"Say," he said, "what the hell you mean by puttin' that 'Q.' in my name—Pecos Q. Dalhart? My name is Pecos straight—named after that river in Texas!"
"Oh, is it?" cried the young reporter, making a hurried note. "Well, I beg your pardon, Mr. Dalhart, I'm sure. How's house-cleaning to-day? Organized your court yet? No? Well, when you do, let me know. Always like to be present, you understand, when you have a trial." He hurried away, as if upon important business, and slowed down as suddenly before the sheriff's office.
"That 'Q.' did the business," he observed, glancing triumphantly at the assembled company. "I told you I'd make that rustler talk. A man may not give a dam' what you say about him but he goes crazy if you get his name wrong—I found that out long ago. Mr. Dalhart informs me that his name is Pecos straight—no 'Q.' in it. Pecos Straight Dalhart! All right, I'll try to get it right next time. What'll you bet we don't have another Kangaroo Court before the end of the week?"
"The cigars," replied Boone Morgan casually. As a politician, cigars were a matter of small import to him—when he was not giving them away his friends were giving cigars to him.
"I'll go you!" cried Baker enthusiastically, "and the drinks, too. You better turn Mr. Dalhart over to me for a while and watch me make a man out of him. All I ask is that you give him the morning Blade."
"All right," assented Bill Todhunter, from the corner; and the next morning Pecos received it with his breakfast. Charley Hung Wo had provided him with an unusually tempting apple roll that morning but it was neglected for the moment while he ran over the Court House Briefs. He searched the whole page carefully, but there was no mention of Pecos Dalhart, either with or without the "Q." He pondered upon the fact during the day—having nothing else to do—and when the Friday paper came out with nothing about the Hotel de Morgan in it he considered the matter seriously. Then it came over him gradually—there was nothing mysterious about it—the reporter was waiting for something to happen—a kangaroo trial, or something like that. Well, anything for a little excitement—why not? There were lots of things to be remedied. The yeggs had a dirty way of tapping on the boiler-iron doors and singing lewd songs after they were locked into their cells for the night, a combination which broke in on his sleep; and knowing that they were safe from his strap they persisted in this amusement until they could sing no more, stoutly denying all knowledge of the disturbance in the morning. It was the only revenge they could take on him and they worked it to the limit. Not to be outdone in the matter of revenge he drove them like a pack of peons in the morning, forcing them to do all the cleaning while his Mexican friends rolled cigarritos—but that was getting wearisome. Yet how easy it would be to change! The verdict of a kangaroo jury is always "Guilty"—why not accuse half the yeggs of disturbing the peace, appoint the jury from the other half, and let yegg nature do the rest? Then sentence the prisoners at the bar to clean up for a week. Why not, indeed!
At supper time Pecos spoke a few invitational words through the bars to Bill Todhunter and about the time the boy reporter from the Blade was due he placed his chair against the doors and called his court to order.
"Oyez! Oyez! The Kangaroo Court of Geronimo is now in session!" he announced, in stentorian tones, and instantly the prisoners began to assemble. "Oyez" was good Spanish for "Hear!" and brought out all the Mexicans; and the Americans came on the run, eager for any excitement to pass the time away.
"Blacky," said Pecos, addressing the one-time king of the yeggs, "bring the Chi Kid before the bar of justice. He is accused of disturbing the peace by singin' songs all night."
Without a moment's hesitation Philly Black laid violent hands upon his friend and cellmate and dragged him before the court. The mandates of the law are inexorable; and besides, Philly wanted the job of sheriff.