Denying and protesting, Pecos did as he was bid; and, still denying his guilt, he went before the magistrate in Geronimo. Crittenden was there with his cowboys; the calf was there with his barred brand and bloody ears—and as the examination progressed Pecos saw the meshes of a mighty net closing relentlessly in upon him. In vain he protested that the calf was his—Isaac Crittenden, the cowman, swore that the animal belonged to him and his cowboys swore to it after him. In vain he called upon José Garcia to give witness to the sale—Joe was in debt to the Boss several hundred dollars and Old Funny-face, the cow, was being hazed across the range by a puncher who had his orders. His written bill of sale was lost, the mother with her brands and vents was gone, and a score of witnesses against him swore to the damning fact that he had been taken red-handed. After hearing all the evidence the Justice of the Peace consulted his notes, frowned, and held the defendant for the action of the grand jury. The witnesses filed out, the court adjourned, and a representative assemblage of cowmen congratulated themselves, as law-abiding citizens of Geronimo County, that there was one less rustler in the hills. At last, after holding up her empty scales for years, the star-eyed Goddess of Justice was vindicated; the mills of the law had a proper prisoner to work upon now and though they were likely to grind a little slow—the grand jury had just adjourned and would not be convened again until fall—they were none the less likely to be sure. Fortunately for the cause of good government the iron hand of the law had closed down upon a man who had neither money, friends, nor influence, and everybody agreed that he should be made an awful example.
CHAPTER XIV
THE KANGAROO COURT
THERE are some natures so stern and rugged that they lean against a storm like sturdy, wind-nourished pines, throwing back their arms, shaking their rough heads, and making strength from the elemental strife. Of such an enduring breed was Pecos Dalhart and as he stood before the judge, square-jawed, eagle-eyed, with his powerful shoulders thrown back, he cursed the law that held him more than the men who had sworn him into jail. But behind that law stood every man of the commonwealth, and who could fight them all, lone-handed? Lowering his head he submitted, as in ancient days the conquered barbarians bowed to the Roman yoke, but there was rebellion in his heart and he resolved when the occasion offered to make his dream of the revolution a waking reality. The deputy who led him over to jail seemed to sense his prisoner's mood and left him strictly alone, showing the way in silence until they entered the sheriff's office.
The reception room to the suite of burglar-proof apartments familiarly known as the Hotel de Morgan was a spacious place, luxuriously furnished with lounging chairs and cuspidors and occupied at the moment by Boone Morgan, a visiting deputy, three old-timers, and a newspaper reporter. The walls were decorated with a galaxy of hard-looking 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.