You are afraid to face an honest
man and fight him hand to hand! Or is it something else?" The defiant
tone left his voice of a sudden and he looked eagerly into their tense
faces. "Or is it something else?" he cried. "Friends, you have been
shut up here for months by that great crime they call the law. You
know that law—how it protects the rich and crushes down the poor! What
then—do you still worship its outworn forms so that you must suffer
them even in jail? Must you still have a sheriff to harass you, a judge
to condemn you, a district attorney to talk you blind? Must you still
be tyrannized over by a false and illegal court, even in the shadow of
the jail? God forbid! But what then? Ah, yes; what then! Friends, I
bring you the Gospel of Equality; I stand before you to proclaim as our
forebears proclaimed before us, that all men are born free and equal;
I call upon you, even in this prison, to cast aside the superstition
of government and proclaim the revolution! To hell with the Kangaroo
Court! My friend here has beaten up its officers—let us abolish it
forever! What? Is it a go? Then here's to the revolution!"

He waved his hand above his head, smiling upward at that fair Goddess
of Liberty whom he discerned among the rods; and the gaping prisoners,
carried away by his eloquence, let out a mighty yell of joy. Worn and
jaded by the dull monotony of their life they seized upon the new
religion with undiscriminating zest, passing up the big words and the
moonshine and rejoicing in their noble freedom from restraint. As the
first symptoms of a jail-riot began to develop Boone Morgan and his
deputies rushed out to quell the disturbance, but the revolution gave
no promise of a rough-house. As was to be expected, the prostrate
form of Pecos Dalhart was draped across the foreground—and served him
right, for trying to get too gay—but the other figures were not in good
support. Angevine Thorne stood above the body of his friend, waving
the alcalde's strap, but the Roman mob was sadly out of part. It was
dancing around the room singing "Kansas."

    "I'll tell you what they do—_in Kansas_,"

they howled.

    "I'll tell you what they do—_in Kansas_,"

and at the end of each refrain Angy lifted up his vibrant tenor and
added yet another chapter to the shameless tale. It was a bacchanalia
of song, perhaps; or a saturnalia of inter-State revilings; but none
of the onlookers recognized in the progressive dirtiness of the words
a spirit of protest against the law. The revolution had come, but
like many another promising child it was too young to be clearly
differentiated from its twin brothers, License and Liberty.



CHAPTER XVI

BACK TO NATURE


As to what the revolution is or is to be there are no two authorities
who agree. It is not a thing, to be measured and defined; nay, it is
a dream which, like our ideas of heaven, varies with individuals.
To the philosopher it is an earthly realization of all our heavenly
aspirations; to the low-browed man-of-hands something less, since his
aspirations are less, but still good to cure all social ills. When
Pecos Dalhart entered the Geronimo County jail he turned it into his
own idea of the revolution—a fighting man's paradise, like the Valhalla
of the ancients, where the heroes fought all day and were made good as
new over night; but when he woke up from his long sleep, behold, Angy
had established a philosophical revolution in its stead! At first he
was so glad to wake up at all that he did not inspect the new social
structure too closely—it had saved him from a terrible beating, that
was sure—but as the day wore on and a gang of yeggs began to ramp about
he shook his head and frowned.

"Say, Angy," he said, "what did you tell them fellers last night to
make 'em take on like this?"

"Told 'em the same old story, Cumrad—how the monopolistic classes has
combined with the hell hounds of the law to grind us pore men down.
Ain't it glorious how the glad news has touched their hearts? Even
within the walls of our prison they are happy!"

"Umph!" grunted Pecos, and scowled up at a tall Mexican who had
ventured to call him _compadre_. "What's all this _compañero_ talk
that's goin' on amongst the Mexicans—are they in on the deal, too?"

"Surest thing!" responded Angy warmly.

"Huh!" said Pecos, "I hope they don't try no _buen' amigo_ racket on
me—I was raised to regard Mexicans like horny toads."

"All men is brothers—that's my motto. And they's good Mexicans, too,
remember that. Just think of Joe Garcia!"

"Yes!" rejoined Pecos, with heat, "_think_ of 'im! If it wasn't for
that saddle-colored dastard I'd be free, 'stead of rottin' in this
hole. I says to the judge: 'I bought that cow and calf off of Joe
Garcia—there he is, standin' over there—I summon him for a witness.'
'Is that your calf?' says the judge. 'Kin savvy,' he says, humpin' up
his back. 'Did you sell him to this man?' '_Yo no se!_' says Joe, and
he kept it up with his 'No savvys' and his 'I don't knows' until the
dam' judge throwed me into jail. Sure! I'm stuck on Mexicans! I'll
brother 'em, all right, if they come around me—I'll brother 'em over
the head with a club!"

"Jest the same, it was Mexicans that saved your bacon last night,"
retorted Angy, with spirit. "Some of these white men that you had beat
up were for pushin' your face in while you was asleep, but when I made
a little talk in Spanish, touchin' on your friendly relations with the
Garcia family, the Mexicans came over in a body and took your part.
That was pretty good, hey?"

"Um," responded Pecos, but he assented without enthusiasm. Barring
the one exception which went to prove the rule, he had never had much
use for Mexicans—and Marcelina was a happy accident, not to be looked
for elsewhere in the Spanish-American world. Still, a man had to have
_some_ friends; and a Mex was better than a yegg, anyhow. He looked
around until he found the tall man who had called him _compadre_ and
beckoned him with an imperious jerk of the head. The Mexican came over
doubtfully.

"You speak English?" inquired Pecos. "That's good—I want to tell you
something. My friend here says you and your _compadres_ stood up for me
last night when I was down and out—hey? Well, that's all right—I'm a
Texano and I ain't got much use for Mexicanos in general, but any time
you boys git into trouble with them yeggs, jest call on me! Savvy?"

The tall man savvied and though Pecos still regarded them with disfavor
the Mexican contingency persisted in doing him homage—only now they
referred to him as _El Patrón_. _Patrón_ he was, and Boss, though he
never raised a hand. Interpreting aright his censorious glances the
sons of Mexico confined their celebration of the Dawn of Freedom to
a carnival of neglect, lying in their bunks and smoking _cigarritos_
while the filth accumulated in the slop cans. Under the iron rule of
Pete Monat they had been required to do all the cleaning up—for in
Arizona a Mexican gets the dirty end of everything—but no sooner had
Babe sung his clarion call for freedom than they joined him, heart and
hand. If the Society of the Revolution was at all related to the Sons
of Rest they wanted to go down as charter members—and they did.

The time may come when cleanliness will be an inherited instinct
but at present most of the cleaning up in the world is done under
compulsion. Parents compel their children to wash and change their
clothes; employers compel their wage-slaves to scrub and clean and
empty; cities compel their householders to dispose of sewage and
garbage; but not even among members of the capitalistic classes is
there shown any clean-cut desire to do the work themselves. The Arizona
Indians escape their obligations by moving camp at intervals, and God's
sunshine helps out the settlers; but in the Geronimo jail there was no
sunshine, nor could any Indian break camp. They were shut in, and there
they had to lie, three deep, until the judge should decide their fate.
For two days they had luxuriated in anarchy, philosophical and real,
but neither kind emptied any garbage. The jail was the dwelling place
of Freedom, but it smelled bad. That was a fact. Even the Mexicans
noticed it, but they did not take it to heart. It was only when Boone
Morgan came down for a batch of prisoners that the community got its
orders to clean up.

These were busy days with Boone—opening court, arraigning prisoners,
summoning witnesses, roping in jurymen, speaking a good word for some
poor devil in the tanks—and it kept him on the run from sun-up to dark.
He knew that Pecos Dalhart had broken up his Kangaroo Court and that
Angevine Thorne had pulled off some kind of a tin-horn revolution on
him, but he didn't mind a little thing like that. Jail life had its
ups and downs, but so long as the cage was tight the birds could do as
they pleased—short of raising a riot. At least, that was Boone Morgan's
theory, based on the general proposition that he could stand it as
long as they could—but when at the end of the second day he caught a
whiff of the sublimated jail-smell that rose from the abiding place of
liberty he let out a "whoosh" like a bear.

"Holy Moses, Bill," he cried, "make these rascals clean up! M-mmm!
That would drive a dog out of a tan-yard! What's the matter—is somebody
dead?"

"Not yet," responded Bill Todhunter, "but they will be, if we don't git
some trusty in there. Them fellers won't do _nuthin'_—an' I can't go in
there and make 'em! You better appoint another alcalde."

"What's the matter with Pete?"

"His head is too sore—he won't be able to put up a fight for a month."

"Umm, and Mike is fixed worse yet—where's that crazy cowman, Pecos
Dalhart?"

They found Pecos comfortably bestowed in the bunk of the end cell,
philosophically smoking jail tobacco as a deodorizer.

"Say," said the sheriff, brusquely addressing him through the bars,
"things are gittin' pretty rotten around here—somebody ought to make
them Mexicans clean up. You put my Kangaroo Court out of business—how'd
you like the job yourself?"

Pecos grunted contemptuously.

"Don't want it, hey? Well, you don't have to have it—I can get that big
sheep-man down from the upper tanks."

A cold glint came into Pecos Dalhart's eyes, but he made no remarks—a
big sheep-man would just about fall in with his mood.

"I got to have some kind of a trusty," observed Morgan, but as Pecos
did not rise to the bait, he passed down the run-around grumbling.

"He's a sulky brute," said Bill Todhunter, as they retreated from the
stench, "better leave him alone a while and see if we can't stink him
out."

"Well, you order them Mexicans to clean up," rumbled the sheriff, "and
if this here Pecos Dalhart makes any more trouble I'll see that he gits
roped and hog-tied. And say, throw old Babe out of there as soon as he
gits his supper. Them two fellers are side-kickers in this business
and we got to bust 'em up. It's a good thing the grand jury ain't in
session now—I'd git hell for the condition of that jail."

There never was a jail so clean it didn't smell bad, but that night
the Geronimo jail broke into the same class with the Black Hole
of Calcutta, yet the inmates seemed to enjoy it. The yegg gang in
particular—a choice assortment of Chi Kids, Denver Slims, and Philly
Blacks who had fled from the Eastern winter—were having the time of
their lives, rampaging up and down the corridor, upsetting cuspidors,
throwing water from the wash-room, and making themselves strictly at
home. When the sturdy form of Pecos Dalhart appeared in the door of
Cell One they slackened their pace a little, but now that the moral
restraint of Babe was gone they felt free as the prairie wind. Only in
their avoidance of Mexicans did they show a certain consciousness of
authority, for the word had passed that Pecos was _buen' amigo_ with
the _umbres_ and no one was looking for a rough-house. As for Pecos,
he put in his time thinking, standing aloof from friends and enemies
alike—and his thoughts were of the revolution. When he had been off
by himself reading the _Voice of Reason_ he had been astounded at the
blank stupidity of the common people, which alone was holding mankind
back from its obvious destiny. "Think, Slave, think!" it used to say;
and thinking was so easy for him. But the blind and brutish wage slaves
who were dragged at the chariot wheels of capitalism—well, perhaps they
had not yet learned how. Anyway, he had seen how inevitable was the
revolution, and whichever way he turned he saw new evidences of that
base conspiracy between wealth and government which keeps the poor man
down. Nay, he had not only seen it—he had suffered at its hand. Yet
there was one thing which he had never realized before, though the
_Voice of Reason_ was full of it—the low and churlish spirit of the
masses which incapacitated them for freedom. Take those yeggs, now.
They had been freed from the hard and oppressive hand of tyranny and
yet as soon as the Kangaroo Court was abolished they began to raise
particular hell. It was discouraging. There was only one way to beat
sense into some people, and that was with a club. A cuspidor came the
length of the corridor and Pecos rose slowly from his couch. What was
the use of trying the revolution on a gang of narrow-headed yeggs!

"Hey," he challenged, "you yaps want to key down a little or I'll
rattle your heads together. Go on into your cells now, and shut up."
He fixed the yegg-men sternly with his eye, but the blood had gone to
their heads from gambolling about and they still had their dreams of
heaven.

"Aw, gwan," said Philly Black, "we ain't doin' nawthin'—give a feller a
show, can't ye?"

"W'y, sure, I'll give you a show!" thundered Pecos wrathfully. "You
yeggs think because I licked Pete Monat I give you license to prize up
hell. You got this jail like a hog-waller already in two days. Now,
clean up, you dastards, and the first man that opens his face to me
will go to the doctor!"

There was no easy answer to an argument like that and the gang slouched
sullenly to their task, making all the motions of a superficial
cleaning up but leaving the jail dirtier than ever. With his strap
poised Pecos stood over them, reading well the insubordination in
their black hearts and waiting only for some one to start the fray. At
every move the yeggs became viler and more slipshod in their methods,
spilling half the contents of every can upon the floor, and still Pecos
Dalhart eyed them grimly, while the awe-stricken Mexicans huddled
together in their cells waiting for the catastrophe. At last Philly
Black, emboldened by his immunity, was moved to take a chance. Seizing
recklessly upon the nearest can he made a rush for the wash-room,
slopping filth and corruption as he went. As he passed Pecos his hold
slipped, accidentally, of course, and the can fell to the floor with
a final overflowing of uncleanness.

"Clean that up," Pecos said, as Philly Black came to a crouch, but
Philly only looked over his shoulder. "Clean that up!" commanded Pecos,
drawing nearer. "_Clean_—" but Philly was cleaning up. His gang had not
rallied to his aid. Slowly and slovenly, and making ugly faces, he bent
to his unwilling task, scowling beneath his black mop of hair at Denver
and Chi and the gang.

"I said _clean up_!" rumbled Pecos, as Philly grabbed his can to go.
"_Clean up!_ You don't call that clean, do you?"

"Aw, go t'hell!" bellowed Philly Black, hurling his slop-can once more
upon the floor. "Let the dam' Mexicans clean up!"

He dodged the swift swing of the strap and leapt in, calling on his
fellows for aid. For a moment they wrestled furiously, and as the yeggs
rushed in to help, the Mexicans swarmed out to meet them; but before
either side could lend a hand Philly Black slipped on his own dirty
floor and went down with a deadly thud. Pecos rode him to the floor,
clutching fiercely at his throat; for an instant he waited for him to
fight back, then he sprang up and waded into the yeggs. Philly was
where he would make no trouble for quite a while.

Once more at the clamor of battle the jail deputies came rushing to the
rescue, bending their futile pistols upon the yelling prisoners.

"It's that blankety-blank, Pecos Dalhart!" shouted Bill Todhunter as he
goggled through the bars. "Well, the son of a goat, ain't he a fightin'
fool!" There was a note almost of admiration in his voice, for Pecos
was punching heads and belting yeggs with the calculating rage of a
conqueror.

"Git out of my way, _umbres_!" he yelled to his Mexican retainers.
"_Vaya se—vamos_—I can fix 'em!" And he surely did. In his strong
hands the alcalde's strap was a deadly weapon; he swung it with a
puncher's skill and laid it on like a horse-wrangler. Shrieks for
mercy were mingled with howls of pain and every time a man stood up to
him he slugged him with all his strength. The floor was strewn with
yeggs and when he had beaten down all opposition he flogged them into
their cells.

[Illustration: "You _will_ turn this jail into a hog-waller, will you?"
he demanded]

"You _will_ turn this jail into a hog-waller, will you?" he demanded,
when the corridor was cleared of men. "You _will_ throw slops on the
floor and not half clean 'em up! Well, come outer there, you low-browed
hobos—_I'll_ show you how it's done! Now take them swabs and fill your
cans with water and wash this floor up right. No, you stay where you
are, _umbres_; I want to show these brake-beam tourists who's the boss.
_Jump_ now, you panhandlers, or I'll burn you up with this!" He swung
his wet strap and popped it behind the Chi Kid, and Chi went on his
way. Bill Todhunter and the jail deputy looked curiously on through
the bars; the reporter for the morning _Blade_ showed up suddenly
from nowhere and began to ask leading questions, but Pecos did not
unbend. In vain the reporter tried to beckon him up to the bars—Pecos
remembered him too well as the fresh young man who had made a jest
of his breaking into jail; also he hoped he could do a little job of
house-cleaning without going on record as the friend of old Boone
Morgan. He might be a little weak on the revolution but he knew his
natural enemies. These were the men who had thrown him into jail for
branding his own cow's calf; they were the hirelings of the System,
friends to the rich and enemies to the poor; to them the agony of his
soul was no more than a passing jest. He turned on the reporter and
scowled.

"Go take a run and jump at yourself!" he said.



CHAPTER XVII

THE POWER OF THE PRESS


The power of a venal and subsidized press in moulding public opinion is
a thing that can hardly be overstated, even by the _Voice of Reason_.
When Pecos Dalhart told the willowy young man from the _Blade_ to take
a running jump at himself he expressed as in no other way his absolute
contempt for society. Young Mr. Baker of the Geronimo _Blade_ had the
cigarette habit, he drank whiskey, and his private life would not
bear too close inspection—he was hardly the man that one would choose
as a censor of public character—and yet he held the job. When Pecos
had broken up Boone Morgan's Kangaroo Court and spoiled the clever
little court-house skit that Mr. Baker had framed up in his mind, that
unprincipled young man had alluded to him, briefly and contemptuously,
as a bad _hombre_ from the Verde country, a desperate fellow, etc., and
had ended by saying that Sheriff Morgan, who was convinced that he had
a dangerous criminal on his hands, was looking up his record in Texas.
That was a lovely introduction for a man who was held for the grand
jury—it reached the eye of nearly every qualified juror in the county
and was equivalent to about seven years in Yuma. If Mr. Baker had been
human this last admonition about the running jump would have raised
it to fourteen years, but they were short of copy that day and Baker
was only a reporter, so he sharpened up his pencil and wrote a little
jolly, just to keep Boone Morgan in good humor.

     JAIL STRIKE A FAILURE

     "Mr. Pecos Q. Dalhart, who signalized his incarceration in the
     county jail by breaking up the prisoners' court, sending the Hon.
     Pete Monat and Michael Slattery to the hospital, and beating
     up the defenceless inmates with a chair, pulled off another
     little _soirée_ last night, though for a different cause. It
     appears that when Mr. Dalhart registered at the Hotel de Morgan
     he had been reading a certain incendiary sheet which panders
     to the unreasoning prejudice of the ignorant by a general rave
     against the established order of things. With his mind inflamed
     by this organ of anarchy Mr. Dalhart conceived the original and
     ambitious idea of destroying the last vestige of law, order, and
     government within the walls of his prison, and Sheriff Morgan,
     being of a tolerant disposition, decided to let him try it on and
     see how he enjoyed the results. Not every public officer would
     have had the courage to permit such a firebrand to carry on his
     propaganda unhindered, but Boone Morgan has merited the confidence
     of every citizen of Geronimo County by his fearless handling
     of the desperate men entrusted to his care, and the outcome of
     this episode is a case in point. Only three days were needed to
     convince the bad man from Verde Crossing of the error of his way.
     His first outbreak was to destroy all law and order—his second was
     to enforce the sanitary regulations of the prison. By his sudden
     and decided stand for cleanliness Mr. Dalhart has shown that he
     possesses the capacity for better things, even if he did make a
     slight mistake in regard to Isaac Crittenden's spotted calf. The
     scrap was a jim-dandy, while it lasted, but the issue was never in
     doubt, for the Verde terror is a whirlwind when he gets started.
     There have been house-cleanings galore in the past, but never
     within the memory of man has the Geronimo jail received such a
     washing and scrubbing as was administered when Dalhart rose up in
     his wrath and put down the very strike which he had organized;
     and while the sheriff cannot but deprecate his tendency to resort
     to violence there is no gainsaying the fact that in this case his
     motives were of the best. Stay with it, Pecos, you may be alcalde
     yet!"

Pecos Dalhart was sitting in lonely state, eating the fresh-baked pie
which Hung Wo conferred upon him as the Boss, when Bill Todhunter
shoved a copy of the Geronimo _Blade_ through the bars.

"See you got yore name in the paper," he observed, but Pecos only
grunted. Curiosity is an attribute of the child—and besides, he was
more interested in his pie. It had always been an ambition of his
to have pie three times a day, and the steady round of beef, bread,
and coffee incidental to life on the range had made that hope seem a
dream dear enough almost to justify matrimony. At least, he had never
expected to attain to it any other way; but Hung Wo was a good cook,
when he wanted to be. To serve two prison meals a day for fourteen
cents and a profit meant pretty close figuring, and the patrons of
Hung Wo's downtown restaurant needed to have no compunctions about
leaving a part of their bounteous dinner untouched—the guests of the
Hotel de Morgan were not supposed to be superstitious about eating
"come-backs." It would be a poor Chinaman who could not feed you on ten
cents a day, if you didn't care what you ate. But Pecos cared, and he
cast a glance that was almost benevolent upon his faithful pie-maker as
he tucked the _Blade_ into his shirt.

"That's good pie, Charley," he said approvingly. "Some day when you
ketchum big hurry I make him boy wash dishes."

"Allite," responded Hung Wo, "you likee kek?"

"Sure thing! You savvey makum cake?"

"Me makum kek, pie, cha'lotte lusse, custa'd, plenty mo'!" declaimed
Charley, with pride.

"Sure! I know you! You keep big restaurant—down by Turf Saloon, hey? I
eat there, one time—heap good!"

"You tlink so?" beamed the child-like Oriental. "Allite, next time me
bingum kek!" He gathered up the tin pannikins and departed, radiant,
while Pecos crouched peacefully on his heels against the corridor bars.

"Say, they's a piece about you in that paper," volunteered Todhunter,
as he jerked open the cell doors, "that young feller that was here last
night wrote it up."

"Aw, to hell with 'im," growled Pecos scornfully; but at the same time
he was interested. Life within prison walls is not very exciting—there
is lots of company, but not of the best, and any man who does not want
to hear dirty stories or learn how "mooching" and "scoffing" is done,
or the details of the jungle life, is likely in time to become lonely.
Already he was hungry for the outdoor life—the beating of the hot sun,
the tug of the wind, the feel of the saddle between his knees—but alas,
he was doomed to spend his unprofitable days in jail, a burden to
himself and society! Six months in jail, before he could come before
the grand jury and have his trial—six months, and it had not yet been
six days. He drew the morning _Blade_ from his bosom and examined
it carefully, searching vainly through editorial columns and patent
insides until at last he caught the heading: "Jail Strike a Failure.
Bad Man from Verde Crossing Makes Prisoners Clean Up." Then he read
the article through carefully, mumbling over the big words in the hope
of sensing their meaning and lingering long over his name in print. At
the allusion to the _Voice of Reason_ he flushed hot with indignation;
muttered curses greeted the name of Sheriff Morgan; but every time he
came to "Mr. Dalhart" he smiled weakly and nursed his young mustache.
But after he had finished he went back and gazed long and intently at
his full name as given at the beginning:—"Mr. Pecos Q. Dalhart"—Pecos
Q.! He read the entire paper over carefully and came back to it again;
and that evening, when Mr. Baker of the _Blade_ strolled in, he
beckoned him sternly to the bars.

"Say," he said, "what the hell you mean by puttin' that 'Q.' in my
name—Pecos Q. Dalhart? My name is Pecos straight—named after that river
in Texas!"

"Oh, is it?" cried the young reporter, making a hurried note. "Well,
I beg your pardon, Mr. Dalhart, I'm sure. How's house-cleaning to-day?
Organized your court yet? No? Well, when you do, let me know. Always
like to be present, you understand, when you have a trial." He hurried
away, as if upon important business, and slowed down as suddenly before
the sheriff's office.

"That 'Q.' did the business," he observed, glancing triumphantly at the
assembled company. "I told you I'd make that rustler talk. A man may
not give a dam' what you say about him but he goes crazy if you get
his name wrong—I found that out long ago. Mr. Dalhart informs me that
his name is Pecos straight—no 'Q.' in it. Pecos Straight Dalhart! All
right, I'll try to get it right next time. What'll you bet we don't
have another Kangaroo Court before the end of the week?"

"The cigars," replied Boone Morgan casually. As a politician, cigars
were a matter of small import to him—when he was not giving them away
his friends were giving cigars to him.

"I'll go you!" cried Baker enthusiastically, "and the drinks, too. You
better turn Mr. Dalhart over to me for a while and watch me make a man
out of him. All I ask is that you give him the morning _Blade_."

"All right," assented Bill Todhunter, from the corner; and the next
morning Pecos received it with his breakfast. Charley Hung Wo had
provided him with an unusually tempting apple roll that morning but it
was neglected for the moment while he ran over the Court House Briefs.
He searched the whole page carefully, but there was no mention of Pecos
Dalhart, either with or without the "Q." He pondered upon the fact
during the day—having nothing else to do—and when the Friday paper
came out with nothing about the Hotel de Morgan in it he considered
the matter seriously. Then it came over him gradually—there was
nothing mysterious about it—the reporter was waiting for something
to happen—a kangaroo trial, or something like that. Well, anything for
a little excitement—why not? There were lots of things to be remedied.
The yeggs had a dirty way of tapping on the boiler-iron doors and
singing lewd songs after they were locked into their cells for the
night, a combination which broke in on his sleep; and knowing that they
were safe from his strap they persisted in this amusement until they
could sing no more, stoutly denying all knowledge of the disturbance in
the morning. It was the only revenge they could take on him and they
worked it to the limit. Not to be outdone in the matter of revenge he
drove them like a pack of peons in the morning, forcing them to do all
the cleaning while his Mexican friends rolled _cigarritos_—but that
was getting wearisome. Yet how easy it would be to change! The verdict
of a kangaroo jury is always "Guilty"—why not accuse half the yeggs of
disturbing the peace, appoint the jury from the other half, and let
yegg nature do the rest? Then sentence the prisoners at the bar to
clean up for a week. Why not, indeed!

At supper time Pecos spoke a few invitational words through the bars to
Bill Todhunter and about the time the boy reporter from the _Blade_ was
due he placed his chair against the doors and called his court to order.

"_Oyez! Oyez!_ The Kangaroo Court of Geronimo is now in session!" he
announced, in stentorian tones, and instantly the prisoners began to
assemble. "_Oyez_" was good Spanish for "Hear!" and brought out all the
Mexicans; and the Americans came on the run, eager for any excitement
to pass the time away.

"Blacky," said Pecos, addressing the one-time king of the yeggs, "bring
the Chi Kid before the bar of justice. He is accused of disturbing the
peace by singin' songs all night."

Without a moment's hesitation Philly Black laid violent hands upon his
friend and cellmate and dragged him before the court. The mandates of
the law are inexorable; and besides, Philly wanted the job of sheriff.

"Come up here, Chi," he swaggered, fetching Chi Kid around with a jerk,
"now stand there, or I'll punch youse in the jaw!" Chi stood, reading
his fate in every eye.

"Now, summon me a couple of witnesses!" commanded Pecos, and as Blacky
sifted through the crowd looking for a pair of men who could stand the
Kid off later, Boone Morgan and the boy reporter arrived from the outer
office and stood by to see the fun.

"Chi Kid," declaimed the judge, "you are accused of singin' dirty songs
all night and disturbin' of the peace. Do you plead guilty or not
guilty?"

"Not guilty!" responded Chi, rolling his evil eyes on the witnesses.

"Bring up them witnesses!" said Pecos briefly. "Slim, did you hear the
accused singing' them dirty songs of his last night?"

"Yes, Yer Honor!" answered Denver Slim dutifully, "and I couldn't
hardly sleep—Yer Honor!"

"Urr—it's too bad about you," commented the alcalde. "Bring up that
other witness!" The other witness had suffered a similar insomnia.
"That's all!" announced Pecos, with finality, "got to hurry this case
through now. Got anything to say for yourse'f, prisoner?"

"I demand a jury trial!" growled the Kid.

"Too late for that now—the defendant is found guilty and sentenced to
clean up for a week or git forty blows with the strap. Sheriff, bring
me Denver Slim!"

There was a genuine commotion at this, but Philly Black produced the
accused—he had to, or lose his job.

"Denver Slim, you are accused of hammerin' on your door all night and
disturbin' of the peace. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

Denver turned and made three successive jabs at the jail sheriff, who
had ruffled his feelings from behind; then he drew himself up and
remarked:

"I don't plead!"

"'Don't plead' is the same as 'Not guilty,'" said Pecos, remembering
his experience with Pete Monat, "and more than that," he thundered,
"it's the same as contempt of court! Mr. Sheriff, spread-eagle the
prisoner over a chair while I give him ten good ones for contempt—the
trial will then proceed!" He rose from his chair and approached the
defendant warily, hefting his strap as he came, and Denver became so
deeply engrossed in his movements that Philly Black closed with him
from the rear. There was a struggle, gazed upon judicially by the
alcalde, and at last with a man on every arm and leg Denver was laid
sprawling over the back of the chair while the prisoners gibbered
with delight. The blows were laid on soundly and yet with a merciful
indulgence and when the humiliating ceremony was over Pecos had won
every heart but one. Denver Slim was sore, of course; but how are you
to have a Roman holiday unless somebody else gets hurt? They had a long
and protracted jury trial after this, with a fiery denunciation of
law-breakers by John Doe, the district attorney; and the verdict, of
course, was "Guilty." Then they kangarooed a few Mexicans to clean up
their side of the house and ended with a jubilee chorus of "Kansas."

     "I'll tell you what they do—_in Kansas_!"

It was great. There was a piece about it in the paper the next morning
and prospective grand jurymen slapped their legs and remarked, one to
the other: "That Pecos Dalhart is a proper fighting fool, ain't he? I
reckon Old Crit just jumped him into that racket up the river in order
to git him out of the country. It's a dam' shame, too, when you think
how many Crit has stole!"

But alas, neither public praise nor blame could open up the bars and
let Pecos out of jail. He was held by a power higher than any man—the
power of the Law, which, because it has endured so long and is, in
fact, all we have, is deemed for that reason sacred. And the law was
busy—it is always busy—and behind. Well, Pecos didn't know much about
it, except what he had read in the _Voice of Reason_, but as he heard
the ponderous wheels of the law grinding about him, saw yeggs escape by
cleverly devised tales and Mexicans soaked because they were slow and
dumb, he wondered if that was the only way they could make a stagger at
justice. A drunken cowboy had seized a gay man-about-town and taken his
pen-knife from his pocket—grand larceny of the person, he was sentenced
to seven years. Another drunken reprobate had beaten up the roustabout
in a saloon—and got thirty days for assault and battery. Both drunk
and both bad, but one had played to hard luck. He had taken property,
the other had hurt a man. Pecos saw when it was too late where he had
marred his game—he should have beaten Old Crit instead of branding his
calf.

In sombre silence he listened day by day as the jail-lawyers—wise
criminals who had been in the toils before—cooked up stories to explain
away misdeeds; he watched day by day as the prisoners came down from
their trial, some with bowed heads or cursing blindly, others laughing
hysterically as they scuttled out the door; and many a man who had
sworn to a lie went free where simple-minded sinners plead guilty and
took their fate. Some there were who had boggled their stories because
their dull minds could not compass the deceit; the district attorney
had torn them to flinders, raging and threatening them with his finger
for the perjured fools they were, and the judge had given them the
limit for swearing to a lie. Even in jail it was the poor and lowly who
were punished, while the jail-lawyers and those who could afford the
petty dollar that hired them took shelter behind the law. Yes, it was
all a game, and the best man won—if he held the cards.

Slowly and with painstaking care Pecos went over his own case,
comparing it with these others, and his heart sank as he saw where the
odds lay. The spotted calf was his—he could swear to it—but it bore
the brand of Crittenden and he had lost his bill of sale. There were
forty two-gun cowboys working for Crit and any one of them would swear
him into jail for a drink—they had done it, so he knew. José Garcia
was afraid to tell the truth and Crittenden would scare him worse than
ever before the trial took place. Ah, that trial—it was more than five
months off yet and he could not stir a foot! Once outside the bars
and free-footed he could shake up the dust; he could rustle up his
witnesses and his evidence and fight on an equality with Crit. But no,
the munneypullistic classes had a bigger pull on him than ever, now—he
was jailed in default of bail and no one would put up the price. God,
what an injustice! A rich man—a man with a single friend who could put
up a thousand dollars' bail—_he_ could go free, to hire his lawyers,
look up his witnesses, and fight his case in the open; but a poor
man—he must lay his condemned carcass in jail and keep it there while
the law went on its way. Day by day now the prisoners went to Yuma
to serve their time, or passed out into the world. But were those who
passed out innocent? The law said so, for it set them free. And yet
they were white with the deadly pallor of the prison, their hands were
weak from inactivity, and their minds poisoned by the vile company of
yeggs; they had lain there in the heat all summer while judges went to
the coast and grand jurymen harvested their hay, and after all their
suffering, as a last and crowning flaunt, the law had declared them
innocent! It had been many days since Pecos had seen the _Voice of
Reason_ and he had lost his first enthusiasm for the revolution, but
nothing could make him think that this was right. The Law was like
his kangaroo court, that travesty which he made more villainous in
order to show his scorn; it laid hold upon the innocent and guilty and
punished them alike. Only the sturdy fighters, like him, escaped—or the
prisoners who had their dollar. That was it—money! And Pecos Dalhart
had always been poor.

As the mills of the gods ground on, Pete Monat, with his bandaged
head, and Mike Slattery, still nursing his battered jaw, were removed
from the bridal chamber, tried, and lodged in the tanks for safety.
Pete had hired a shyster lawyer and got ten years in Yuma; Mike had
plead his own case and escaped with only three. It was this last
lesson that Pecos conned in his heart. When Slattery the yegg was
arrested he had feigned an overpowering drunkenness, and though the
case was all against him—he had been caught in the act of burglarizing
a lodging-house and was loaded down with loot—he had nevertheless
framed up a good defence. With the artless innocence of the skilled
"moocher" he explained to the court that while under the influence of
no less than seven drinks of straight alcohol he had mistaken another
gentleman's room for his own and had gathered up his wardrobe under
the misapprehension that it was his own. At every attempt to prove his
culpability he had represented that, beyond the main facts, his mind
was a complete blank, at the same time giving such a witty description
of the paralyzing effects of "Alki" that even the district attorney
had laughed. According to Mike that was the way to get off easy, be
polite and respectful-like to the judge and jury and jolly up the
prosecuting attorney—and in this contention the unfortunate experience
of Pete Monat clearly bore him out. Pete had made the fatal mistake
of hiring, with two months' back pay, a "sucking lawyer" who had so
antagonized the district attorney that that gentleman had become
enraged, making such a red-hot speech against the damnable practice of
horse-stealing—"a crime, gentlemen of the jury, which, because it may
leave the innocent owner of that horse to die of thirst on the desert,
ought by rights to be made a capital offence"—that poor Pete was found
guilty and sentenced before he could build up a new defence.

"Oh, I don't hold nothin' agin you, Pardner," he replied, in answer to
Pecos's solicitude for the influence of his battered head, "the jury
didn't cinch me for my looks—it's that dam' narrer-headed jack-lawyer
that I got to thank f'r this. He wouldn't let me tell my story, jest
the way it was. You know, an' I know, that when a man gits his time on
the range the boss is obligated to give him a mount to town. How's a
cowboy goin' to git his riggin' to town—walk and pack his saddle? Well,
now, jest because I give old Sage some back talk and quit him when he
was short-handed he told me to walk; an' me, like the dam' fool I was,
I went out and roped a hoss instead. Then, jest to git even, he had me
arrested for a hoss-thief. But would this pin-head of a lawyer hear to
a straight talk like that? No—he has me plead 'Not guilty' and swear
I never took the hoss—an' you know the rest. That district attorney
is a mean devil—he won't let nobody stand against him—you might as
well plead 'Guilty' and take the mercy of the court as to try to buck
against him. But whatever you do, Pardner, don't hire no tin-horn
lawyer—I give ten years of my life to find that out." Pete sighed and
rubbed his rough hands together wearily—it would be long before they
felt the rope and the branding iron and the hard usage of honest toil.
A great pity came over Pecos at the thought of his unhappy lot, and
he treated him kindly before the other prisoners; but all the time a
greater fear was clutching at his heart. Pete had taken a horse, but
he had burned a calf—and Arizona hates a rustler worse than it hates
a horse-thief. For all his strength and spirit, he was caught—caught
like a rat in a trap—and as the imminence of his fate came over him he
lost his leonine bearing and became furtive, like the rest of them.
Outwardly he was the same, and he ruled the jail with a rod of iron,
but at heart he was a true prisoner—cunning, cringing, watchful,
dangerous—all his faculties centred upon that one thought, to escape!



CHAPTER XVIII

THE LAW'S DELAY


As the first hot days of summer came on, the district court of Geronimo
County closed; the judge, having decided each case according to the law
and the evidence, hurried upon his way, well satisfied; the deputies
took a last disconsolate batch of prisoners to Yuma, and Pecos Dalhart
sat down to ponder on his case. The tanks were nearly empty now, except
for the drunks and vags that the constables brought in and the grist
for the next grand jury. It was a dreary grist, each man swearing his
innocence with unnatural warmth until the general cynicism of the place
shamed him to silence. Pecos loathed them, the whining, browbeaten
slaves. After he had sounded the depths of human depravity until there
was no more wickedness to learn he drew more and more aloof from his
companions, thinking his own thoughts in silence. When Boone Morgan
came in, or the _Blade_ reporter, he conversed with them, quietly and
respectfully—Boone Morgan could speak a word to the judge, and Baker
held the ear of the great public. They were very kind to Pecos now,
and often, after some ingenious write-up of his exploits, crowds of
visitors would come to stare at the grim rustler who ruled the Kangaroo
Court. There were no signs of the social theorist about him now, and
the revolution was a broken dream—he could not afford such dreams. Let
the rich and the free hold fast to their convictions and their faith—he
was trying to get out of jail.

The heat of midsummer came on apace, and the sun, beating against
the outer walls, turned the close prison into an oven by day and a
black hole of misery at night. The palpitating air seemed to press
upon them, killing the thought of sleep, and the prisoners moaned
and tossed in their bunks, or fell into fitful slumbers, broken by
the high insistent whine of mosquitoes or the curses of the vags. Of
curses there were a plenty before the cool weather came, and protests
and complaints, but none from Pecos Dalhart. In the long watches of
the night he possessed his soul of a mighty patience, to endure all
things, if he could only go free. Even with a jail missionary, who
distributed tracts and spoke bodingly of a great punishment to come, he
was patient; and the missionary, poor simple man that he was, proffered
him in return the consolation of religion. Being of a stiffnecked
and perverse generation Pecos declined to confess his sins—the
missionary might be subpœnaed by the prosecution—but he listened with
long-suffering calm to the Prodigal Son, the Good Samaritan, and the
parable of the seeds that were sown on stony ground. In themselves the
stories were good—nor were they strange to Pecos, for his mother had
been a good Methodist—but the preacher spoiled them by a too pointed
application of the moral to his own unfortunate case. Still, he let
it go—anything was better than listening to the yeggs—and waited for
the sermon to end. There was a favor that he wanted to ask. Many years
ago—it was at camp-meeting and the shouters were dancing like mad—he
had promised his sainted mother to read the Bible through if she would
quit agonizing over his soul, but the promise he never kept. Small
print was hard on his young eyes that were so quick to see a cow, and
he put the matter off until such a time as he should break a leg or get
sick or otherwise find time to spare. Well, he had all the time there
was, now, and it would give him something to do.

"Say, Pardner," he observed, as the missionary pressed a sheaf of
tracts upon him at parting, "is this the best you can do? I was
powerful interested in them stories—how about a Bible?"

Bibles were a scarce article in those parts, but Pecos got one, and
after laying bets with various flippant prisoners, he read it from
cover to cover, religiously. Then, just to show his bringing up, he
went back and read over all the big wars and fights and the troubles of
Moses in the wilderness. Still there was time to spare and he read of
Daniel and Nehemiah and the prophets who had cried unto Israel. It was
a poor beginning, but somehow when he was reading the Bible he forgot
the heat and the vileness of the jail and won back his self-respect. In
that long catalogue of priests and prophets and leaders of the people
what one was there, from Joseph to Jesus, who had not been cast into
prison? The universality of their fate seemed to cheer him and give him
something in common—perhaps they were of some kin with the apostles
of the revolution. And in the long, suffocating nights he would think
back to the mud-streaked adobe house that he had called home and hear
his mother patting softly on her knees and singing: "Oh, come to Jesus,
come to Jesus—" with a little Texas _yupe_ at the end of every line. So
he wore the summer's heat away, and with the return of cool weather
his mind went back to his case.

There was no use trying to do anything before the grand jury, so
everybody said; that great bulwark of the people generally indicted
every one that the district attorney shook his finger at and let the
judge find out later whether he was innocent—that was his business,
anyway. Besides—whatever else he did—Pecos was going to be careful not
to offend the district attorney. The sad case of Pete Monat, who must
have put in an awful summer at Yuma, was ever in his mind, and while
he would not go so far as to plead guilty in order to accommodate the
choleric Mr. Kilkenny, he was firmly resolved not to antagonize him in
the trial. He had money, too—five months' wages, deposited with the
sheriff—but a hundred and fifty dollars would not hire a man who could
stand up against District Attorney Kilkenny, the terror of evil-doers.
As a man, Shepherd Kilkenny was all right—a devoted husband, a loving
father, all the other good things you read on a gravestone—but as
a prosecuting attorney he was a devil. At every biennial election
he got all the votes there were on his court record. He convicted
everybody—except a few whose friends had worked a rabbit's foot for
them—and convicted them beyond appeal. That saved money to the county.
His reputation for convictions was so great that most of the petty
criminals pled guilty and came down like Davey Crockett's coon, before
he had a chance to shoot. That expedited the court calendar and saved
thousands of dollars in fees and witness expenses—another good thing
for the honest tax-payer. In fact, everything that Shepherd Kilkenny
did was for the benefit of the Geronimo tax-payers, and Yuma was
crowded with convicts to prove that he knew his business. That was what
he was hired for—to convict law-breakers—and if he let a single guilty
man escape he was recreant to his trust. Kilkenny had a stern sense of
civic responsibility—he got them, if it took a leg.

There had been a time when Shepherd Kilkenny believed that every man
who had the price was innocent. That was when, as a rising young
lawyer, he was defending criminals in the courts; and he threw so many
miscreants loose and made such a show of old Trusdale, the former
district attorney, that the community in a burst of popular indignation
put the old man out and gave Kilkenny his job. At this Kilkenny brought
out an entirely new set of adjectives, changed all his fixed opinions
in a day, and, being now in a position to square himself with the
real Law, which holds that a man is guilty until he can prove himself
innocent, he became a flaming sword against the transgressor. His
conversion also enabled him to slough off the old pathetic-fallacy
line of talk that he had been called upon to use in pleading before
a jury and to adopt a more dignified and denunciatory style, a cross
between Demosthenes and the Daniel Webster school. The prosperous life
of a politician jollied him up a bit, too; he developed a certain
sardonic humor in the handling of unfavorable witnesses, and got off a
good one every once in a while for the benefit of the reporters. But
there was one thing that Shepherd Kilkenny could not tolerate, and that
was another rising young criminal lawyer trying to defeat the ends of
justice and beat him out of his job. Yuma was full of Pete Monats who
had fallen victims to this feud, and Pecos resolved to plead his case
himself before he would take chances on a sucking lawyer.

It was while he was in this vacillating mood and feeling mighty lonely
and lost to the world that he heard late one night a familiar whoop
from the jag-cell, followed by a fiery oration in the vernacular.
It was Angy, down for his periodical drunk, and Pecos could hardly
wait to clasp him by the hand. It was a peculiar thing about Angevine
Thorne—the drunker he got the more his language improved, until in
the ecstasy of his intoxication, he often quoted Greek and Latin, or
words deemed by local wiseacres to be derived from those sources.
Drink also seemed to clarify his vision and give him an exalted sense
of truth, justice, and man's inhumanity to man. It had been his custom
in the past at this climacteric stage of inebriation to mount upon
some billiard table or other frangible piece of saloon furniture and
deliver temperance lectures until removed by the police. But times
had changed with Geronimo's champion booze-fighter and in his later
prepossessions he grappled with the mighty problem of wealth and its
relation to the common man. There are some hard sayings in the _Voice
of Reason_ against the privileged classes, but they are all nicely
considered in relation to the libel law, whereas Angy had no such
compunctions. Having spent all his money for drink and received a jail
sentence for life, the law had no further terrors for him and he turned
his eloquence loose. It was a wild rave when Pecos heard it, and grew
progressively more incoherent; but as he lay in his bunk and listened
to the familiar appeals a thought came to Pecos like an inspiration
from the gods—why not turn that stream of eloquence into profitable
channels and make Angy his advocate? There was not a voter in Geronimo
who did not know Babe Thorne and love him for his foolishness—the
life sentence which he suffered for conspicuous drunkenness was but a
token of their regard, placing him above the level of common ordinary
drunks even as his eloquence placed him above the maudlin orators with
whom the saloons were crowded. He was a character, a standing jest—and
Arizona loves a joke better than life itself. Above all, Angy was a
good fellow—he could jolly the district attorney and make him laugh!
They would win their case and then he would be free—free! Pecos could
not sleep from thinking of it and he begged Bill Todhunter, as a
special favor, to bring Babe in from the jag-cell at once.

"What's the matter?" inquired Bill casually, "are you gettin'
interested in yore girl? I hear Old Crit has cut you out."

"Crit be damned!" cried Pecos. "Have I ever asked you for anything
before? Well then, throw him in here, can't you?"

The deputy did as he was bid and went away—he was not of a prying
disposition and Pecos had saved him a lot of trouble. There had never
been an alcalde like Pecos Dalhart. No, indeed—it would rustle them to
get one half as good when he went his way to Yuma.

The conference with Angevine Thorne, attorney-at-law, was long,
and private, but as Angy sobered up he beheld greater and greater
possibilities in the matter; and when he went away he assured his
client that within the calendar month he should step forth a free
man—free as the prairie wind. He was confident of it, and upon his
departure Pecos gave him fifty dollars to use with José Garcia. Also he
was to find Old Funny-face, the mother of the calf, if it took the last
cow in the barn. But all was to be conducted quietly, very quietly,
for if Old Crit ever got wind of any defence he would frame up a case
to disprove it. To be sure, José Garcia was in debt several hundred
dollars to Isaac Crittenden—and afraid of his life, to boot—but for
fifty dollars cash Joe would swear to anything, even the truth; and if
by so doing he got Pecos out—why, there was a man who could protect him
against Crit and all his cowboys. It looked good to Angevine Thorne
and, as an especial inducement to Joe to stay put, he swore by all the
saints to have his life if he dared to go back on his agreement. Then,
very quietly, he instituted a search for Old Funny-face and, having
located her up the river with a tame bunch of cattle, he came away,
knowing full well that he could produce her at the proper time. There
would be a little surprise coming to Isaac Crittenden when he went to
court next week and, being actuated by no feeling of false delicacy in
dealing with such a reptile, Angy went back to work for him and watched
the conspiracy breed.

It was a constant source of surprise to the transient public to observe
how a man with so many disagreeable qualities kept the same men
working for him year after year; but to those who knew Crittenden well
it was as natural as hunger and thirst. In fact, it was intimately
connected with hunger and thirst. Any time that Joe Garcia wanted to
quit he could just tell his wife and six children to stop eating, tie
his things in a handkerchief, and walk down the road. José was ruled by
hunger and the slavish peon spirit of a Mexican—Babe and the cowboys
were ruled by thirst. No matter how many times he had been fired or
quit, a man could always get a chance to work for nothing with Crit;
and so long as he spent all his money at the store Crittenden was even
willing to pay him good wages in the busy season. Babe was the easiest
mark he had as far as money was concerned, and, being so well educated
withal, the illiterate cowman found him almost indispensable as a
letter-writer and book-keeper. So far, so good—but why did Babe, with
his classical education, insist upon donating his services to a man
who treated him so despitefully? Ah, it was a hard question, but even
a vagrant likes to have some place, no matter how unlovely, which can
take the place of a home. Yet for the six long months that Pecos had
lain in jail Angy had had reason enough for staying—Marcelina needed
him, and she needed him bad.

Every month seemed to add some new grace and beauty to the daughter
of José Garcia—the primitive beauty that seems to bud like a flower
beneath the Arizona sun; the beauty of the young Apache maiden and the
slender _Hija de Mejico_, that comes to its perfection so soon and is
doomed so often to fade away prematurely before the lust of men. In
another place Marcelina's face might have been her fortune, but at
Verde Crossing it was her bane. The cowboys lingered about the store to
gaze upon her boldly or stepped outside to intercept her on her way;
and Joe, poor tortoise-brained Joe, did not live up to his full duty
as a father. The _Texano_ cowboys were a fierce breed and impatient of
restraint—also they held a Mexican to be something below a snake. He
was afraid of them, though he rolled his fat eyes and frowned—but most
of all he feared Old Crit. Ah, there was a man to fear—Ol' Creet—and
he held him in his power, him and all his little flock. Day after day,
as the summer passed, the Boss kept after him, and but for his woman
he would have given way. How she did curse him, the _Señora_, his
_mujer_, and how she did curse Crit—but most of all she cursed their
poverty, which exposed her child to such a fate. Even the few _pesos_
to send her to the school were lacking—Marcelina must stay at Verde
Crossing and fight against her fate. There was only one man who would
stand by them, and that was Babe. Only for the one time in six months
had Babe been drunk, and that was when Crit was away. He had left them
his pistols at parting and hurried back, after he had seen Pecos in
the jail. Yet after all it was worth the risk, for Babe had brought
back money—yes, money, fifty dollars in bills— and he offered it all
to José if he would stand up and tell the truth. What a coward—that
foolish José! For a week he weighed his manhood in the balance and was
afraid—and then Babe had given him two drinks, quick, and made him
promise, and given the money to his _mujer_. _Madre de Dios_, it was
accomplished, and the day that Crittenden and his cowboys rode away to
Geronimo to testify before the grand jury the Señora Garcia followed
far behind in the broken-down buggy, and when the town was dark she
drove in and left Marcelina at the Sisters' school.



CHAPTER XIX

THE LAST CHANCE


There was a hot time in old Geronimo on the night that Ike Crittenden
and his cowboys rode in, and in spite of everything he could do three
of them wound up in the jag-cell before morning. Nevertheless he had
plenty of witnesses and to spare, for the grand jury merely went over
the same evidence that had been taken before the magistrate and handed
down an indictment against Pecos Dalhart, accusing him of feloniously
and unlawfully marking, branding, or altering the brand on one neat
animal, to wit, a spotted calf, belonging to Isaac Crittenden of
Verde Crossing. It was almost the first case on the calendar and the
arraignment was set for the following Monday. Then Pecos Dalhart,
defendant, slouched gloomily back to his cell and sat down to await
the issue. The howls of Angevine Thorne, blended with the hoarse
protests of Crit's cowboys, floated in to him from the jag-cell and he
knew his faithful attorney had not deserted him, but what a broken reed
was that to lean on when his whole future hung in the balance! Even as
he listened he had an uneasy fear that Angy was giving the whole snap
away to the drunken cowboys and once more he begged Bill Todhunter to
throw Babe into the tanks where he could look after him. It was at this
time, when things were at their worst, that Shepherd Kilkenny, the
district attorney, came down to look into his case and find out how he
would plead.

He was a very cautious man, Mr. Kilkenny, and he never had a man
indicted unless he held his written confession or knew beyond the
peradventure of a doubt that he could convict him. In the case of Pecos
Dalhart he had been unusually careful, for it was the first case of
cattle stealing to come before him and most of his constituents were in
the cow business; therefore, not to take any chances, he had followed
it from the magistrate's court to the secret chambers of the grand
jury, and now he was going after a confession. He came with gifts, a
brace of cigars, but Pecos was well supplied with cigarette makings and
waved them courteously aside. Then they got down to business.

"Mr. Dalhart," began Kilkenny, "I'm the district attorney and I've come
to talk over your case with you—in a friendly way, you understand.
Ah—have you engaged an attorney? No? Well, that is hardly necessary,
you know, but if you do call in a counsellor I am sure he will advise
you to plead 'Guilty.' Ahem—yes, indeed. There's many a man stole his
calf and got away with it, but you were caught in the act and observed
by twenty witnesses. Not the ghost of a chance, you see; but if you
plead 'Guilty' and throw yourself upon the mercy of the court it will
cut your sentence in half, probably more. I'm a friend of yours, Mr.
Dalhart, and I've often heard the sheriff speak of your exemplary
character as a prisoner. All these things are appreciated, you know,
and I—well, I'll do all I can for you with the judge. Now all you have
to do is to sign this little paper and—"

"I'm sorry," said Pecos, thrusting the paper back, "and I sure take it
kindly of you, Mr. Kilkenny, but I can't plead 'Guilty'—not to please
nobody—because I'm _not_ guilty."

"Not guilty!" The district attorney laughed. "Why, you were taken in
the act, Mr. Dalhart. I never saw a more conclusive line of evidence."

"Well," grumbled Pecos, "if I was guilty I'd sure plead 'Guilty,' you
can bank on that. But this blankety-blank, Ike Crittenden, has jest
framed up a lot of evidence to railroad me to the pen—and them cowboys
of his would swear to anything for the drinks. You wouldn't soak a man
on evidence like that, would you, Mr. District Attorney?"

"I'd soak him on any evidence I could get," responded the district
attorney succinctly. "You know my reputation, Mr. Dalhart— I convict
every man that pleads 'Not guilty'!"

"But s'pose he isn't guilty!" cried Pecos.

"I convict him anyway!" replied the district attorney. "Are you going
to sign this, or are you going ahead like a damned fool and get the
limit in Yuma?"

"I won't sign it," said Pecos firmly.

"Very well," responded Kilkenny, closing his little book with a snap.
He rose to his full height and pursed his lips ominously. "Very well,
Mr. Dalhart!" he said, nodding and blinking his eyes. "Very well,
sir!" Then he retired, leaving so much unsaid that it threw Pecos into
a panic. In a very real picture he could see himself sitting in the
shade of a big adobe wall and making State's-prison bridles for life.
He could see the guards pacing back and forth on top of the bastions
and Pete Monat holding one end of a horse-hair strand while he swung a
little trotter and twisted the loose hairs into the other end, forever
and forever. It was awful. The full sense of his impending doom rushed
in upon him and he laid hold of the sodden Babe who was maundering
about the revolution, and shook him frantically.

"My God, Angy," he cried, "wake up and do something! Fergit about the
common people and do something for _me_! Fergit that you ever had any
principles and he'p me fight that low-lived dastard or I'll go to Yuma
for life!"

"The voice of the people shall rule in the land!" pronounced Angy
oracularly.

"To hell with the people!" yelled Pecos. "It's the People that's tryin'
to send me up! Do you want me to git twelve years for brandin' that
spotted calf? Well, wake up, then, and git yore wits to work!"

Angy woke up, by degrees, but his wits would not work. The ecstasy
of intoxication was past and his mind was a legal blank for the
remainder of that day. The day was Friday, and Pecos had to plead on
Monday—"Guilty" or "Not guilty." "Guilty" meant six or eight years in
prison; "Not guilty" meant twelve years—or freedom. It was a gamble,
but he would risk it if Angy would remain sober enough to talk. His
only chance of freedom lay in his friend's misdirected eloquence, and
when Babe was entirely himself Pecos backed him up into a corner and
talked to him with tears in his voice.

"Never, never, never—" began Angy, holding up his hand to swear; but
Pecos stopped him with a sign.

"Nothing like that, Pardner," he said. "You been breakin' that pledge
for forty years. Jest look me in the eye now and promise me you won't
tech a drop until I'm free."

"All right, Pecos," agreed Angy, "I'll do it, I won't touch a drop till
you're free."

"And when I'm free," continued Pecos, "I'll stake you to a drunk from
which Geronimo will sure date time. Now let's git down to business."

The details of that campaign against the People were talked over in
hushed secrecy and when on Monday morning Pecos appeared before the
stern judge to plead, Angevine Thorne stood just within the rail,
shuffling his worn hat nervously.

"I will call the case of the People versus Pecos Dalhart," said the
judge. "Pecos Dalhart, to the charge of grand larceny do you plead
'Guilty' or 'Not guilty'?"

"'Not guilty,' Your Honor!" responded Pecos.

"The defendant enters a plea of 'Not guilty,'" observed the judge
impassively. "Are you represented by counsel, Mr. Dalhart?"

"No, Your Honor," replied Pecos.

"You understand, do you not, that in case you are unable to employ an
attorney the court will appoint one to advise you, free of charge?"

"Yes, Your Honor," answered Pecos, "but if it's all the same to you I'd
rather not have a lawyer. I'd like to ask a favor, Judge, if you don't
mind. The reason I don't want an attorney appointed is that I know very
well none of these lawyers around here can stand up to the district
attorney when it comes to a case of law"—here Kilkenny smiled grimly to
himself and glanced at Mr. Baker of the _Blade_—"but at the same time,
Judge, I do want some one to speak for me, and I'm goin' to ask you to
appoint my friend Mr. Thorne, back there, as my counsellor."

"Mr. Thorne?" inquired the judge, and as Angy stepped forward, smirking
and bowing, a slight smile broke up the fine legal lines on the
judicial brows. At no time was Angy over-fastidious about his attire,
and a night in jail, particularly in the jag-cell, is warranted to
spoil the appearance of the finest suit of clothes that was ever made.
Angy's clothes were old and worn; his shirt was greasy around the neck,
and his overalls, hanging loosely about his hips, piled up in slovenly
rolls above his shoe-tops; his hat, from much fanning of open fires,
was grimed with ashes and whitened with splashes of sour dough, and
his shiny bald head and red face told all too plainly the story of his
past. In the titter that followed his announcement he stood silent,
rolling his bloodshot eyes upon the audience, but as the grinning
bailiff smote the table for order he turned with the dignity of an
orator and addressed the judge.

"Your Honor," he said, beginning the set speech which he had prepared,
"I am not unaware that this request on the part of the defendant is a
little irregular, but if the court please I should like to state the
reasons—"

"Just a moment!" cut in the district attorney brusquely. "Your Honor,
I object to this man being appointed to the position of counsellor on
the ground that he is not a duly-licensed attorney and therefore not
competent to practise in this court."

"As I am tendering my services without hope of compensation,"
observed Angy suavely, "and also without submitting briefs or other
legal papers, I hope that the court will overlook this trifling
irregularity. The law referred to by the district attorney, as applied
to this case, was intended solely to protect the defendant in his
rights, the inference being that no one not a regularly practising
attorney is competent to adequately represent the defendant against
the learned district attorney"—Angy bowed to that gentleman—"but at
the same time, Your Honor, I wish to say that in days gone by I have
stood before the bar"—the bailiff struck his gavel to quiet the sudden
laughter—"I have stood before the bar of justice, Your Honor, and I
have stood there, sir, not as Angevine Thorne, the drunkard, but as a
regular practitioner in that court. I submit, Your Honor, that I am
fully qualified, both by past experience and present information, to
represent Mr. Dalhart in this unfortunate case!"

A murmur of astonishment passed around the room at this revelation of
his past; for while Angevine Thorne had been about Geronimo, drunk and
sober, for over twenty years, he had never referred except in the
vaguest terms to the life which he had left behind. It struck wonder
into the breasts of the court-room bums, many of whom had shared
the jag-cell with him in times past, and Mr. Baker of the _Blade_
sank down into a seat and began to write hurriedly upon his pad; but
Shepherd Kilkenny, with a sudden premonition of what Angy's "present
information" might lead to, did not yield himself to any such puny
emotion as surprise. He was a fighter, and a sure-thing fighter to boot.

"Your Honor!" he cried, "I wish to protest most—"

"Objection is overruled!" interposed the judge. "I see no reason why
Mr. Thorne should not conduct this case if the defendant so wishes, and
the clerk will enter him accordingly. Would Wednesday be too soon for
you to prepare your argument, Mr. Thorne? Is it satisfactory to you,
Mr. Kilkenny? Very well, then, I will set the case for Wednesday, the
eighth of October, at ten A. M. Call the next case, Mr. Bailiff!"

The bailiff called it, still smiling, and in the pause half the
occupants of the court-room boiled out onto the court-house lawn and
gave vent to their pent-up emotions. Babe Thorne was going to buck
Kilkenny and plead a case in court! He would make an impassioned
appeal and raise Cain with Ike Crittenden's witnesses—it would be an
event never to be forgotten! Still laughing they scattered through
the town, and soon men came hurrying forth from the different saloons
to verify the report; they gathered in a crowd by the sheriff's
office and, as the word spread that it was true, gangs of cowboys and
men on livery-stable plugs went dashing down the streets, whooping
and laughing and crying the news to their friends. It was a new
excitement—something doing—and the way an Arizona town will take on
over some such trifling event is nothing short of scandalous. Within
two hours the leisure male population of Geronimo was divided into
two hostile camps—those who would get Babe drunk before the event
and those who would keep him sober and have him take a fall out of
Kilkenny. On the one side it was argued that, unless he was properly
ginned up, Babe would not do justice to the occasion; but cooler heads
won on the proposition that the judge would bar him if he got drunk
and hollered, and a committee of prominent citizens was organized to
protect him from himself.

Being quick to see the news value of the incident the _Blade_ printed
an exclusive interview with Angevine Thorne—formerly of the Kentucky
bar—and announced that the trial would be covered in detail by "our
Mr. Baker." A series of Communications, written under pressure in the
card-rooms of various casinos, expressed the greatest indignation
at the "dastardly attempt of a certain interested party to debar
Mr. Thorne from the trial," and the hope that this exhibition of
professional jealousy would receive the rebuke it so richly deserved.
In an editorial the _Daily Blade_ spoke at some length of the rare
eloquence of "our gifted fellow-citizen, Colonel Thorne," and
felicitated Alcalde Dalhart upon the acumen he had shown in retaining
counsel. Everything goes, in a case like that, and the _Blade_ played
it up to the limit.

As night came on a select circle of visitors gathered at the county
jail to witness the kangaroo trial of two more of Crit's cowboys who
had unwittingly placed themselves in the power of Pecos Dalhart. The
summary punishment of the first three—the ones who had occupied the
jag-cell with Angevine Thorne—had been heralded far and wide as an
example of poetic justice, but the grim humor of this last arraignment
set the town in an uproar. Within two days these same booze-fighting
cowboys would appear against him in the upper court, but of that event
Pecos Dalhart took no thought and he kangarooed them to a finish. It
was good business, as the actors say, and won him many a friend, for
Arizona loves a sport—but after they had been spread-eagled over a
chair and received twenty blows for contempt of court, the cowboys
were ready to take their oath to anything. That was it—Pecos might
win the hearts of the people and still go down before the law and the
evidence. Only two things cheered him on—Angy and Bill Todhunter had
gone up the river for Old Funny-face, and Joe Garcia was in town. After
Crit had sworn himself into perdition over the calf they would spring
Funny-face on him—Mexican brands and all—and show that he was a liar.
Then José Garcia would testify to the sale of Funny-face and her calf
and the rest would go off in a canter. It was a pleasing dream, and
Pecos indulged it to the full, for it was the only hope he had. But the
next morning he was nervous.

It was the day before his trial and even his six months in jail had
not taught him to be patient. As soon as the cells were unlocked he
began to pace up and down the corridor like a caged lion, scowling and
muttering to himself. To the stray visitors who dropped in he was
distant but civil, as befits a man who must act his part, but all the
time a growing uneasiness was gnawing at his heart and he looked past
them to the outer door. Hours dragged by and his uneasiness changed
into despair; he hurled himself upon his bunk and was lying with his
haggard face to the bars when the jail deputy entered and gazed in upon
him curiously.

"They's a lady out here to see you," he whispered, laying his finger
along his nose with an air of roguish secrecy, "shall I bring her in?
She's got something she wants to give you!"

A vision of the unbalanced females who had been bringing flowers to a
murderer came over Pecos and he debated swiftly with himself whether to
accept this last humiliation or plead a sudden indisposition.

"She's been waiting around all the morning," continued the deputy.
"Kinder shy, I reckon—shall I bring 'er in? She's a Mex!"

A Mex! The word shocked Pecos like a blow; it made him glad, and then
it made him angry.

"Well, what's the matter with a Mex?" he demanded sharply. "Ain't a
Mexican got no rights in this dam' jail? I guess she's as good as any
white woman—show her in!"

He waited in palpitating silence, and when the soft rustle of skirts
sounded down the corridor his heart stopped beating entirely. Then
Marcelina pressed her face against the screened bars and gazed
wistfully into the darkened cell. She had grown taller since he last
saw her and her dark eyes had taken on a look of infinite melancholy;
the rare promise of her youth had flowered suddenly in his absence and
she stood before him a woman. Often in his dreams he had thought of
her, but always as the black-eyed girl, saucy and fugitive as a bird,
who had bewitched him with her childish graces; now she peered in at
him through the prison bars with the eyes of a woman who has suffered
and found her soul. For a moment she gazed into the darkness,
and then she drew back involuntarily. The Pecos she had known was a
grown-up boy, grim and quick in speech but full of the reckless fire of
youth; a dashing cowboy, guiding his horse by a touch of the hand and
riding, riding, always. Here was a hard-faced man, pale and bowed by
confinement, and his eyes were like a starved animal's. She started and
bit her lip.

"Are you Paycos?" she asked timidly.

The bitterness of his fate swept over Pecos at the words—he looked down
at his crumpled clothes, his outworn boots, and faded shirt and rumbled
in his throat.

"No, Marcelina," he said, "I'm only a caged wolf—a coyote that the
vaqueros have roped and tied and fastened to a tree. I'm a hard-looker,
all right—how'd you come to find me?"

[Illustration: She laid a brown hand against the bars as if in protest
and motioned him nearer the screen]

She laid a brown hand against the bars as if in protest and motioned
him nearer the screen.

"I have only been in town four days," she said hurriedly. "All summer
I was shut up at Verde, and Ol' Creet—ah, that bad, ba-ad man! My
mother took me to school the day he come to Geronimo. I am 'fraid,
Paycos—but this morning I run away to see you. The seesters will be
hunt for me now. Look Paycos"—she thrust her hand into the bosom
of her dress and drew forth a small bundle, wrapped in a blue silk
handkerchief—"_Cuidado_, be careful," she whispered; "when I keess you
good-bye at the door I weel put thees een your hand—_ssst!_" She turned
and looked up the corridor where the deputy was doing the Sherlock.
He was a new man—the jail deputy—just helping out during the session
of the court and correspondingly impressed with his own importance.
Nothing larger than a darning-needle could be passed through the heavy
iron screen, but all the same he kept his eye on them, and when he saw
the quick thrust of her hand all the suspicions of the amateur sleuth
rushed over him at once.

"Hey! What's that?" he demanded, striding down the run-around. "What
you got hid there, eh?" He ogled Marcelina threateningly as he stood
over her and she shrank before his glance like a school-girl. "Come,
now," he blustered, "show me what that is or I'll take it away from
you. We don't allow anything to be passed in to the prisoners!"

"She can't pass nothin' through here!" interposed Pecos, tapping on the
screen. "You haven't got nothin', have you, Marcelina?"

"Well, I saw her hide something blue in her dress just now," persisted
the jailer, "and I want to see it, that's all!"

"It was—it was only a handkerchief!" sobbed Marcelina, clutching at
her breast. "No, no! Eet is mine—he—he geev it to me! You can not—"
she choked, and backed swiftly toward the door. Like a panther Pecos
whipped out of his cell and sprang against the corridor grating, but
she was gone. The deputy made a futile grab as she darted away from
him and sprang after her, but she swung the great door in his face and
sped like a deer down the hall. The next moment she was gone, leaving
Pecos and the deputy to have it out together.

"Aha!" cried the deputy vengefully, "you will try to smuggle things in,
will you? I'll report this matter to Mr. Morgan at once!"

"Well, report it, then, you low-flung hound!" wailed Pecos, "report
it, and be damned to you! But if I was outside these bars I'd beat you
to death for this!" They raged up and down the grating, snarling at
each other like dogs that fight through a lattice, and even when Boone
Morgan came and called them down Pecos would not be appeased.

"He scairt my girl away!" he cried, scowling menacingly at the raw
deputy. "She come to give me a handkerchief and he jumped at her. I'll
fix him, the dastard, if ever I git a chance!" And so he raged and
stormed until they went away and left him, mystified. To Boone Morgan
it seemed as if his alcalde was raising a row out of all proportion to
his grievance, but that was because Pecos could not explain his woes.
Marcelina had promised to kiss him good-bye, and the damned deputy had
intervened!



CHAPTER XX

THE LAW AND THE EVIDENCE


As the rising sun poured its flood of glorious light into the
court-house square and the janitor, according to his custom, threw
open the court-room doors to sweep, there was a scuffling of eager
feet from without and the swift-moving pageantry of the Dalhart
trial began. A trio of bums who had passed the night _al fresco_ on
the park benches hustled past the astounded caretaker and bestowed
themselves luxuriously on the front seats. As the saloons opened up and
discharged their over-night guests others of the brotherhood drifted
in and occupied the seats behind, and by the time the solid citizens
of Geronimo had taken care of their stock, snatched their breakfasts,
and hurried to the scene there was standing room only in the teeming
chamber of justice. Only the special venire of jurymen took their time
in the matter and the sweating bailiff had to pass them in through
the side door in order to get them seated inside the railing. At
nine-thirty Boone Morgan brought in the defendant, freshly shaven and
with his hair plastered down across his forehead, and sat with him near
the jail door. It was all in the line of duty, but there were those
who remarked that it was right clever of old Boone to throw in that
way with his jail alcalde. Some people would have put the nippers on
him for the cow-thief that he was, and chained him to a deputy. Behind
them, the cynosure of all eyes, sat the counsel for the defendant,
Angevine Thorne, his round baby face illuminated with the light of a
great resolve. On that day he was going to save his friend from prison
or climb spider-webs in the attempt. A hush fell over the assembly
as the hour of trial drew near and only the gaunt figure of Shepherd
Kilkenny, pacing up and down before the empty jury-box, suggested the
battle that was to come. The rest was as pathetic as the Angelus.

The soft morning breeze breathed in through the windows and as Pecos
glimpsed the row of horses tied to the hitching rack he filled his
lungs deep with the sweet air, and sighed. The invalid who has been
confined to his room longs vaguely for the open air, but to the strong
man of action, shut up for months in a close cell, the outer world
seems like a dream of paradise and he sees a new heaven in the skies.
In the tense silence of waiting the tragedy in his face afflicted the
morbid crowd and made them uneasy; they shifted their eyes to the
stern, fighting visage of the district attorney and listened hopefully
for the clock. It struck, slowly and with measured pauses, and as the
last stroke sounded through the hall the black curtain behind the bench
parted and the judge stepped into court. Then instantly the sheriff's
gavel came down upon the table; the People rose before the person of
the Law, and in sonorous tones Boone Morgan repeated the ancient
formula for the calling of the court.

"_Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!_ The District Court of Geronimo County is now in
session!"

The judge threw off his robes and sat down and as the audience sank
back into their crowded seats he cast one swift, judicial glance at the
defendant, the clerk, and the district attorney and called the case
of Pecos Dalhart, charged with the crime of grand larceny. With the
smoothness of well-worn machinery the ponderous wheels of justice began
to turn, never halting, never faltering, until the forms prescribed
by law had been observed. One after the other, the clerk called the
names of the forty talesmen, writing each name on a slip of paper as
the owner answered "Here"; then at a word from the judge he placed the
slips in a box and shook out twelve names upon the table. As his name
was called and spelled each talesman rose from his seat and shambled
over to the jury-box, turning his solemn face from the crowd. They
held up their right hands and swore to answer truthfully all questions
relative to their qualifications as jurors, and sat down to listen
to the charges; then, after reading the information upon which the
accusations were based, the district attorney glanced shrewdly at the
counsel for defendant and called the first juryman. The battle had
begun.

The first talesman was a tall, raw-boned individual with cowman written
all over him, and the district attorney was careful not to ask his
occupation. He wanted a jury of twelve cowmen, no less; and, knowing
every man in the venire either by sight or reputation, he laid himself
out to get it.

"Mr. Rambo," he began, "do you know the defendant in this case?" He
indicated Pecos Dalhart with a contemptuous wave of the hand, and Mr.
Rambo said he did not. "Know anything about this case?"

"Only what I read in the papers," responded the cowman dryly.

"You don't believe everything you read, do you, Mr. Rambo? If you were
passed for a juror you wouldn't let anything you have read influence
your mind, if it was proven that the defendant was guilty, would you?"

"No, sir!"

"If I should prove to your satisfaction that the defendant
here"—another contemptuous wave of the hand—"had wilfully and
feloniously stolen and branded the animal in question, what would your
verdict be—'Guilty' or 'Not guilty'?"

"W'y—er—'Guilty'!"

"Pass the juror!" snapped the district attorney, and then he looked at
the counsel for the defendant as if imploring him not to waste any of
the court's valuable time.

"Mr. Rambo," began Angy, singing the words in a child-like, embarrassed
manner, "you are engaged in the business of raising cattle, are you
not?"

The district attorney winced at this, but Angevine Thorne did not take
advantage of his discovery. He also wanted a jury of twelve cowmen,
though he did not show his hand.

"Very good," he observed, "and I suppose, Mr. Rambo, that you are
acquainted with the law in this case which makes it a felony for any
man to mark or brand the stock of another man? Very good. Have you any
prejudice against that law, Mr. Rambo? You believe that it should be
enforced impartially, do you not—against the rich as well as the poor?
Very good. Pass the juror!"

For a moment Shepherd Kilkenny could hardly believe his ears. The drift
of every one of the questions had led naturally up to a challenge and
yet at the end Angy had passed the juror. He glanced quickly at the
innocent face of his opponent, opened his mouth to speak, and then
hurried on with his examination. The second man was interested in the
cattle business, too; and when Angy passed him the judge felt called
upon to speak.

"You know, do you not, Mr. Thorne," he said, "that it is your
privilege to excuse any juror whose occupation or condition of mind
might indicate a prejudice against your client?"

"Yes, indeed, Your Honor," replied Mr. Thorne, suavely, "but I have
perfect confidence in the integrity of the two gentlemen just passed. I
feel sure that they will do full justice to Mr. Dalhart."

"Very well, then," said His Honor, "let the examination proceed!"

With all the address of a good tactician who sees that his opponent
has mistaken a two-spot for an ace, Shepherd Kilkenny flew at his
task, but each time that Angy passed one of his cowmen he paused just
the fraction of a second, glanced apprehensively about the room, and
rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The defence was playing right into his
hand, but he didn't know whether he liked it or not. When it came to
the peremptory challenges he excused two health-seekers and a mining
man, but Thorne did not challenge a man. Once more the clerk shook
the names out of his box and within half an hour the district attorney
had the very jury he wanted—every man of them interested in the cattle
business and ready to cinch a rustler as they would kill a rattlesnake.
It seemed almost too good to be true. Even the staid judge was
concerned, for he had a sober sense of justice and Angy's appointment
had been slightly irregular; but after a long look at that individual
he motioned for the trial to proceed. The evidence was all against the
defendant anyway, and he could cut off a year or two on the sentence to
make amends.

"Swear the jurors!" he said, and holding up their rope-scarred hands
and looking coldly across the room at the alleged rustler, the twelve
cowmen swore to abide by the law and the evidence and a true verdict
find. Then the district attorney pulled his notes from his hip-pocket
as a man might draw a deadly weapon and began his opening statement to
the jury.

"Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "in the case of the
People of the Territory of Arizona _versus_ Pecos Dalhart, we shall
show that on or about the eighth day of May the said Pecos Dalhart did
wilfully, feloniously, and unlawfully pursue, rope, and brand a calf,
said calf being the property of Isaac Crittenden of Verde Crossing,
Territory of Arizona; that the said Pecos Dalhart was arrested and,
upon being taken before a magistrate, he did plead 'Not guilty' and was
held for the grand jury, which handed down an indictment against him;
that upon being arraigned before the judge he did plead 'Not guilty'
and was remanded for trial upon the crime charged in the indictment,
to wit:—that he did feloniously and unlawfully mark, brand, or alter
the brand on a neat animal, to wit, one red-and-white spotted calf,
said calf being the property of Isaac Crittenden, of Verde Crossing,
Territory of Arizona, contrary to the form, force, and effect of the
statute in such case made and provided and against the peace and
dignity of the People of the Territory of Arizona. Mr. Crittenden, will
you please take the stand!"

All the other witnesses had been relegated to the jury-room, where
they would be beyond the sound of the court, but being the complaining
witness Isaac Crittenden was entitled to remain and he sat just behind
the district attorney, fumbling with the high collar that galled his
scrawny neck and rolling his evil eye upon the assemblage. As he rose
up from his place and mounted the witness stand a rumble of comment
passed through the hall and the sheriff struck his gavel sharply for
order.

"Swear the witness, Mr. Clerk," directed the judge, and raising his
right hand in the air Isaac Crittenden rose and faced the court,
looking a trifle anxious and apprehensive, as befits one who is about
to swear to a lie. Also, not being used to actions in court, he
entertained certain illusions as to the sanctity of an oath, illusions
which were, however, speedily banished by the professional disrespect
of the clerk. Reaching down under the table for a penholder which
he had dropped and holding one hand weakly above his head he recited
with parrot-like rapidity the wearisome formula of the oath:—"Do you
solemnly swear that the evidence you are about to give in the case of
the People _versus_ Pecos Dalhart shall be the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, s'elpyougod?"

Crittenden blinked his good eye and sat down. There was nothing very
impressive about the proceeding, but all the same he was liable for
perjury.

"Calling your attention to the eighth day of May, of the present
year, where were you on that day, Mr. Crittenden?" It was the first
gun in the real engagement and the surging crowd about the doors quit
scrouging for a view and poised their heads to listen. The voice of the
district attorney was very quiet and reassuring, and Isaac Crittenden,
taking his cue, answered with the glib readiness of a previous
understanding.

"I was gathering cattle with my cowboys near my ranch at Verde
Crossing."

"And upon returning to your home did you encounter any one in the deep
_arroyo_ which lies above your ranch?"

"Yes, sir," responded Crittenden, "I come across Pecos Dalhart."

"Is this the gentleman to whom you refer?" inquired Kilkenny, pointing
an accusing thumb toward Pecos. "Very good, then—you identify the
defendant. Now, Mr. Crittenden, what was the defendant doing at that
time?"

"He had a spotted calf of mine strung out by a little fire and was
alterin' the brand with a runnin' iron." Old Crit's eye wandered
instinctively to Pecos Dalhart as he spoke and gleamed with a hidden
fire, but his face was as expressionless as a death mask.

"I offer the following animal in evidence," said the district attorney,
beckoning toward the side door. "Bring in the exhibit!" And as Bill
Todhunter appeared, sheepishly leading the spotted calf, which had
been boarded all summer in town, he threw out his hand dramatically and
hissed:

"Do you identify this animal? Is that the calf?"

"I do!" responded Crit. "It is the same animal!"

"That's all!" announced Kilkenny, and with a grin of triumph he
summoned the hawk-eyed jurymen to inspect the brand. There it was,
written on the spotted side of the calf, in ineffaceable lines—the
plain record of Pecos Dalhart's crime, burned with his own hands.
Across the older scar of Isaac Crittenden's brand there ran a
fresh-burnt bar, and below the barred Spectacle was a Monkey-wrench,
seared in the tender hide. To a health-seeker or a mining man the
significance of those marks might be hidden, but the twelve cowmen
on the jury read it like a book. Only one thing gave them a passing
uneasiness—Crit's Spectacle brand was very evidently devised to burn
over Pecos Dalhart's Monkey-wrench, but that was beside the point.
They were there to decide whether Pecos Dalhart had stolen that
particular spotted calf, and the markings said that he did. By that
broad bar which ran through the pair of Spectacles he deprived Isaac
Crittenden of its ownership, and by the Monkey-wrench burned below he
took it for his own. All right then,—they retired to their seats and
Angevine Thorne took the witness.

They faced each other for a minute—the man who had committed a crime
and covered it, and the man who had sworn to expose his guilt—and began
their fencing warily.

"Mr. Crittenden," purred Angy, "you are in the cattle business, are you
not? Yes, indeed; and about how many cattle have you running on your
range?"

"I don't know!" answered Crittenden gruffly.

"At the last time you paid your taxes you were assessed for about ten
thousand, were you not? Quite correct; I have the statement of the
assessor here to verify it. Now, Mr. Crittenden, kindly tell the jury
what per cent of those cattle are calves?"

"I don't know," replied Crit.

"No?" said Angy, with assumed surprise. "Well then, I hope the court
will excuse me for presuming to tell a cowman about cows but the
percentage of calves on an ordinary range is between fifty and sixty
per cent. So, according to that you have on your range between five and
six thousand calves, have you not? Very good. And now, Mr. Crittenden,
speaking roughly, about how many of your cattle are solid color?"

"I don't know!" scowled Crit.

"You don't know," repeated Angy gravely. "Very good. I wish the
court to note that Mr. Crittenden is a very poor observer. Now, Mr.
Crittenden, you have stated that you do not know how many cattle you
have; nor how many of said cattle are calves; nor how many of said
calves are solid color or spotted. Will you kindly inform the court,
then, how you know that the calf which has been produced in evidence
is yours?"

"Well—" said Crittenden, and then he stopped. The one thing which he
was afraid of in this trial was about to happen—Angy was going to
corner him on the maternity of the calf, and that would make him out a
cow-thief. The district attorney scowled at him to go ahead and then,
in order to cover up the failure, he leapt to his feet and cried:

"Your Honor, I object to the line of questioning on the ground that it
is irrelevant, incompetent, and immaterial!"

"If the court please," spoke up Angevine Thorne, "the witness has
positively identified the calf in question as his own, although it is
a matter of record that he possesses four or five thousand calves, all
of which have been born within the past year and over half of which are
spotted. It is the purpose of the defence to prove that this calf does
not belong to the witness; that it was the property of Pecos Dalhart
at the time the alleged crime was committed, _and that it had been
previously stolen by Isaac Crittenden_!"

As he shouted these words Angy pointed an accusing finger at Old Crit,
who started back like a man who had been struck, and while the clamor
of deputies and bailiffs filled the court-room they stood there like
the figures in a tableau, glaring at each other with inextinguishable
hatred.

"Order in the court! Order in the court!" cried the bailiffs, beating
back the crowd, and when the assembly had been quieted the judge
motioned to Angy to proceed.

"Objection is overruled," he said, and bent his dark brows upon Isaac
Crittenden. "Let the witness answer the question."

"Well, the calf had my brand on it," responded Crittenden defiantly,
and then, egged on by Angy's sarcastic smile, he went a step too far.
"Yes, and I know him, too!" he blurted out. "I'd know that calf among a
thousand, by them spots across his face."

"Oh, you would, would you?" spoke up Angy quickly. "You have a
distinct recollection of the animal on account of its peculiar markings
then; is that right? Very good. When did you put your brand on that
calf, Mr. Crittenden?"

"Last Spring," replied Crittenden grudgingly.

"You know the law regarding the branding of calves," prompted Angy.
"Was the calf with its mother at the time?"

"It was!"

"And did she bear the same brand that you burned upon her calf?"

"She did!"

"Any other brands?"

"Nope!"

"Raised her yourself, did you?"

"_Yes!_" shouted Crittenden angrily.

"That's all!" said Angy briefly, and Isaac Crittenden sank back into
his chair, dazed at the very unexpectedness of his escape. It was a
perilous line of questioning that his former roustabout had taken up,
leading close to the stealing of Upton's cattle and the seizing of
Pecos Dalhart's herd, but at the very moment when he might have sprung
the mine Angy had withheld his hand. The gaunt cowman tottered to his
seat in a smother of perspiration, and Shepherd Kilkenny, after a
moment's consideration, decided to make his hand good by calling a host
of witnesses.

They came into court, one after the other, the hard-faced gun-men that
Crittenden kept about his place, and with the unblinking assurance of
men who gamble even with life itself they swore to the stereotyped
facts, while Angy said never a word.

"The People rest!" announced the district attorney at last, and lay
back smiling in his chair to see what his opponent would spring.

"Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," began Angevine Thorne, speaking
with the easy confidence of a barrister, "the prosecution has gone
to great lengths to prove that Pecos Dalhart branded this calf. The
defence freely admits that act, but denies all felonious intent. We
will show you, gentlemen of the jury, that at the time he branded the
animal it was by law and right his own, and that during his absence it
had been feloniously and unlawfully branded into the Spectacle brand by
the complaining witness, Isaac Crittenden. Mr. Dalhart, will you please
take the stand!"

Awkward and shamefaced in the presence of the multitude and painfully
conscious of his jail clothes, Pecos mounted to the stand and turned
to face his inquisitor. They had rehearsed the scene before—for
Babe Thorne was not altogether ignorant of a lawyer's wiles—and his
examination went off as smoothly as Kilkenny's examination of Crit,
down to the point where Pecos was rudely pounced upon and roped while
he was branding his spotted calf. Then it was that Angevine Thorne's
voice began to ring like a trumpet, and as he came to the crucial
question the audience stood motionless to listen.

"Now, Mr. Dalhart," he clarioned, "you say that you purposely barred
the Spectacle brand upon this calf and burned your own brand, which
was a Monkey-wrench, below it? What was your reason for that act?"

"My reason was that the calf was mine!" cried Pecos, rising angrily to
his feet. "When I first come to Verde Crossing I bought an old spotted
cow and her calf from José Garcia and branded them with a Monkey-wrench
on the ribs—I kept her around my camp for a milk cow. That first calf
growed up and she was jest comin' in with another one when I went to
New Mexico last Fall. Well, when I came back last Spring I hadn't got
into town yet when I come across my old milk cow with her ears all
chopped up and her brand burned over and this little calf, lookin' jest
like her, with a Spectacle brand burned on his ribs. That made me mad
and I was jest ventin' the calf back to a Monkey-wrench when Crittenden
and his cowboys jumped in and roped me!"

"You say that you bought the mother of this calf from José Garcia?"

"Yes, sir! I paid him twenty-five dollars for the cow and five dollars
for the first calf."

"What were the brand and markings of this cow at the time you bought
her?"

"She had a Mexican brand, like an Injun arrer struck by lightning, on
her left hip, a big window or _ventano_ in the left ear, and a slash
and underbit in the right. Garcia vented his brand on her shoulder and
I run a Monkey-wrench—that's my regular, registered brand—on her ribs,
but I never changed her ear marks because I kept her for a milk cow
anyway."

"Your Honor," interposed Kilkenny, rising with a bored air to his
feet, "I object to this testimony on the ground that it is irrelevant,
incompetent, and immaterial. I fail to see the relation of this
hypothetical milk cow to the question before the court."

"The cow in question was the mother of the calf which my client is
accused of stealing!" cried Angy, panting with excitement as he saw
the moment of his triumph approaching. "She was sold to the defendant
and he had a legal right to her offspring. Can a man steal his own
property, Your Honor? Most assuredly not! I wish to produce that cow in
evidence and I will bring competent witnesses to prove that she belongs
by rights to Pecos Dalhart. Bring in the exhibit, Mr. Todhunter!"

He waved his hand toward the side door and as Kilkenny saw the _coup_
which had been sprung on him he burst into a storm of protest. "I
object, Your Honor!" he shouted, "I object!"

"Objection overruled!" pronounced the judge. "Let the cow be brought in
as quickly as possible and after the examination of the exhibit we will
proceed at once to the argument."

He paused, and as the crowd that blocked the side door gave way before
the bailiffs, Old Funny-face was dragged unwillingly into court and
led to the sand boat to join her calf. At the first sight of her
dun-colored face and spotted neck every man in the jury-box looked at
his neighbor knowingly. They were cowmen, every one of them used to
picking out mothers by hair-marks in the corral cut, and Old Funny-face
was a dead ringer for her calf. Even to the red blotch across his dun
face the calf was the same, and when Funny-face indignantly repulsed
its advances they were not deceived, for a cow soon forgets her
offspring, once it is taken away. But most of all their trained eyes
dwelt upon the mangled ears, the deep swallow fork in the left and the
short crop in the right, and the record of the brands on her side.
There was the broken arrow, just as Pecos had described it, and the
vent mark on the shoulder. It would take some pretty stiff swearing
to make them believe that that Spectacle brand on her ribs had not
been burnt over a Monkey-wrench. It was Angy's inning now, and with a
flourish he called Pecos to the stand and had him identify his cow; but
when he called José Garcia, and José, gazing trustfully into Angy's
eyes, testified that she was his old milk cow and he had, _sin duda_,
sold her to Pecos Dalhart for twenty-five dollars, the self-composed
Kilkenny began to rave with questions, while Crittenden broke into a
cold sweat. Not only was the case going against him, but it threatened
to leave him in the toils. It was too late to stop Garcia now—he had
said his say and gone into a sullen silence—there was nothing for it
but to swear, and swear hard. Kilkenny was on his toes, swinging his
clenched fist into the hollow of his hand and raging at the witness,
when Crittenden suddenly dragged him down by the coat-tails and began
to whisper into his ear. Instantly the district attorney was all
attention; he asked a question, and then another; nodded, and addressed
the court.

"Your Honor," he said, "I will excuse the witness and ask to call
others in rebuttal. Will you take the chair, Mr. Crittenden!"

Old Crit advanced to the stand and faced the court-room, a savage gleam
in his eye.

"Do you recognize this cow, Mr. Crittenden?" inquired Kilkenny mildly.

"Yes, sir, I know her well. She's an old gentle cow that's been hangin'
around my corral for years. I took her from Joe Garcia, last Spring,
for some money he was owin' me."

"What?" yelled Angy, springing up from his chair, "do you mean to say—"

"I object, Your Honor!" clamored Kilkenny desperately. "I object! The
witness is mine!"

"The People's witness," ruled the judge; "let the examination proceed."

"Is this cow the mother of the calf in question—do you identify her as
the mother of this calf?"

"I do!" repeated Crittenden solemnly. "And you can summon any of my
cowboys—they'll swear to her."

"Take the witness!" said Kilkenny, leering at Angevine Thorne, and in
spite of all Angy could do Crit stuck to his story, word for word. One
after the other his cowboys took the chair, glanced at their boss, and
identified the cow and calf. Kilkenny had won, and before Babe Thorne
could collect his wits he plunged into his closing argument.

"Gentlemen of the jury," he cried, "the people of Geronimo County are
looking to you to-day to vindicate justice in the courts. It is the
shame of Geronimo County—spoken against her by all the world—that not
a single cattle-thief has ever been convicted in her courts. Men have
been tried; their guilt has been demonstrated to a moral certainty; but
the evidence has been insufficient, and they have escaped. Gentlemen
of the jury, a year and a half ago the defendant in this case came to
Geronimo County without a cent; he went to work for Mr. Crittenden, who
kindly took him in; but within a few months, gentlemen of the jury,
Pecos Dalhart left the service of his benefactor and moved to Lost Dog
Cañon. Six months later, gentlemen, when the sheriff at the risk of his
life rode into his guilty hiding-place, Mr. Dalhart had _two hundred
head of cattle_ shut up in a secret pasture! _Two—hundred—head_,
gentlemen; and he defied the sheriff of this county _to even collect
the taxes_ upon those cattle! Gentlemen of the jury, I ask you, Where
did this man get those two hundred head of cattle? Did he bring them
with him? No, for the evidence shows that he rode in alone. Did he buy
them? No, for he had no money. Gentlemen of the jury, that man who sits
before you _stole_ those cattle, and he does not dare to deny it!"

He paused and looked about the court-room, and a great hush came upon
the entire assembly. Every man in the crowded standing room stood
silent and the surge of those without the doorway died down in a tremor
of craning heads. Kilkenny had won—but he had not finished. Point by
point he went over the chain of his evidence, testing every link to
prove that it was true, and then in a final outburst of frenzy he drove
the last point home.

"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, in closing, "the defendant stands
before you, convicted by his own words. He acknowledges that he
branded the calf; he acknowledges that he set at defiance all law
and justice and robbed the man who had befriended him—and what is
his defence? That Isaac Crittenden had robbed him of his cow! Isaac
Crittenden, who has cattle on a thousand hills! A man known, and
favorably known, in this community for twenty years! Gentlemen, I ask
of you, whose word will you take in this matter? The word of this
self-confessed cattle-rustler and his Mexican consort or the word of
Isaac Crittenden of Verde Crossing? Gentlemen of the jury, it has
been the shame of Geronimo County for many years that this practice
of rustling cattle has never received its fitting rebuke. It has been
the shame of Arizona that the rights of the cattle men, the men who
dared the Indians and braved the desert and made this country what
it is, have never been protected. You have seen what this negligence
has brought to our near neighbor, Tonto County—a cattle war in
which over fifty men have given up their lives; a beautiful cattle
country, devastated of all its flocks and herds. It has brought death,
gentlemen, and destruction of property, and—_bankruptcy_! Gentlemen, I
ask you for a verdict of 'Guilty'!"

He sat down, and Angevine Thorne rose to his feet, bewildered. The
speech which he had prepared to save his friend was forgotten; the
appeals which he could have made were dead. He gazed about the court
and read in every eye the word that was still ringing in his ears:
"Guilty!" And yet he knew that Pecos was not guilty. Cattle he had
stolen, yes—but not the cattle in court. They, of all the animals he
had owned, had been honestly acquired; but Old Crit had sworn him into
prison. It was right, perhaps, but it was not Law—and it was the law
that held him. As he looked at the forbidding faces before him, each
one hard and set by the false words of Crit and Shepherd Kilkenny, the
monstrous injustice of the thing rushed over him and he opened his
lips to speak. It was a conspiracy—a hellish combination of lawyers
and the men they served, to beat the poor man down. The old rage for
the revolution, the rage which he had put so resolutely from his
heart, rushed back and choked him; he scowled at the sneering district
attorney and Old Crit, humped over in his chair; and turned to the
glowering audience, searching with the orator's instinct for a single
friendly face. But there was none; every man was against him—every one!
He raised his hand to heaven—and stopped. There was a struggle in the
doorway—a bailiff, tall and burly, was thrusting back a young girl who
struggled to get free—and then like a flash of light Babe Thorne saw
her face, the wild-eyed, piteous face of Marcelina!

"Here!" he commanded, leaping upon a chair and pointing with an
imperious hand. "Let that girl in! Your Honor, I demand that that girl
be let in! This trial is her trial, Your Honor—she is Marcelina Garcia,
my friend's affianced bride!" In that single moment he saw it—the
last desperate chance to save his friend—a sentimental appeal to the
jury! How many men have been saved from prison and gallows and the
just punishment of their crimes by such a ruse! Given the aged mother,
the despairing wife, the sweetheart, clinging to his hand, and all the
thunderings of Jove will fail of conviction. The law and the evidence
are nothing; Reason is dethroned and Justice tips her scales to send
the prisoner free. With a surly frown the bailiff let go his hold and
like a hunted creature that flees from the memory of her pursuers
Marcelina ran panting down the aisle and threw herself at the feet of
the just judge.

"Oh, Meester," she cried, holding up her hands, "do not send Paycos to
preeson! Look, here are the ears of Old Funny-face, his cow, what Ol'
Creet stole while he was gone! Paycos did not steal the cow—no, no! He
buy heem from my papa, and this is _mi padre's_ mark!" She unwound the
blue silk handkerchief that encased them and thrust into the hands of
the astounded judge—_two ears!_ With eager glances she held them up—the
keys which Old Crit had cut from Funny-face's ears on the day that he
stole Pecos's herd—and thrust her brown finger through the Mexican
_ventano_. Then, impatient of her English, she snatched them back and,
scampering back to where Old Funny-face still stood on the sand boat,
she fitted the crop and swallow-fork back into the mangled ears.

"Look! Look!" she cried, "these are the dried-up ears what Ol' Creet
cut from my Paycos's cow, that day when he stole his cattle. My leetle
brothers bring them from the corral to play with and I hide them, to
show to Paycos. Meester, he is bad man, that Creet! He—he—"

She faltered and started back. There before her, humped over in his
chair, sat Isaac Crittenden, and his one eye covered her like the evil
glare of a rattlesnake.

"_Santa Maria!_" she gasped. "_Madre de Dios! Creet!_" And with a
scared sob she turned and ran to Babe. It was an affecting scene, but
Babe did not overdo it.

"Your Honor," he said, speaking over her bowed head with portentous
calm, "I wish to offer these two ears in evidence as an exhibit in
this case. One of them, you will notice, is cut in a swallow-fork and
exhibits, above, the _ventano_ which defendant testified belonged to
the mother of this calf; the other is cropped short and exhibits the
slash and Mexican _anzuelo_; both of them show the peculiar red and
white spots which gave to the cow in question the name of Funny-face.
After the jury has inspected the exhibit I will ask that Marcelina
Garcia be sworn."

It was not a long speech and had nothing of dramatic appeal; and yet
as it came out, this was Angevine Thorne's closing speech. When he saw
how the pendulum had swung, Shepherd Kilkenny, the fighting district
attorney, went into a black, frowning silence and refused to speak
to Old Crit; but as the judge began his instructions to the jury
he suddenly roused up and beckoned to Boone Morgan. They whispered
together while the law was being read and then the sheriff went over
and spoke a few words to Pecos Dalhart.

"Sure!" nodded Pecos, and at the signal Shepherd Kilkenny rose quickly
to his feet.

"Your Honor," he said, bowing apologetically to the judge, "in
consideration of the evidence which has just been introduced I wish to
withdraw my former request to the jury, and I now ask for a verdict
of 'Not guilty.'" He sat down, and a hum went up from the crowded
court-room like the zooning of swarming bees. There was something
coming—something tremendous—that they all knew; and when the verdict
was given not a man moved from his place. Then Boone Morgan rose up
from beside the district attorney and touched Isaac Crittenden on the
shoulder. There was nothing rough about it, and Crittenden followed
without a word, but the significance was plain. The man who had sworn
others into prison had done as much for himself, and it would take
a Philadelphia lawyer to turn him loose. He had sworn that the cow
was his, and the ear keys showed that he lied. Swallow-fork and crop,
and Mexican marks above, and Old Funny-face, wagging her mangled ears
in court! There had never been a cow-thief convicted in the Geronimo
courts, and Old Crit would spend every cent he had to keep out of jail,
but if Shepherd Kilkenny could not get him on evidence like that, then
tyranny is dead and the devil has lost his claws.



CHAPTER XXI

NEVER AGAIN


The District Court of Geronimo County broke up like a stampede of
cattle when Ike Crittenden was placed under arrest, and in the general
scramble Angevine Thorne was seized by a band of determined men and
rushed to the Big Adobe bar. The committee on public entertainment had
set their hearts on a speech, and they would not be denied. Meanwhile
Pecos Dalhart was borne off as inexorably in the other direction by
Boone Morgan and Shepherd Kilkenny, and not until he had sworn to the
complaint and testified against Old Crit before the J. P. would they
let him go his way. First on the programme which he had mapped out for
himself was a big feed at Hung Wo's restaurant, and Charley Hung Wo
was so happy over his release that he refused to accept a cent. That
was right friendly of Charley and shows what a good fellow a Chink can
be—give him a chance. It cheered Pecos up, and after he had got a new
outfit of clothes all around and scoured the jail smell out of his skin
he began to feel like a white man again. The hot sunshine felt good
on his cheek, the wind smelled sweet, and he liked the clump of board
sidewalks beneath his feet; but at the same time he was lonely. Somehow
he did not seem to fit into this great outer world any more—there was
no place to go and nothing to do; that is, nothing but throw in with
Babe Thorne and get drunk, and even that had its disadvantages.

Lighting a cigar and wandering down the street Pecos pondered upon the
matter and finally decided to hunt up Angy and see if anything could be
done. Taking advantage of the general preoccupation he managed to fight
his way through the crowded portals of the Big Adobe Saloon unobserved
and there, surrounded by the heaving multitude, he stopped to listen. A
committee of citizens had just presented Colonel Thorne with the keys
of the town, appended to which as a further token of regard was a drink
check on the Big Adobe—good for life. Mr. Thorne had evidently taken a
few of the drinks already and mellowed to the mood of his admirers; for
when Pecos arrived he was midway in a flamboyant speech of declination.

"No, gentlemen," he was saying, "much as I appreciate the honor
conferred upon me by your kind invitation, I can never accept the
nomination for such an office. What, shall men say in times to come
that Angevine Thorne, after freeing his friend from the clutches of
the law, turned traitor to the common people and became the district
attorney? Never! Nay, if I were prosecuting attorney I would prosecute
the judge and the jury, the rich corporations and cattle kings, and
all who make the law a scourge for the poor and lowly. Never, never,
never, shall the word go forth—"

That was enough for Pecos—he saw that he was not needed. True, he had
promised Angy a drink from which Geronimo should date time, but the
citizens' committee had taken all that off his hands. Pulling his
hat down over his eyes he struggled out into the deserted street and
looked around like a lost dog—then with a sigh he turned and made his
way back to the jail. It was the only home he had now. On one shoulder
he bore a box of apples—a last gift for the boys inside—and as he
stepped in through the sliding doors and saw them come swarming out
from their cells to greet him he regarded them almost with affection.
For six months he had been alcalde in that jail, laying down the law
with fist and strap, and now he must resign. As his sheriff attended
to the distribution of the fruit Pecos stepped into his little cell,
shoved the worn Bible into his pocket and got his strap; then, after
a hurried word with Boone Morgan through the bars, he mounted on the
alcalde's chair and addressed them.

"Boys," he said, "luck come my way and I'm goin' to leave you. You'll
have to have a new alcalde now and I only ask one thing before I go.
They're goin' to throw a big, tall, hump-backed dastard in here pretty
soon. He's only got one eye, but he's got lots of money and I want
you to kangaroo him to the limit, and give him _this_ for contempt of
court!" He raised the broad strap in the air. "Will you do it?" he
yelled, and when they answered with a roar he hurled it into their
midst.

"All right then; fight for it, you tarriers!" he shouted, "_and the one
that gits it is alcalde_!"

They fought, and when it was over Pecos Dalhart stepped out of jail, a
free man. It is a fine thing to be free, but freedom carries with it
certain obligations, one of which is to keep out of jail. Pecos glanced
into the jag-cell in passing and decided not to get drunk, at any
rate. Then he went down to the office with Boone Morgan.

"Well, Pecos," said that genial official, shaking out a bunch of keys,
"you might as well take your property envelope and what money you got
left—unless you expect to be back soon," he hinted. "By the way, what
you goin' to do after you sober up?"

"Well, I dunno," said Pecos, scratching his head. "I could go back up
on the Verde, now Old Crit's in jail, and burn them Spectacle cows he
stole off of me back into a Hock-sign—two bars and another circle would
make a three-ball sign, all right—but I've quit that line of business.
Look at Crit!"

"Oh!" grunted the sheriff, "think you'll quit rustlin', eh? But say,
how come you ain't drunk already? I had a little business I wanted to
talk over with you, but I thought I'd better wait till you blew off."

"Nope, no more booze for me!" declared Pecos virtuously. "You fellers
never git me in _here_ no more. You come so dam' near sendin' me to
Yuma for somethin' I never done that I'm goin' to be mighty careful
what I _do_!" He paused and gazed sombrely out of the window and a new
courage—the courage of clean clothes and freedom—drew him on to speak.
"This is a hell of a thing you call the law," he observed, "now ain't
it? How much of a show does a poor man git in your courts with Shepherd
Kilkenny ravin' for his life? I'm goin' to git on a good horse and
ride, and ride, and ride, until I git away from that dastard; that's
what I'm goin' to do!"

The sheriff had laid out the familiar property envelope and was
twirling the combination of his safe, but at this last outburst he
stopped short.

"You'll do nothing of the kind," he said shortly. "I been tryin' for
two years to get Ike Crittenden for stealing cows, and I want you to
stay in Geronimo County until we get him _cinched_! Are you goin' to do
it?"

For an instant Pecos met his eye defiantly; then the memory of other
cows that he _had_ stolen rose up in his mind and he nodded his head.

"Sure!" he said, "I'll be your star witness."

"All right then," grumbled the sheriff, turning morosely away from his
safe, "but bein' as you seem to be making medicine against the law
again I jest want to ask you a few questions. You say the law is a hell
of a thing—and it is; I admit it. And the poor man don't have no show
against it—that's a fact, too. But here's what I want to know—what you
goin' to do about it? How long do you think it will take to change
the law so a poor man will have an even break with a rich one, the
way things are goin'? 'Bout a thousand years, hey? Well, I call that
conservative. But say, do you expect to live that long? No? Think you
can hurry it up any by buckin' against the law? Well, what you goin' to
do about it—spend your time in jail?"

"Well, it ain't right," muttered Pecos, "that's all I got to say. Jest
look at your dam' law!" he cried, the memory of his wrongs getting the
better of him; "look at _me_! Kep' six months in jail before I could
git a trial—d' you call that right?"

"Nope," said Boone Morgan calmly, "but what you goin' to do about it?
I mean _you_, now! D' you think you can mend matters any by gettin'
thrown into jail? I got my eye on you, and that's just where you'll
land. Sure, the law is rotten, but what you goin' to _do_ about it?"

The coldblooded insistence of the man jangled on Pecos's nerves and
made him pass it back.

"Well, what _can_ a feller do?" he demanded savagely.

"Keep out of trouble—don't break the law—that's all!" rumbled the
sheriff, fixing him with his masterful eyes. He turned slowly back to
the combination of his safe, twirling the tumblers while the wisdom of
his words went home; then he threw open the door, drew out a large
official envelope, and balanced it in his hand. "Well," he challenged,
looking Pecos in the eye, "ain't that right?"

Pecos pondered upon it a minute longer, much as he had studied on
Crit's proposition that it is no crime to rob a thief, and right there
the cause of the revolution lost another fervent disciple.

"By God, Boone," he said, "I believe you're right!"

"W'y, of course I'm right!" cried Morgan, slapping him jovially on the
back; "and there's a thousand dollars to prove it!"

He tore open the official envelope and thrust a sheaf of bills into the
astonished cowboy's hands.

"Money talks," he observed sententiously, "only there're some people
have such a roarin' in the ears they can't hear it. This roll of
velvet is what's left from the tax sale of those Monkey-wrench cows I
seized, and it says that you are a capitalist, with all the errors and
prejudices of your class. Just put that into cows now, and look after
'em, and you'll forget all about the revolution."

"Hell's fire!" ejaculated Pecos, shutting down on the money. "You don't
mean to say this is all mine?"

"That's right. I tried to give it to you last Fall, up there at Verde
Crossing, but you heard the wind in your ears, clean to New Mexico.
Guess your conscience was kind of troublin' you, hey?"

"Umm," answered Pecos absently. He was studying on how to spend his
money. For several minutes he sat thumbing over the new bills and
gazing out into the twilight; then he jammed them deep into his pocket
and started for the door.

"Hey! Where you goin'?" shouted Boone Morgan, as he clattered down the
steps. "Come back here and get this property envelope! You must've had
an idee," he ventured, as Pecos reappeared.

"Yep," said Pecos, "an' a good one." He dumped the contents of his
envelope on top of the desk and regarded the articles fixedly. There,
sparkling brightly as when he first bought it, was the eighteen-carat,
solitaire-diamond engagement-ring.

"That ought to come in pretty handy now," suggested the sheriff,
pointing to it with the butt of his cigar.

"Nope," replied Pecos noncommittally, "too late now."

"That's bad," commented Boone Morgan sociably. "Mighty pretty girl,
too. All off, hey?"

Pecos looked him over carefully, grunted, and started for the door.

It would be difficult to tell just how it happened so, but as Pecos
Dalhart, with a firm resolve in his heart, dashed down the steps once
more, his eye caught a darker shadow in the dusky corner of the jail
and he stopped dead in his tracks. Then as his vision became adjusted
to the twilight he walked slowly over toward the corner, where a
woman's figure was crouched against the wall. It was Marcelina, worn,
draggled, and tear-stained, and as she gazed up at him from beneath her
tangled hair his heart stopped in its beat.

"Ah, Paycos," she murmured brokenly, "where can I go? The seesters
lock me up in hi-igh room, for run away to see you. Two day I cry
_todo-tiempo_ because you no have ears—then I jump out of window to
breeng them. Now I can not go home. An', Paycos," she rose up suddenly
and moved toward him, "I am 'fraid! I am 'fraid Ol' Creet will catch
me!"

"Crit nothin'!" said Pecos scornfully. "Come on over here—what's the
matter with you?" He gathered her into his arms and held her close a
minute.

"You ain't scairt now, are you?" he inquired tenderly.

"A-ah, no!" sighed Marcelina, nestling against his breast.

"Well, gimme that kiss, then," said Pecos.

There were no wedding bells at Pecos Dalhart's marriage—that takes too
much time—but the county clerk gave him a license right away, Boone
Morgan went along for a witness, and the J. P. did the rest. It was
the same J. P. who had held Pecos for cattle-rustling, but what of
that? Upon such an occasion the past is forgotten and we care little
what hand it is that confers our greatest happiness. Pecos pressed a
ten-dollar bill into the guilt-stained palm of the magistrate and then,
while his roll was out, he peeled off another bill and handed it to
Boone Morgan.

"Give that to Angy when he comes to," he said, "and tell 'im to hunt
me up. Don't know where we'll live yet, but it wouldn't be like home
without old Babe—would it, Marcelina?"

"Ah, Paycos," breathed Marcelina, gazing up at him with adoring eyes,
"you are such a _goo-ood_ man!"

The rustler glanced doubtfully over his shoulder at Boone Morgan,
grinned, and passed out into the starlit night.

"All right, Chiquita," he said. "You got a monopoly on that idee—but
whatever you say, goes!"



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  |                                                                   |
  | Transcriber's note:                                               |
  |                                                                   |
  | Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.      |
  |                                                                   |
  | Word combinations that appeared with and without hyphens were     |
  | changed to the predominant form if it could be determined, or to  |
  | the hyphenated form if it could not.                              |
  |                                                                   |
  | Mid-paragraph illustrations have been moved between paragraphs    |
  | and some illustrations have been moved closer to the text that    |
  | references them.  The paginations in the list of Illustrations    |
  | were adjusted accordingly.                                        |
  |                                                                   |
  | Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant  |
  | form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.     |
  |                                                                   |
  | Corrections in the spelling of names were made when those could   |
  | be verified. Otherwise the variations were left as they were.     |
  |                                                                   |
  | Other corrections:                                                |
  | Page 51: slahsh changed to slash.                                 |
  | Page 71: ailes changed to bailes (open house day and night,       |
  |    _fistas_ and _bailes_).                                        |
  | Page 284: plead changed to pled (the petty criminals pled guilty).|
  |                                                                   |
  | Variation unchanged:                                              |
  | Joe Garcia and José Garcia.                                       |
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