Every month seemed to add some new grace and beauty to the daughter of José Garcia—the primitive beauty that seems to bud like a flower beneath the Arizona sun; the beauty of the young Apache maiden and the slender Hija de Mejico, that comes to its perfection so soon and is doomed so often to fade away prematurely before the lust of men. In another place Marcelina's face might have been her fortune, but at Verde Crossing it was her bane. The cowboys lingered about the store to gaze upon her boldly or stepped outside to intercept her on her way; and Joe, poor tortoise-brained Joe, did not live up to his full duty as a father. The Texano cowboys were a fierce breed and impatient of restraint—also they held a Mexican to be something below a snake. He was afraid of them, though he rolled his fat eyes and frowned—but most of all he feared Old Crit. Ah, there was a man to fear—Ol' Creet—and he held him in his power, him and all his little flock. Day after day, as the summer passed, the Boss kept after him, and but for his woman he would have given way. How she did curse him, the Señora, his mujer, and how she did curse Crit—but most of all she cursed their poverty, which exposed her child to such a fate. Even the few pesos to send her to the school were lacking—Marcelina must stay at Verde Crossing and fight against her fate. There was only one man who would stand by them, and that was Babe. Only for the one time in six months had Babe been drunk, and that was when Crit was away. He had left them his pistols at parting and hurried back, after he had seen Pecos in the jail. Yet after all it was worth the risk, for Babe had brought back money—yes, money, fifty dollars in bills—and he offered it all to José if he would stand up and tell the truth. What a coward—that foolish José! For a week he weighed his manhood in the balance and was afraid—and then Babe had given him two drinks, quick, and made him promise, and given the money to his mujer. Madre de Dios, it was accomplished, and the day that Crittenden and his cowboys rode away to Geronimo to testify before the grand jury the Señora Garcia followed far behind in the broken-down buggy, and when the town was dark she drove in and left Marcelina at the Sisters' school.
CHAPTER XIX
THE LAST CHANCE
THERE was a hot time in old Geronimo on the night that Ike Crittenden and his cowboys rode in, and in spite of everything he could do three of them wound up in the jag-cell before morning. Nevertheless he had plenty of witnesses and to spare, for the grand jury merely went over the same evidence that had been taken before the magistrate and handed down an indictment against Pecos Dalhart, accusing him of feloniously and unlawfully marking, branding, or altering the brand on one neat animal, to wit, a spotted calf, belonging to Isaac Crittenden of Verde Crossing. It was almost the first case on the calendar and the arraignment was set for the following Monday. Then Pecos Dalhart, defendant, slouched gloomily back to his cell and sat down to await the issue. The howls of Angevine Thorne, blended with the hoarse protests of Crit's cowboys, floated in to him from the jag-cell and he knew his faithful attorney had not deserted him, but what a broken reed was that to lean on when his whole future hung in the balance! Even as he listened he had an uneasy fear that Angy was giving the whole snap away to the drunken cowboys and once more he begged Bill Todhunter to throw Babe into the tanks where he could look after him. It was at this time, when things were at their worst, that Shepherd Kilkenny, the district attorney, came down to look into his case and find out how he would plead.
He was a very cautious man, Mr. Kilkenny, and he never had a man indicted unless he held his written confession or knew beyond the peradventure of a doubt that he could convict him. In the case of Pecos Dalhart he had been unusually careful, for it was the first case of cattle stealing to come before him and most of his constituents were in the cow business; therefore, not to take any chances, he had followed it from the magistrate's court to the secret chambers of the grand jury, and now he was going after a confession. He came with gifts, a brace of cigars, but Pecos was well supplied with cigarette makings and waved them courteously aside. Then they got down to business.
"Mr. Dalhart," began Kilkenny, "I'm the district attorney and I've come to talk over your case with you—in a friendly way, you understand. Ah—have you engaged an attorney? No? Well, that is hardly necessary, you know, but if you do call in a counsellor I am sure he will advise you to plead 'Guilty.' Ahem—yes, indeed. There's many a man stole his calf and got away with it, but you were caught in the act and observed by twenty witnesses. Not the ghost of a chance, you see; but if you plead 'Guilty' and throw yourself upon the mercy of the court it will cut your sentence in half, probably more. I'm a friend of yours, Mr. Dalhart, and I've often heard the sheriff speak of your exemplary character as a prisoner. All these things are appreciated, you know, and I—well, I'll do all I can for you with the judge. Now all you have to do is to sign this little paper and—"
"I'm sorry," said Pecos, thrusting the paper back, "and I sure take it kindly of you, Mr. Kilkenny, but I can't plead 'Guilty'—not to please nobody—because I'm not guilty."
"Not guilty!" The district attorney laughed. "Why, you were taken in the act, Mr. Dalhart. I never saw a more conclusive line of evidence."