On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
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