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.