“He’s all right. I put him up with Otto Gans, myself. There, she’s ready. Sientese!” The jailer seated himself opposite the guest. “No butter. You’ll have to excuse me.”
“Butter, hell. Whadya think I am—an incubator kid? Say, there’s a few old vets here in Hillsboro that used to know my dad—me, too, when I was a little shaver, some of them. Spinal Maginnis, George Perrault, Kayler, Nick Galles and Preisser. H’m, let me see—and Jake Blun, Mabury and Page. Could you manage me a palaver with some one or two of ’em after breakfast?”
“Pleasure first, pain afterwards,” growled Gwinne. “You eat a few lines while I hold high discourse to you about the good and great. District attorneys, now. Us being a territory thataway, district attorneys are appointed by the President—allee same like our judges and U. S. marshals and clerks of the court. All of ’em are appointed for four years, the same being the President’s term. Presidents being so constituted by a wise and beneficent Providence, they appoint men from states where said men and their friends, if any, vote for President, and not from our humble midst. ’Cause why? We’re not allowed to vote. More coffee?”
Johnny held his cup. Gwinne took up his discourse.
“Also, and moreover, they appoint politicians. We will not pursue this painful subject further except to add that, New Mexico being what and where it is, these appointees, while they might be first-class men and seldom were—they were always tenth-rate politicians. Because politicians rated higher than tenth-rate demanded something better. Yes. When Grover was in, they all came from Missouri, and they wasn’t so bad but what they might have been worse, with proper care. And now they’re all from darkest Injianny; a doubtful state. Something else, too. Even when they was well-meaning—which often was guessable—why, they’re not our people. We have our little ways and they have their own little ways, and they’re not the same little ways; and they rule us by their little ways. That’s bad. To judge a man by the standards of another time and place is prejudging, and that means oppression, and oppression breeds riots in hell. That is how most trouble starts, I reckon—not understanding, prejudging. Men don’t naturally like to press down. They’d a heap rather comfort and help—if they could just see the way clear. Helping someone out of a tight is just about the pleasantest thing a man can do. But these people Uncle Sam sends here to manage us, they don’t think our thoughts and they don’t speak our tongue. They ask for brick and we bring them mortar; they ask for bread and we rock ’em to sleep. That’s the way I look at it. Won’t you coincide with me?”
“Why, yes,” said Johnny, “now that you mention it—I don’t care if I do.”
The jailer eyed his captive with painful distrust. Then he sighed heavily.
“Flippant and inattentive! A bad mark. Nine more demerits and you’ll be suspended.” He rose and went to a closet and returned with a bottle and glasses. “A long drop and a quick finish!”