Little Jack growled a corroborative oath, and took a chew of tobacco.
“Well, if you know he’s a horse thief, why don’t you arrest him?” asked Conrad.
“We know it all right,” said Jack; “but he ain’t lifted no critters yet in this county. He’s been doin’ some chicken-thieving and that sort o’ thing around town the last week, but we ain’t goin’ to arrest him for that.”
Wilder shut his jaws with a determined snap, while Tillinghurst went on to explain in answer to Conrad’s look of surprise: “If we arrest him for that he’d be taken before a justice of the peace; and you-all know what kind of a mess Diego Vigil would make of it. He’d likely fine the man whose chicken-coop had been raided because he didn’t have more stuff in his back-yard to be stolen, and he’d discharge José Maria Melgares with a warning not to wake people up o’ nights by letting the chickens squawk!”
The Sheriff’s smile broadened and ran down his throat in a chuckle. Little Jack Wilder burst explosively into brief and profane speech that showed his opinion of Mexicans, and especially of Mexican justices of the peace, to be most contemptuous.
“Then why do you give them the office?” Curtis demanded. “Both parties do it, all over the Territory, though you all know that every time they get a chance they make justice look like a bobtailed horse. Up north last week one of ’em fined a man five dollars for committing murder and warned him not to do it again or he’d have to make it ten next time. You folks all knew what you might expect from Vigil when you gave him the place.”
“Oh, well, Curt, you-all ain’t run for office yet. When you do, you’ll appreciate the fact that the greasers have got to be put where they’ll do the most good. I’m willin’ to give ’em that much, and I’m only too thankful old Vigil and his friends don’t strike for the Sheriff’s place.”
Tillinghurst chuckled, while Wilder smiled grimly and profanely reckoned he wouldn’t serve under Vigil or any other Mexican. “Mebbe that pock-marked Melgares has been up to some mischief by this time,” he added. “I hain’t set eyes on him for nigh two hours. Let’s go down to the Blue Front, have a drink, and find out if anything’s happened.”
They went down the street together, Brown Betty following with the bridle over her neck. A block farther down stream, a good-looking Mexican came out of the First National Bank and passed them. The Sheriff turned a second keen glance upon him. “That looks like Liberato Herrara,” he said to his deputy in a hasty aside. Raising his voice he accosted the man in Spanish.
The Mexican turned and replied in precise English with grave courtesy, “Did the señor speak to me?”