The Texican

by Dane Coolidge

Bibles were a scarce article in those parts, but Pecos got one, and after laying bets with various flippant prisoners, he read it from cover to cover, religiously. Then, just to show his bringing up, he went back and read over all the big wars and fights and the troubles of Moses in the wilderness. Still there was time to spare and he read of Daniel and Nehemiah and the prophets who had cried unto Israel. It was a poor beginning, but somehow when he was reading the Bible he forgot the heat and the vileness of the jail and won back his self-respect. In that long catalogue of priests and prophets and leaders of the people what one was there, from Joseph to Jesus, who had not been cast into prison? The universality of their fate seemed to cheer him and give him something in common—perhaps they were of some kin with the apostles of the revolution. And in the long, suffocating nights he would think back to the mud-streaked adobe house that he had called home and hear his mother patting softly on her knees and singing: "Oh, come to Jesus, come to Jesus—" with a little Texas yupe at the end of every line. So he wore the summer's heat away, and with the return of cool weather his mind went back to his case.

There was no use trying to do anything before the grand jury, so everybody said; that great bulwark of the people generally indicted every one that the district attorney shook his finger at and let the judge find out later whether he was innocent—that was his business, anyway. Besides—whatever else he did—Pecos was going to be careful not to offend the district attorney. The sad case of Pete Monat, who must have put in an awful summer at Yuma, was ever in his mind, and while he would not go so far as to plead guilty in order to accommodate the choleric Mr. Kilkenny, he was firmly resolved not to antagonize him in the trial. He had money, too—five months' wages, deposited with the sheriff—but a hundred and fifty dollars would not hire a man who could stand up against District Attorney Kilkenny, the terror of evil-doers. As a man, Shepherd Kilkenny was all right—a devoted husband, a loving father, all the other good things you read on a gravestone—but as a prosecuting attorney he was a devil. At every biennial election he got all the votes there were on his court record. He convicted everybody—except a few whose friends had worked a rabbit's foot for them—and convicted them beyond appeal. That saved money to the county. His reputation for convictions was so great that most of the petty criminals pled guilty and came down like Davey Crockett's coon, before he had a chance to shoot. That expedited the court calendar and saved thousands of dollars in fees and witness expenses—another good thing for the honest tax-payer. In fact, everything that Shepherd Kilkenny did was for the benefit of the Geronimo tax-payers, and Yuma was crowded with convicts to prove that he knew his business. That was what he was hired for—to convict law-breakers—and if he let a single guilty man escape he was recreant to his trust. Kilkenny had a stern sense of civic responsibility—he got them, if it took a leg.

There had been a time when Shepherd Kilkenny believed that every man who had the price was innocent. That was when, as a rising young lawyer, he was defending criminals in the courts; and he threw so many miscreants loose and made such a show of old Trusdale, the former district attorney, that the community in a burst of popular indignation put the old man out and gave Kilkenny his job. At this Kilkenny brought out an entirely new set of adjectives, changed all his fixed opinions in a day, and, being now in a position to square himself with the real Law, which holds that a man is guilty until he can prove himself innocent, he became a flaming sword against the transgressor. His conversion also enabled him to slough off the old pathetic-fallacy line of talk that he had been called upon to use in pleading before a jury and to adopt a more dignified and denunciatory style, a cross between Demosthenes and the Daniel Webster school. The prosperous life of a politician jollied him up a bit, too; he developed a certain sardonic humor in the handling of unfavorable witnesses, and got off a good one every once in a while for the benefit of the reporters. But there was one thing that Shepherd Kilkenny could not tolerate, and that was another rising young criminal lawyer trying to defeat the ends of justice and beat him out of his job. Yuma was full of Pete Monats who had fallen victims to this feud, and Pecos resolved to plead his case himself before he would take chances on a sucking lawyer.

It was while he was in this vacillating mood and feeling mighty lonely and lost to the world that he heard late one night a familiar whoop from the jag-cell, followed by a fiery oration in the vernacular. It was Angy, down for his periodical drunk, and Pecos could hardly wait to clasp him by the hand. It was a peculiar thing about Angevine Thorne—the drunker he got the more his language improved, until in the ecstasy of his intoxication, he often quoted Greek and Latin, or words deemed by local wiseacres to be derived from those sources. Drink also seemed to clarify his vision and give him an exalted sense of truth, justice, and man's inhumanity to man. It had been his custom in the past at this climacteric stage of inebriation to mount upon some billiard table or other frangible piece of saloon furniture and deliver temperance lectures until removed by the police. But times had changed with Geronimo's champion booze-fighter and in his later prepossessions he grappled with the mighty problem of wealth and its relation to the common man. There are some hard sayings in the Voice of Reason against the privileged classes, but they are all nicely considered in relation to the libel law, whereas Angy had no such compunctions. Having spent all his money for drink and received a jail sentence for life, the law had no further terrors for him and he turned his eloquence loose. It was a wild rave when Pecos heard it, and grew progressively more incoherent; but as he lay in his bunk and listened to the familiar appeals a thought came to Pecos like an inspiration from the gods—why not turn that stream of eloquence into profitable channels and make Angy his advocate? There was not a voter in Geronimo who did not know Babe Thorne and love him for his foolishness—the life sentence which he suffered for conspicuous drunkenness was but a token of their regard, placing him above the level of common ordinary drunks even as his eloquence placed him above the maudlin orators with whom the saloons were crowded. He was a character, a standing jest—and Arizona loves a joke better than life itself. Above all, Angy was a good fellow—he could jolly the district attorney and make him laugh! They would win their case and then he would be free—free! Pecos could not sleep from thinking of it and he begged Bill Todhunter, as a special favor, to bring Babe in from the jag-cell at once.

"What's the matter?" inquired Bill casually, "are you gettin' interested in yore girl? I hear Old Crit has cut you out."

"Crit be damned!" cried Pecos. "Have I ever asked you for anything before? Well then, throw him in here, can't you?"

The deputy did as he was bid and went away—he was not of a prying disposition and Pecos had saved him a lot of trouble. There had never been an alcalde like Pecos Dalhart. No, indeed—it would rustle them to get one half as good when he went his way to Yuma.

The conference with Angevine Thorne, attorney-at-law, was long, and private, but as Angy sobered up he beheld greater and greater possibilities in the matter; and when he went away he assured his client that within the calendar month he should step forth a free man—free as the prairie wind. He was confident of it, and upon his departure Pecos gave him fifty dollars to use with José Garcia. Also he was to find Old Funny-face, the mother of the calf, if it took the last cow in the barn. But all was to be conducted quietly, very quietly, for if Old Crit ever got wind of any defence he would frame up a case to disprove it. To be sure, José Garcia was in debt several hundred dollars to Isaac Crittenden—and afraid of his life, to boot—but for fifty dollars cash Joe would swear to anything, even the truth; and if by so doing he got Pecos out—why, there was a man who could protect him against Crit and all his cowboys. It looked good to Angevine Thorne and, as an especial inducement to Joe to stay put, he swore by all the saints to have his life if he dared to go back on his agreement. Then, very quietly, he instituted a search for Old Funny-face and, having located her up the river with a tame bunch of cattle, he came away, knowing full well that he could produce her at the proper time. There would be a little surprise coming to Isaac Crittenden when he went to court next week and, being actuated by no feeling of false delicacy in dealing with such a reptile, Angy went back to work for him and watched the conspiracy breed.

It was a constant source of surprise to the transient public to observe how a man with so many disagreeable qualities kept the same men working for him year after year; but to those who knew Crittenden well it was as natural as hunger and thirst. In fact, it was intimately connected with hunger and thirst. Any time that Joe Garcia wanted to quit he could just tell his wife and six children to stop eating, tie his things in a handkerchief, and walk down the road. José was ruled by hunger and the slavish peon spirit of a Mexican—Babe and the cowboys were ruled by thirst. No matter how many times he had been fired or quit, a man could always get a chance to work for nothing with Crit; and so long as he spent all his money at the store Crittenden was even willing to pay him good wages in the busy season. Babe was the easiest mark he had as far as money was concerned, and, being so well educated withal, the illiterate cowman found him almost indispensable as a letter-writer and book-keeper. So far, so good—but why did Babe, with his classical education, insist upon donating his services to a man who treated him so despitefully? Ah, it was a hard question, but even a vagrant likes to have some place, no matter how unlovely, which can take the place of a home. Yet for the six long months that Pecos had lain in jail Angy had had reason enough for staying—Marcelina needed him, and she needed him bad.