Kitabı oku: «The Texican», sayfa 12
"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!"
