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