The Texican

by Dane Coolidge

There was a genuine commotion at this, but Philly Black produced the accused—he had to, or lose his job.

"Denver Slim, you are accused of hammerin' on your door all night and disturbin' of the peace. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

Denver turned and made three successive jabs at the jail sheriff, who had ruffled his feelings from behind; then he drew himself up and remarked:

"I don't plead!"

"'Don't plead' is the same as 'Not guilty,'" said Pecos, remembering his experience with Pete Monat, "and more than that," he thundered, "it's the same as contempt of court! Mr. Sheriff, spread-eagle the prisoner over a chair while I give him ten good ones for contempt—the trial will then proceed!" He rose from his chair and approached the defendant warily, hefting his strap as he came, and Denver became so deeply engrossed in his movements that Philly Black closed with him from the rear. There was a struggle, gazed upon judicially by the alcalde, and at last with a man on every arm and leg Denver was laid sprawling over the back of the chair while the prisoners gibbered with delight. The blows were laid on soundly and yet with a merciful indulgence and when the humiliating ceremony was over Pecos had won every heart but one. Denver Slim was sore, of course; but how are you to have a Roman holiday unless somebody else gets hurt? They had a long and protracted jury trial after this, with a fiery denunciation of law-breakers by John Doe, the district attorney; and the verdict, of course, was "Guilty." Then they kangarooed a few Mexicans to clean up their side of the house and ended with a jubilee chorus of "Kansas."

"I'll tell you what they do—in Kansas!"

It was great. There was a piece about it in the paper the next morning and prospective grand jurymen slapped their legs and remarked, one to the other: "That Pecos Dalhart is a proper fighting fool, ain't he? I reckon Old Crit just jumped him into that racket up the river in order to git him out of the country. It's a dam' shame, too, when you think how many Crit has stole!"

But alas, neither public praise nor blame could open up the bars and let Pecos out of jail. He was held by a power higher than any man—the power of the Law, which, because it has endured so long and is, in fact, all we have, is deemed for that reason sacred. And the law was busy—it is always busy—and behind. Well, Pecos didn't know much about it, except what he had read in the Voice of Reason, but as he heard the ponderous wheels of the law grinding about him, saw yeggs escape by cleverly devised tales and Mexicans soaked because they were slow and dumb, he wondered if that was the only way they could make a stagger at justice. A drunken cowboy had seized a gay man-about-town and taken his pen-knife from his pocket—grand larceny of the person, he was sentenced to seven years. Another drunken reprobate had beaten up the roustabout in a saloon—and got thirty days for assault and battery. Both drunk and both bad, but one had played to hard luck. He had taken property, the other had hurt a man. Pecos saw when it was too late where he had marred his game—he should have beaten Old Crit instead of branding his calf.

In sombre silence he listened day by day as the jail-lawyers—wise criminals who had been in the toils before—cooked up stories to explain away misdeeds; he watched day by day as the prisoners came down from their trial, some with bowed heads or cursing blindly, others laughing hysterically as they scuttled out the door; and many a man who had sworn to a lie went free where simple-minded sinners plead guilty and took their fate. Some there were who had boggled their stories because their dull minds could not compass the deceit; the district attorney had torn them to flinders, raging and threatening them with his finger for the perjured fools they were, and the judge had given them the limit for swearing to a lie. Even in jail it was the poor and lowly who were punished, while the jail-lawyers and those who could afford the petty dollar that hired them took shelter behind the law. Yes, it was all a game, and the best man won—if he held the cards.

Slowly and with painstaking care Pecos went over his own case, comparing it with these others, and his heart sank as he saw where the odds lay. The spotted calf was his—he could swear to it—but it bore the brand of Crittenden and he had lost his bill of sale. There were forty two-gun cowboys working for Crit and any one of them would swear him into jail for a drink—they had done it, so he knew. José Garcia was afraid to tell the truth and Crittenden would scare him worse than ever before the trial took place. Ah, that trial—it was more than five months off yet and he could not stir a foot! Once outside the bars and free-footed he could shake up the dust; he could rustle up his witnesses and his evidence and fight on an equality with Crit. But no, the munneypullistic classes had a bigger pull on him than ever, now—he was jailed in default of bail and no one would put up the price. God, what an injustice! A rich man—a man with a single friend who could put up a thousand dollars' bail—he could go free, to hire his lawyers, look up his witnesses, and fight his case in the open; but a poor man—he must lay his condemned carcass in jail and keep it there while the law went on its way. Day by day now the prisoners went to Yuma to serve their time, or passed out into the world. But were those who passed out innocent? The law said so, for it set them free. And yet they were white with the deadly pallor of the prison, their hands were weak from inactivity, and their minds poisoned by the vile company of yeggs; they had lain there in the heat all summer while judges went to the coast and grand jurymen harvested their hay, and after all their suffering, as a last and crowning flaunt, the law had declared them innocent! It had been many days since Pecos had seen the Voice of Reason and he had lost his first enthusiasm for the revolution, but nothing could make him think that this was right. The Law was like his kangaroo court, that travesty which he made more villainous in order to show his scorn; it laid hold upon the innocent and guilty and punished them alike. Only the sturdy fighters, like him, escaped—or the prisoners who had their dollar. That was it—money! And Pecos Dalhart had always been poor.