The Texican

by Dane Coolidge

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.