When the trial took place, the fact that Alpaugh and Glendon had been in
their homes, and there being no proof of their actual connection with
the attempted robbery, merely the unsupported statement of
Three-fingered Jack, augured their complete vindication.
As the case was about to be closed, a bomb was thrown by the prosecuting
attorney, who asked to have Wentz put on the stand as a witness for the
Prosecution. Alpaugh and Glendon, with their attorneys were not prepared
for Wentz' evidence which corroborated the story of Three-fingered Jack.
Assured of a very light sentence, or possible freedom, as result of his
turning State's evidence, Wentz made a complete confession of his part
in the matter, and the convincing details remained unshaken by the most
severe cross-examination by the lawyers for the defence.
Alpaugh and Glendon, as the testimony progressed exchanged glances of
consternation, and the confusion of their attorneys was apparent not
only to Judge and jury, but also to casual spectators who had no
knowledge of the twists of legal procedure. The jury was out but a short
time, and the verdict of "Guilty" was no surprise to any one who was in
the Court room. A few days later Glendon and Alpaugh, together with all
the others implicated, were sentenced to ten years in the Yuma
Penitentiary. Public sentiment approved of the verdict, but many
sympathizing eyes turned on Katherine Glendon, who sat white-faced, at
the back of the Court room.
She had remained in Tombstone during the entire time of the trial, and
like many others, believed Glendon and Alpaugh the victims of spite on
the part of Three-fingered Jack. To her, the unexpected development was
crushing. In her heart she felt it was the truth, although her husband
persisted in declaring his and the constable's innocence. Her own
testimony had been brief and convincing, but in no way conflicted with
the minute circumstances stated by Wentz regarding Glendon's activities.
In fact, it only served to prove that Glendon had planned a perfect
alibi with his wife as an innocent accomplice.
Immediately after the conviction, Wentz was given his liberty as
promised. With his first appearance a few hours later on the streets of
Tombstone, the open threats of friends of the convicted men, caused him
to hasten back to the County jail and ask its protection until he could
arrange to get away from Arizona safely.
The warden allowed him the privilege, but was not enthusiastic over it,
as he said, "Well, Wentz, you're in a fine mess, now. I wouldn't change
places with you for a lot! You're out a job, busted, got no friends and
have to quit the country. Derned if I haven't got more respect for those
fellows in the cells!"
Wentz made no reply, but slumped down in a chair, trying to figure some
way out of his dilemma, and the warden, lighting a cigar, continued
grimly, "You're in the same fix as the feller that sawed the limb off
the tree, while he was sitting on the end of the limb."
The other man scowled, but held his tongue. This was his only place of
refuge at present. Even those who had no sympathy for the outlaws had
still less use for the man who had betrayed them. The warden rose with a
smile as Katherine Glendon entered the room. She had come to see her
husband. Wentz' head dropped until he heard their retreating steps in
the corridor.
"Is there anything I can do?" Katherine asked almost hopelessly, as she
sat in the cell talking to Glendon when they were alone.
"Go home," commanded Glendon. "There's no use hanging around here any
more. Forbes, our lawyer, says that the railroad company stretched a
point in having the indictment read 'interfering with the United States
mail.' No one touched the mail car. The railroad company never could
have won, and that's why they made it a Federal case. It was a put up
job all around, and Wentz stood in with the railroad people to get us."
"Why should Three-fingered Jack have accused you?" she uttered a thought
that had puzzled her.
"Well, you see I had a row with him in Willcox the last time I was in
there," Glendon replied glibly, then hurried to add, "Now, see here,
Katherine, you've got a chance to help me, and no one else can do it.
Will you stand by me? I swear that if I get out of this trouble you will
have no further cause to reproach me. I have done a few decent things
since I married you. Not many, but can't you remember that I let you
keep Donnie instead of sending him to father, as I had a legal right to
do?"
"Yes, Jim! I will never forget it! But even without that, I would do my
utmost to help you, because you are the father of my boy."
"You're a brick, Katherine! Now, see here, I want you to circulate a
petition for my pardon, after the first excitement has died down and I
have shown myself a model prisoner. You will have to get a certain
number of names, as the petition has to go to Washington, because it was
a Federal case. The Governor of the Territory has no jurisdiction over
it. You won't refuse to do this for me, will you? Every one is against
me now, and if you fail me, I shall take advantage of the first
opportunity to kill myself."
"Jim, have I ever failed you yet?" she asked simply.
"No; you've been a long way too good for me," he answered, "and if I can
get this squared, I'll show you how I appreciate you and what you have
done."
Despite his promises, she left the jail with a heavy heart, knowing his
weak and vacillating character, and feeling that his protestations were
not to be reckoned seriously. But, she also knew that when the time
came, she would help in any way she was able. So husband and wife
parted, and the woman returned to the Circle Cross ranch the following
day.
Juan and Tatters met her with delight. The old Mexican hovered about her
in dumb sympathy. A letter from Donnie was full of his childish
interests. The touch of the badly scrawled pages comforted her as though
the child's hands were laid on her own. A feeling of thanksgiving surged
over her, that the boy was away where no knowledge of the shadow in
their home could cloud his eyes.
When the Mexican stood in the door of the kitchen, saying in his liquid,
native tongue, "Buenos noches, Senora" (Good night), she remembered that
she could not keep the man, there was so little money left now.
Gently she explained the situation to Juan. The bewildered expression on
his face suddenly changed to eagerness.
"Senora, I have saved up money. Eet is for both of us. Some
day--manana--you pay me back."
"I cannot use your money, Juan." Her voice told how the offer touched
her. "I must look out for the cattle myself, there is not enough to pay
you wages."
"You have frijoles, no?" demanded Juan. "Eet is enough. I stay!"
The matter was ended by Juan hurrying from the room before she could
protest further. Each time during the following days when Katherine
broached the subject, Juan evaded the issue by having important work,
and Katherine unable to do otherwise, let their lives settle in a
routine that promised to stretch into years.
She made one more trip to Tombstone after the sentence had been passed.
Glendon instructed her about circulating the petition, but bade her wait
until four or five months after he had begun serving his term. She left
him in his cell, carrying with her an undefinable impression of a man
whom she did not know; for already she sensed a subtle change.
The day before the convicted men were to be transported to the
penitentiary, Glendon lay on his bunk in his cell, wondering whether his
plans would fail or succeed. He was playing for high stakes; to lose
meant forfeiting his life.
Panchita had called at the jail several times since the trial,
ostensibly to sell tamales to the prisoners and their guards. In no way
had the Mexican girl been identified with the train-robbers, so her
actions created no suspicion. She managed to let Glendon understand that
she was ready to co-operate in any plans he might make.
He had given up his original idea of hoping to win a pardon, which if
obtained, would only mean being financially penniless, and branded as a
felon. The more he thought of the alternative, the more alluring it
became.
Panchita had told him that the money from the first train hold-up, was
safely sewn in a bustle made of newspapers which she wore constantly.
She had whispered this while he pretended to joke and dicker for
tamales. Tonight, there would be little steel saw-blades in the tamales
she was to bring for his supper. In order to disarm any suspicion, she
had laughingly promised to bring tamales for all of them, because they
were going on their long journey the next morning. The warden had given
consent, especially as she had promised double allowance for him so that
he could take them home to his wife.
Glendon knew that once he possessed those tiny saws, he could cut the
bars of his cell before morning. Panchita would be waiting with a pony,
and later she would follow to Mexico where they would meet. He had no
fear of her failing him, knowing her insane jealousy of his wife.
He rose and paced the floor nervously, as the afternoon waned. Five
o'clock passed--half-past five--then the clock in the sheriff's room
struck six. The jailer passed the barred door.
"Say," called Glendon, "hasn't that tamale girl been around yet? She
promised to give us all a tamale supper tonight, you know. Celebrating
our journey."
"She's dead," answered the jailer, stopping at the door. "The place
where she was staying caught fire last night. It was a frame shack, and
the rest all got out except her. She wasn't burnt but smothered in the
smoke."
"That's tough luck," said Glendon, trying to appear careless. "Was it
much of a fire?"
"No, they got it out in half an hour."
"Was she living with her folks?" Glendon was striving not to betray his
disappointment and anxiety, but he felt like springing at the jailer and
choking the truth from his lips. Panchita was dead--but where was the
money?
"She boarded with a Mexican family, and they didn't know anything except
she came here lately and sold tamales. She was making tamales last night
just before they all went to bed."
"Who takes charge of the body and property in such cases?"
"Oh, the County buries them and burns up their old duds. These Mex women
never have nothing! Funny thing, though, about that," he paused to coax
a cigar that failed to draw properly. "Gosh! That's a rank cigar!" he
ejaculated taking it from his mouth and regarding it in disgust, while
Glendon's fingers twitched. "I gave two bits for it, too."
"You were saying something about the tamale girl's duds. What was the
joke?"
"Oh, yes"; the jailer resumed, laughing. "You see, there is a Mexican
woman that lives in the same shack and she works for my wife. Does
washing. She had some of our clothes there and so came up to explain
that she couldn't get them done up on time. She told my wife all about
the fire, and that the girl had only an old dress and a black shawl, but
a fine pair of high-heeled slippers and silk stockings, and--ha! ha! ha!
a bustle made out of newspapers. Can you beat that? Got to be in style,
someway."
Glendon's eyes flickered and he caught his breath quickly.
"Funny combination, wasn't it? But all women folks are alike. If one of
them rigs up so she has a hump on her back like a camel, all the others
break their necks fixing up humps. If they were born that way, it would
keep the doctors busy operating to get rid of 'em."
Glendon stretched his face in an effort to smile, but the muscles were
almost rigid.
"Well," continued the narrator, enjoying his own story, "after the body
was taken away, this old washwoman and another one started to clean up
the place, and picking around they found the things. They got to
scrapping over the stockings and shoes, that was too small for either of
them to wear. But they never let up till they had 'em tore to pieces.
The old woman was crying when she told about it. My wife almost had
hysterics when she told me the story."
Glendon pretended to enjoy the joke hugely. Then after a short period,
he asked, "But what did they do with the bustle? Who got that souvenir?"
"Oh, they burnt that up. It was just old newspapers. Nobody wanted that.
My wife asked about it, because she thought the old woman might be
wearing it herself. So that's why none of us got our tamales tonight!"
the man concluded as he moved away from the cell door.
Glendon threw himself on the bunk, cursing his ill-luck.
"Seventy thousand gone up in smoke!" he muttered, never giving a thought
to the girl who had risked everything for his sake. His only regret was
that her inopportune death interfered with his plans for escape. His
former passion for the woman turned to resentment.
"Paddy's money is safe," he meditated as he lay staring at the wall. "If
I could only get out!"
His last hope lay in the slim possibility that Katherine might be able
to obtain a pardon for him, then he could get Paddy's money and go to
South America. But such a pardon would take months to accomplish.
Glendon got up and walked the length of his cell, kicking the wall when
he reached the end of the room. Curses rose to his lips. The wall in
front of him reminded him of the grim grey walls of the Arizona
Penitentiary, and he felt that if he could only get Wentz by the throat
and choke him slowly to death, he would be willing to go to the
Penitentiary for life. But--Wentz was free.