THE KANGAROO COURT
There are some natures so stern and rugged that they lean against a
storm like sturdy, wind-nourished pines, throwing back their arms,
shaking their rough heads, and making strength from the elemental
strife. Of such an enduring breed was Pecos Dalhart and as he stood
before the judge, square-jawed, eagle-eyed, with his powerful shoulders
thrown back, he cursed the law that held him more than the men who
had sworn him into jail. But behind that law stood every man of the
commonwealth, and who could fight them all, lone-handed? Lowering his
head he submitted, as in ancient days the conquered barbarians bowed to
the Roman yoke, but there was rebellion in his heart and he resolved
when the occasion offered to make his dream of the revolution a waking
reality. The deputy who led him over to jail seemed to sense his
prisoner's mood and left him strictly alone, showing the way in silence
until they entered the sheriff's office.
The reception room to the suite of burglar-proof apartments familiarly
known as the Hotel de Morgan was a spacious place, luxuriously
furnished with lounging chairs and cuspidors and occupied at the moment
by Boone Morgan, a visiting deputy, three old-timers, and a newspaper
reporter. The walls were decorated with a galaxy of hard-looking
pictures labelled "Escaped" and "Reward," many of which had written
across their face "Caught," and some "Killed"; there was a large desk
in the corner, a clutter of daily papers on the floor, and the odor
of good cigars. Upon the arrival of Pecos Dalhart the sheriff was
engaged in telling a story, which he finished. Then he turned in his
swivel-chair, sorted out a pen and opened a big book on the desk.
"Mr. Dalhart, I believe," he said, smiling a little grimly.
Pecos grunted, and the deputy taking the cue, began a systematic search
of his pockets.
"Grand larceny—held for the grand jury," he supplemented, and the
sheriff wrote it down in the book thoughtfully.
"Sorry I can't give you the bridal chamber, Mr. Dalhart," he continued,
"but it's occupied by a check-raiser; and I wouldn't think of puttin'
a cowman in the jag-cell with all them sheep-herders—so I'll have to
give you Number Six, on the first floor front. Pretty close quarters
there now, but you'll have all the more company on that account, and
I'll guarantee the boys will make you welcome." He paused and winked
at the reporter, who sharpened a pencil and laughed. Boone Morgan's
Kangaroo Court was a local institution which gave him a great deal of
josh copy in the course of a year and he lit a cigar and waited to
observe Pecos Dalhart's reception. The kangaroo _alcalde_ or judge was
a horse-thief, the sheriff was a noted strong-arm man from the East,
the district attorney was an ex-lawyer taking a graduate course in
penology, and altogether they made a very taking _dramatis personæ_ for
little knockdown skits on court-house life.
"Mr. Pecos Dalhart, cowman and brand-expert extraordinary, is down from
the Verde for a few days and is stopping at the Hotel de Morgan pending
the action of the grand jury in regard to one spotted calf alleged to
have been feloniously and unlawfully taken from Isaac Crittenden, the
cattle king. In the absence of the regular reception committee, Michael
Slattery, the kangaroo sheriff, conducted Mr. Dalhart before his honor
the alcalde who welcomed him in a neat speech and conferred upon him
the freedom of the city. After a delightful half-hour of rough-house
the entire company sat down to a choice collation of fruit provided by
the generosity of the guest of honor."
Something like that would go very well and be good for the drinks in
half the saloons in town. Only, of course, he must not forget to put in
a little puff about the sheriff—"Sheriff Morgan is very proud of the
excellent order maintained in the county jail," or something equally
acceptable.
The deputy continued his search of Pecos Dalhart's person, piling
money, letters, jack-knife, and trinkets upon the desk and feeling
carefully along his coat lining and the bulging legs of his boots—but
Pecos said never a word. It was a big roll of bills that he had brought
back from New Mexico—five months' pay and not a dollar spent. Some
fellows would have the nerve to get married on that much money. There
was a genuine eighteen-carat, solitaire-diamond engagement-ring among
his plunder, too, but it was no good to him now. The sheriff examined
it curiously while he was counting the money and sealing the whole
treasure in a strong envelope.
"I'm _dam'_ sorry I can't give you that bridal chamber," he observed,
flashing the diamond and glancing quizzically at the reporter, and
Pecos felt the hot blood leap throbbing to his brain.
"You go to hell, will you?" he growled, and a dangerous light came into
his eyes as he rolled them on the laughing crowd.
"Here, here!" chided the deputy, grabbing him roughly by the arm, and
with the gang following closely upon his heels he led the way to the
cells. A rank smell, like the cagey reek of a menagerie, smote their
nostrils as they passed through the first barred door and at sight
of another prisoner the men inside the tanks let out a roar of joy
and crowded up to the bars. It was the flush time of year, when the
district court was in session, and the authors of six months' crime and
disorder were confined within that narrow space awaiting the pleasure
of the judge. Some there were with the healthy tan of the sun still
upon their cheeks, and the swarthy sons of Mexico showed no tendency
to prison pallor, but most of the faces were white and tense, with
obscenely staring eyes and twitching lips, and all of them were weary
unto death. Like wild beasts that see a victim led to their gate they
stormed and chattered against the bars, shouting strange words that
Pecos could not understand until, at an order from the deputy, they
scuttled back to their cells.
The Geronimo County jail was a massive structure of brick, pierced
by high windows set with iron gratings. A narrow corridor led around
the sides, separating the great double-decked steel tanks from the
outer wall, and within this triumph of the iron-master's craft the
victims of the law's delay swarmed about like chipmunks in a cage.
Down the middle of the steel enclosure there extended a long corridor
with washrooms at the end and on either side were rows of cells, with
narrow, inter-connected gates which could be opened and closed from
without. At the word of command each prisoner slipped deftly through
his door; the deputy unlocked an iron box, heaved away upon a lever,
and with a resounding clang all the gratings on one side came to and
were fastened by the interlocking rods. He opened a box on the opposite
side of the entrance and clanged those doors in place, thus locking up
the last of his dangerous charges and leaving the corridor empty. Then,
producing another key, he unlocked the great sliding gate, pulled its
heavy panels ajar, and shoved Pecos roughly through the aperture. Once
more the gates clashed behind him, the interlocking cell doors flew
open, and with a whoop the uncaged prisoners stepped forth and viewed
their victim.
There is no pretence about a kangaroo court. By luck and good conduct
a citizen of the outer world may entirely escape the punitive hand of
the law, but every man who entered the Geronimo County jail was _ipso
facto_ a delinquent. More than that, he was foredoomed to conviction,
for there is no law so merciless as that of the law's offenders. The
rulings of the kangaroo alcalde are influenced by neither pleadings
nor precedents, and his tyranny is mitigated only by the murmurings
of his constituents and the physical limitations of his strong right
hand. Unless by the heinousness of his former acts he has placed
himself in the aristocracy of crime, he must be prepared to defend his
high position against all comers; and as the insignia of his office he
carries a strap, with the heavy end of which he administers summary
punishment and puts down mutinies and revolts. Pete Monat was the
doughty alcalde in the Geronimo Bastile, and he ruled with an iron
hand. For sheriff he had Michael Slattery, a mere yegg, to do the dirty
work and hale prisoners before the court. The district attorney was
John Doe, a fierce argufier, who if his nerve had been equal to his
ambition would long since have usurped the alcalde's place. There were
likewise jail-lawyers galore, petty grafters who pitted their wits
against the prosecuting attorney in a brave attempt to earn a fee, or
at least to establish a factitious claim against the defendant. Out
they surged, sheriff, lawyers, and alcalde, and bore down on Pecos in a
body, the sheriff to arrest him, the lawyers to get his case, and the
alcalde to tip his chair against the grating, where the reporter could
see all the fun,—and try the case in style.
"Fuzzy!" thundered the yegg sheriff, laying a heavy hand upon Pecos's
shoulder, "I arrest youse in the name of the law!"
"The hell you say!" exclaimed Pecos, backing off; and in an instant
the hardened jail-birds knew that they had a "gay-cat." Only Rubes and
gay-cats resisted arrest in jail—the old-timers stepped up promptly,
before the sheriff could "give them the roust" from behind.
"Yes, an' fer breakin' into jail!" hollered Slattery. "Come on now and
don't make me any trouble or I'll cop youse in the mush!"
"Arraign the prisoner," shouted the alcalde pompously, "bring 'im up
hyar, an' ef he's half as bad as he looks he'll git the holy limit.
Wake up thar, you, an' he'p the sheriff, or I'll set you to scrubbin'
floors."
They came in a struggling mass, dominated by the tall form of the
sheriff, and before Pecos was aware of his destiny he was hustled
before the judge.
"What is the charge against this mug?" inquired Pete Monat, slapping
his strap across his knee for silence.
"Breakin' inter jail, Yer Honor!" responded the sheriff, bowing and
touching his forelock.
"Prisoner at the bar," declaimed the alcalde, "you are charged with
wilfully, feloniously, an' unlawfully breakin' inter this hyar jail—do
you plead 'Guilty' or 'Not guilty'?"
"I don't plead," said Pecos, with suspicious quiet.
"'Don't plead' is the same as 'Not guilty,'" announced the judge, "and
bein' as the district attorney is such a long-winded yap I'll jest pull
off this examination myse'f. How come you're hyar, then, you low-browed
reperbate, ef you didn't break inter jail? Answer me thet, now, an' be
dam' careful to say 'Yer Honor' or I'll soak you for contempt of court!"
"Say," said Pecos, speaking through the gratings to Boone Morgan, "do
I have to stand for this? I do? Well, to hell with such a layout!
Here, keep your hands off o' me now, or somebody'll git badly hurt!"
He placed his back against the grating and menaced the strong-armed
sheriff with a tense fist, turning a scornful eye upon the clamoring
judge.
"_Oyez! Oyez!_ Silence in the court!" bellowed Pete Monat, leaping up
on his chair. "The prisoner is found guilty and sentenced to pay a fine
of one dollar, or pack out the slops for a week! Mr. Sheriff, bring 'im
up, an' ef he resists we'll give 'im thirty slaps with this hyar!" He
held up his black strap threateningly, but Pecos only skinned his teeth
like a wolf that is caught in a trap, and stood at bay.
"I'd like to see the bunch of hobos that can man-handle _me_!" he
snarled, making a pass at the sheriff. "Hey, bring me a dollar!" he
commanded, speaking over his shoulder, and as the deputy went back to
the office to get one from his envelope the Roman mob fell back and
ceased its clamoring. The dollar was what they wanted. There was always
a Mex to clean up, but the dollar went for a feed—fruit, candy, good
things to eat—and not every man who entered could pay his fine. At the
same time they stood off a little from the prisoner at the bar, for he
had a bad look in his eye. The kangaroo sheriff, standing discreetly
aloof, noticed it; the alcalde also; and in the premonitory hush that
ensued even Boone Morgan began to read the signs of trouble. Next to
his dream of breaking up the cattle-stealing business in the mountains,
the Geronimo sheriff cherished the fond hope of building up a kangaroo
court that would take the entire problem of jail discipline off his
hands. It was an old idea, the kangaroo court, dimly reminiscent of
frontier cow-camps but smelling more of hoboism, yet good for law and
order if the right men were in power. Pete Monat was a terror to the
evil-doer, especially if he was a Mex or darker, and Boone Morgan stood
generously behind him, even when his decisions were a little rank.
Right now the situation looked ominous and as Pecos continued to spit
forth his venom, hissing and swelling like a snake at every approach of
the pack, he made bold to interfere in the puppet play.
"Here," he said, passing a dollar through the bars, "I'll advance you
the money—these fellows won't hurt you none."
"Keep your dirty dollar!" snapped Pecos, striking it away, "I got money
of my own!"
"Well, you don't need to git mad about it—I jest wanted to help you."
"Yes, you help me! You throw me into jail for somethin' I never done
and then bring this bunch of town boys in to see me kangarooed. That
big stiff hain't got no right to fine me a dollar, an' you know it,
but I'll give him the money all right—you jest wait!" He grinned
sardonically at Michael Slattery, straightened his back and waited. He
had all the time there was—the grand jury did not meet till Fall, and
that was six months yet. This was the law they talked about—this was
justice—to hold a man six months before he came to trial! Shut him up
in that dark, stinking hole and keep him until he was broken! Sure—and
let a bunch of yeggs spread-eagle him over a chair and beat him with a
strap! For a year Pecos had been at war with society and never struck a
blow for the revolution. But it was not too late. In turning him over
to a kangaroo court Boone Morgan had added the last indignity—it was
war now, and war to the knife.
The deputy returned leisurely, and shoved a dollar bill through the
bars.
"Much obliged," said Pecos, and he spoke so quietly that even the
kangaroo sheriff was deceived. "Here's your dollar," he said, turning
to hold out the money, "come and git it." There was a sinister note
in that last phrase, but Slattery did not catch it. He was a tall,
hulking man, heavy-handed and used to his own way; the cattle-rustler
was short and broad, like a stocky, hard-rock miner, and he stood with
his back to the bars as if he were afraid. "Come and git it," he said,
very quietly, but as Mike Slattery reached out his hand for the money
the cowboy grinned and jerked it back. Slattery grabbed, and like a
flash Pecos put over a blow that was freighted with sudden death. It
landed behind the yegg sheriff's massive jaw, threw him sideways and
whirled him over; then the thud of the blow was followed by a thump
and like a boneless carcass he piled up on the floor. To a man a few
removes farther from the ape the thump on the concrete floor would
have resulted in a cracked skull, but fortunately for Slattery hard
heads and evil dispositions generally go together, and he was safe from
anything short of an axe. It was the blow under the ear that had jarred
his brains—the bump against the concrete only finished the job up
and saved him from something worse. Without looking to see where his
victim fell Pecos Dalhart leapt vengefully into the swarming crowd of
prisoners, knocking them right and left like ten-pins and shouting in a
hoarse voice:
"Come an'—_huh_—git it! Come—_huh_—and _git_ it!" And at every grunt he
sent home a blow that laid his man on the floor.
"Back to your cells!" roared Boone Morgan, rattling the grating like a
lion caged away from a deadly battle. "Git back there and let me have
a chance!" But his voice was drowned in the deep-voiced challenge of
Pecos, the shrieks of trampled Mexicans, the curses and sound of blows.
Pandemonium broke loose and in the general uproar all semblance of
order was lost. On the outside of the bars a pair of shouting deputies
menaced the flying demon of discord with their pistols, calling on him
to stop; Boone Morgan tried to clear the corridor so that he could open
the door; but they might as well have thundered against the wind, for
Pecos Dalhart had gone hog wild and panic lay in his wake.
"Yeee-pah!" he screamed, as the way cleared up before him. "Hunt your
holes, you prairie dogs, or I'll shore deal you misery! Out of my road,
you dastards—I'm lookin' for that alcalde!" He fought his way down the
corridor, leaving his mark on every man who opposed him, and Pete Monat
came half way to meet him. Pete had been a fighter himself when he
first broke into the Geronimo jail and the confinement had not thinned
his sporting blood. He held the alcalde's strap behind him, doubled
to give it weight, and at the very moment that Pecos came lunging in
he laid it across his cheek with a resounding whack. The angry blood
stood out along the scar and before Pecos could dodge back he received
another welt that all but laid him low.
"Hit 'im again! Smash 'im! Fly at 'im, Pete!" yelled the crowd without,
and at the appearance of a leader the beaten gang of hobos came out of
their holes like bloodhounds. Pecos heard the scuffle of feet behind
him and turned to meet them. The fury in his eye was terrible, but he
was panting, and he staggered as he dodged a blow. For a single moment
he appraised the fighting odds against him—then with an irresistible
rush he battered his way past the alcalde and grabbed the back of
his chair. In the sudden turmoil and confusion that humble throne of
justice had been overlooked. It stood against the grating beyond which
Boone Morgan and his deputies cheered on the kangaroos, and as Pecos
whirled it in the air their shouting ceased.
There was a crash, a dull thump, and Pete Monat pitched forward with
his throne hung round his neck. The strap which had left its cruel mark
on Pecos fell to the floor before him, and Pecos, dropping the broken
back of the chair, stooped and picked it up. The alcalde lay silent now
beside the inert body of his sheriff and a great hush fell upon the
prison as he stood over them, glaring like a lion at bay. He held up a
bruised and gory fist and opened it tauntingly.
"Here's your dollar," he said, waving the bloody bill above his head,
"come and git it, you sons of goats! You don't want it, hey? Well,
git back into your cells, then—in with you, or I'll lash you to a
frazzle!" They went, and as the interlocking doors clanged behind them
Pecos turned to Boone Morgan and laughed. "That's what I think of your
Kangaroo Court," he said, "and your own dam' rotten laws. Here's to the
revolution!"
He flung his blood-red arms above his head and laughed again, bitterly;
and after they had carried out the injured he paced up and down the
corridor all night, cursing and raving against the law, while the
battered inmates gazed out through their bars or nodded in troubled
sleep. It was the revolution—no laws, no order, no government, no
nothing! The base hirelings of the law had thrown him into jail—all
right, he would put their jail on the bum.