THE POWER OF THE PRESS
The power of a venal and subsidized press in moulding public opinion is
a thing that can hardly be overstated, even by the _Voice of Reason_.
When Pecos Dalhart told the willowy young man from the _Blade_ to take
a running jump at himself he expressed as in no other way his absolute
contempt for society. Young Mr. Baker of the Geronimo _Blade_ had the
cigarette habit, he drank whiskey, and his private life would not
bear too close inspection—he was hardly the man that one would choose
as a censor of public character—and yet he held the job. When Pecos
had broken up Boone Morgan's Kangaroo Court and spoiled the clever
little court-house skit that Mr. Baker had framed up in his mind, that
unprincipled young man had alluded to him, briefly and contemptuously,
as a bad _hombre_ from the Verde country, a desperate fellow, etc., and
had ended by saying that Sheriff Morgan, who was convinced that he had
a dangerous criminal on his hands, was looking up his record in Texas.
That was a lovely introduction for a man who was held for the grand
jury—it reached the eye of nearly every qualified juror in the county
and was equivalent to about seven years in Yuma. If Mr. Baker had been
human this last admonition about the running jump would have raised
it to fourteen years, but they were short of copy that day and Baker
was only a reporter, so he sharpened up his pencil and wrote a little
jolly, just to keep Boone Morgan in good humor.
JAIL STRIKE A FAILURE
"Mr. Pecos Q. Dalhart, who signalized his incarceration in the
county jail by breaking up the prisoners' court, sending the Hon.
Pete Monat and Michael Slattery to the hospital, and beating
up the defenceless inmates with a chair, pulled off another
little _soirée_ last night, though for a different cause. It
appears that when Mr. Dalhart registered at the Hotel de Morgan
he had been reading a certain incendiary sheet which panders
to the unreasoning prejudice of the ignorant by a general rave
against the established order of things. With his mind inflamed
by this organ of anarchy Mr. Dalhart conceived the original and
ambitious idea of destroying the last vestige of law, order, and
government within the walls of his prison, and Sheriff Morgan,
being of a tolerant disposition, decided to let him try it on and
see how he enjoyed the results. Not every public officer would
have had the courage to permit such a firebrand to carry on his
propaganda unhindered, but Boone Morgan has merited the confidence
of every citizen of Geronimo County by his fearless handling
of the desperate men entrusted to his care, and the outcome of
this episode is a case in point. Only three days were needed to
convince the bad man from Verde Crossing of the error of his way.
His first outbreak was to destroy all law and order—his second was
to enforce the sanitary regulations of the prison. By his sudden
and decided stand for cleanliness Mr. Dalhart has shown that he
possesses the capacity for better things, even if he did make a
slight mistake in regard to Isaac Crittenden's spotted calf. The
scrap was a jim-dandy, while it lasted, but the issue was never in
doubt, for the Verde terror is a whirlwind when he gets started.
There have been house-cleanings galore in the past, but never
within the memory of man has the Geronimo jail received such a
washing and scrubbing as was administered when Dalhart rose up in
his wrath and put down the very strike which he had organized;
and while the sheriff cannot but deprecate his tendency to resort
to violence there is no gainsaying the fact that in this case his
motives were of the best. Stay with it, Pecos, you may be alcalde
yet!"
Pecos Dalhart was sitting in lonely state, eating the fresh-baked pie
which Hung Wo conferred upon him as the Boss, when Bill Todhunter
shoved a copy of the Geronimo _Blade_ through the bars.
"See you got yore name in the paper," he observed, but Pecos only
grunted. Curiosity is an attribute of the child—and besides, he was
more interested in his pie. It had always been an ambition of his
to have pie three times a day, and the steady round of beef, bread,
and coffee incidental to life on the range had made that hope seem a
dream dear enough almost to justify matrimony. At least, he had never
expected to attain to it any other way; but Hung Wo was a good cook,
when he wanted to be. To serve two prison meals a day for fourteen
cents and a profit meant pretty close figuring, and the patrons of
Hung Wo's downtown restaurant needed to have no compunctions about
leaving a part of their bounteous dinner untouched—the guests of the
Hotel de Morgan were not supposed to be superstitious about eating
"come-backs." It would be a poor Chinaman who could not feed you on ten
cents a day, if you didn't care what you ate. But Pecos cared, and he
cast a glance that was almost benevolent upon his faithful pie-maker as
he tucked the _Blade_ into his shirt.
"That's good pie, Charley," he said approvingly. "Some day when you
ketchum big hurry I make him boy wash dishes."
"Allite," responded Hung Wo, "you likee kek?"
"Sure thing! You savvey makum cake?"
"Me makum kek, pie, cha'lotte lusse, custa'd, plenty mo'!" declaimed
Charley, with pride.
"Sure! I know you! You keep big restaurant—down by Turf Saloon, hey? I
eat there, one time—heap good!"
"You tlink so?" beamed the child-like Oriental. "Allite, next time me
bingum kek!" He gathered up the tin pannikins and departed, radiant,
while Pecos crouched peacefully on his heels against the corridor bars.
"Say, they's a piece about you in that paper," volunteered Todhunter,
as he jerked open the cell doors, "that young feller that was here last
night wrote it up."
"Aw, to hell with 'im," growled Pecos scornfully; but at the same time
he was interested. Life within prison walls is not very exciting—there
is lots of company, but not of the best, and any man who does not want
to hear dirty stories or learn how "mooching" and "scoffing" is done,
or the details of the jungle life, is likely in time to become lonely.
Already he was hungry for the outdoor life—the beating of the hot sun,
the tug of the wind, the feel of the saddle between his knees—but alas,
he was doomed to spend his unprofitable days in jail, a burden to
himself and society! Six months in jail, before he could come before
the grand jury and have his trial—six months, and it had not yet been
six days. He drew the morning _Blade_ from his bosom and examined
it carefully, searching vainly through editorial columns and patent
insides until at last he caught the heading: "Jail Strike a Failure.
Bad Man from Verde Crossing Makes Prisoners Clean Up." Then he read
the article through carefully, mumbling over the big words in the hope
of sensing their meaning and lingering long over his name in print. At
the allusion to the _Voice of Reason_ he flushed hot with indignation;
muttered curses greeted the name of Sheriff Morgan; but every time he
came to "Mr. Dalhart" he smiled weakly and nursed his young mustache.
But after he had finished he went back and gazed long and intently at
his full name as given at the beginning:—"Mr. Pecos Q. Dalhart"—Pecos
Q.! He read the entire paper over carefully and came back to it again;
and that evening, when Mr. Baker of the _Blade_ strolled in, he
beckoned him sternly to the bars.
"Say," he said, "what the hell you mean by puttin' that 'Q.' in my
name—Pecos Q. Dalhart? My name is Pecos straight—named after that river
in Texas!"
"Oh, is it?" cried the young reporter, making a hurried note. "Well,
I beg your pardon, Mr. Dalhart, I'm sure. How's house-cleaning to-day?
Organized your court yet? No? Well, when you do, let me know. Always
like to be present, you understand, when you have a trial." He hurried
away, as if upon important business, and slowed down as suddenly before
the sheriff's office.
"That 'Q.' did the business," he observed, glancing triumphantly at the
assembled company. "I told you I'd make that rustler talk. A man may
not give a dam' what you say about him but he goes crazy if you get
his name wrong—I found that out long ago. Mr. Dalhart informs me that
his name is Pecos straight—no 'Q.' in it. Pecos Straight Dalhart! All
right, I'll try to get it right next time. What'll you bet we don't
have another Kangaroo Court before the end of the week?"
"The cigars," replied Boone Morgan casually. As a politician, cigars
were a matter of small import to him—when he was not giving them away
his friends were giving cigars to him.
"I'll go you!" cried Baker enthusiastically, "and the drinks, too. You
better turn Mr. Dalhart over to me for a while and watch me make a man
out of him. All I ask is that you give him the morning _Blade_."
"All right," assented Bill Todhunter, from the corner; and the next
morning Pecos received it with his breakfast. Charley Hung Wo had
provided him with an unusually tempting apple roll that morning but it
was neglected for the moment while he ran over the Court House Briefs.
He searched the whole page carefully, but there was no mention of Pecos
Dalhart, either with or without the "Q." He pondered upon the fact
during the day—having nothing else to do—and when the Friday paper
came out with nothing about the Hotel de Morgan in it he considered
the matter seriously. Then it came over him gradually—there was
nothing mysterious about it—the reporter was waiting for something
to happen—a kangaroo trial, or something like that. Well, anything for
a little excitement—why not? There were lots of things to be remedied.
The yeggs had a dirty way of tapping on the boiler-iron doors and
singing lewd songs after they were locked into their cells for the
night, a combination which broke in on his sleep; and knowing that they
were safe from his strap they persisted in this amusement until they
could sing no more, stoutly denying all knowledge of the disturbance in
the morning. It was the only revenge they could take on him and they
worked it to the limit. Not to be outdone in the matter of revenge he
drove them like a pack of peons in the morning, forcing them to do all
the cleaning while his Mexican friends rolled _cigarritos_—but that
was getting wearisome. Yet how easy it would be to change! The verdict
of a kangaroo jury is always "Guilty"—why not accuse half the yeggs of
disturbing the peace, appoint the jury from the other half, and let
yegg nature do the rest? Then sentence the prisoners at the bar to
clean up for a week. Why not, indeed!
At supper time Pecos spoke a few invitational words through the bars to
Bill Todhunter and about the time the boy reporter from the _Blade_ was
due he placed his chair against the doors and called his court to order.
"_Oyez! Oyez!_ The Kangaroo Court of Geronimo is now in session!" he
announced, in stentorian tones, and instantly the prisoners began to
assemble. "_Oyez_" was good Spanish for "Hear!" and brought out all the
Mexicans; and the Americans came on the run, eager for any excitement
to pass the time away.
"Blacky," said Pecos, addressing the one-time king of the yeggs, "bring
the Chi Kid before the bar of justice. He is accused of disturbing the
peace by singin' songs all night."
Without a moment's hesitation Philly Black laid violent hands upon his
friend and cellmate and dragged him before the court. The mandates of
the law are inexorable; and besides, Philly wanted the job of sheriff.
"Come up here, Chi," he swaggered, fetching Chi Kid around with a jerk,
"now stand there, or I'll punch youse in the jaw!" Chi stood, reading
his fate in every eye.
"Now, summon me a couple of witnesses!" commanded Pecos, and as Blacky
sifted through the crowd looking for a pair of men who could stand the
Kid off later, Boone Morgan and the boy reporter arrived from the outer
office and stood by to see the fun.
"Chi Kid," declaimed the judge, "you are accused of singin' dirty songs
all night and disturbin' of the peace. Do you plead guilty or not
guilty?"
"Not guilty!" responded Chi, rolling his evil eyes on the witnesses.
"Bring up them witnesses!" said Pecos briefly. "Slim, did you hear the
accused singing' them dirty songs of his last night?"
"Yes, Yer Honor!" answered Denver Slim dutifully, "and I couldn't
hardly sleep—Yer Honor!"
"Urr—it's too bad about you," commented the alcalde. "Bring up that
other witness!" The other witness had suffered a similar insomnia.
"That's all!" announced Pecos, with finality, "got to hurry this case
through now. Got anything to say for yourse'f, prisoner?"
"I demand a jury trial!" growled the Kid.
"Too late for that now—the defendant is found guilty and sentenced to
clean up for a week or git forty blows with the strap. Sheriff, bring
me Denver Slim!"
There was a genuine commotion at this, but Philly Black produced the
accused—he had to, or lose his job.
"Denver Slim, you are accused of hammerin' on your door all night and
disturbin' of the peace. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
Denver turned and made three successive jabs at the jail sheriff, who
had ruffled his feelings from behind; then he drew himself up and
remarked:
"I don't plead!"
"'Don't plead' is the same as 'Not guilty,'" said Pecos, remembering
his experience with Pete Monat, "and more than that," he thundered,
"it's the same as contempt of court! Mr. Sheriff, spread-eagle the
prisoner over a chair while I give him ten good ones for contempt—the
trial will then proceed!" He rose from his chair and approached the
defendant warily, hefting his strap as he came, and Denver became so
deeply engrossed in his movements that Philly Black closed with him
from the rear. There was a struggle, gazed upon judicially by the
alcalde, and at last with a man on every arm and leg Denver was laid
sprawling over the back of the chair while the prisoners gibbered
with delight. The blows were laid on soundly and yet with a merciful
indulgence and when the humiliating ceremony was over Pecos had won
every heart but one. Denver Slim was sore, of course; but how are you
to have a Roman holiday unless somebody else gets hurt? They had a long
and protracted jury trial after this, with a fiery denunciation of
law-breakers by John Doe, the district attorney; and the verdict, of
course, was "Guilty." Then they kangarooed a few Mexicans to clean up
their side of the house and ended with a jubilee chorus of "Kansas."
"I'll tell you what they do—_in Kansas_!"
It was great. There was a piece about it in the paper the next morning
and prospective grand jurymen slapped their legs and remarked, one to
the other: "That Pecos Dalhart is a proper fighting fool, ain't he? I
reckon Old Crit just jumped him into that racket up the river in order
to git him out of the country. It's a dam' shame, too, when you think
how many Crit has stole!"
But alas, neither public praise nor blame could open up the bars and
let Pecos out of jail. He was held by a power higher than any man—the
power of the Law, which, because it has endured so long and is, in
fact, all we have, is deemed for that reason sacred. And the law was
busy—it is always busy—and behind. Well, Pecos didn't know much about
it, except what he had read in the _Voice of Reason_, but as he heard
the ponderous wheels of the law grinding about him, saw yeggs escape by
cleverly devised tales and Mexicans soaked because they were slow and
dumb, he wondered if that was the only way they could make a stagger at
justice. A drunken cowboy had seized a gay man-about-town and taken his
pen-knife from his pocket—grand larceny of the person, he was sentenced
to seven years. Another drunken reprobate had beaten up the roustabout
in a saloon—and got thirty days for assault and battery. Both drunk
and both bad, but one had played to hard luck. He had taken property,
the other had hurt a man. Pecos saw when it was too late where he had
marred his game—he should have beaten Old Crit instead of branding his
calf.
In sombre silence he listened day by day as the jail-lawyers—wise
criminals who had been in the toils before—cooked up stories to explain
away misdeeds; he watched day by day as the prisoners came down from
their trial, some with bowed heads or cursing blindly, others laughing
hysterically as they scuttled out the door; and many a man who had
sworn to a lie went free where simple-minded sinners plead guilty and
took their fate. Some there were who had boggled their stories because
their dull minds could not compass the deceit; the district attorney
had torn them to flinders, raging and threatening them with his finger
for the perjured fools they were, and the judge had given them the
limit for swearing to a lie. Even in jail it was the poor and lowly who
were punished, while the jail-lawyers and those who could afford the
petty dollar that hired them took shelter behind the law. Yes, it was
all a game, and the best man won—if he held the cards.
Slowly and with painstaking care Pecos went over his own case,
comparing it with these others, and his heart sank as he saw where the
odds lay. The spotted calf was his—he could swear to it—but it bore
the brand of Crittenden and he had lost his bill of sale. There were
forty two-gun cowboys working for Crit and any one of them would swear
him into jail for a drink—they had done it, so he knew. José Garcia
was afraid to tell the truth and Crittenden would scare him worse than
ever before the trial took place. Ah, that trial—it was more than five
months off yet and he could not stir a foot! Once outside the bars
and free-footed he could shake up the dust; he could rustle up his
witnesses and his evidence and fight on an equality with Crit. But no,
the munneypullistic classes had a bigger pull on him than ever, now—he
was jailed in default of bail and no one would put up the price. God,
what an injustice! A rich man—a man with a single friend who could put
up a thousand dollars' bail—_he_ could go free, to hire his lawyers,
look up his witnesses, and fight his case in the open; but a poor
man—he must lay his condemned carcass in jail and keep it there while
the law went on its way. Day by day now the prisoners went to Yuma
to serve their time, or passed out into the world. But were those who
passed out innocent? The law said so, for it set them free. And yet
they were white with the deadly pallor of the prison, their hands were
weak from inactivity, and their minds poisoned by the vile company of
yeggs; they had lain there in the heat all summer while judges went to
the coast and grand jurymen harvested their hay, and after all their
suffering, as a last and crowning flaunt, the law had declared them
innocent! It had been many days since Pecos had seen the _Voice of
Reason_ and he had lost his first enthusiasm for the revolution, but
nothing could make him think that this was right. The Law was like
his kangaroo court, that travesty which he made more villainous in
order to show his scorn; it laid hold upon the innocent and guilty and
punished them alike. Only the sturdy fighters, like him, escaped—or the
prisoners who had their dollar. That was it—money! And Pecos Dalhart
had always been poor.
As the mills of the gods ground on, Pete Monat, with his bandaged
head, and Mike Slattery, still nursing his battered jaw, were removed
from the bridal chamber, tried, and lodged in the tanks for safety.
Pete had hired a shyster lawyer and got ten years in Yuma; Mike had
plead his own case and escaped with only three. It was this last
lesson that Pecos conned in his heart. When Slattery the yegg was
arrested he had feigned an overpowering drunkenness, and though the
case was all against him—he had been caught in the act of burglarizing
a lodging-house and was loaded down with loot—he had nevertheless
framed up a good defence. With the artless innocence of the skilled
"moocher" he explained to the court that while under the influence of
no less than seven drinks of straight alcohol he had mistaken another
gentleman's room for his own and had gathered up his wardrobe under
the misapprehension that it was his own. At every attempt to prove his
culpability he had represented that, beyond the main facts, his mind
was a complete blank, at the same time giving such a witty description
of the paralyzing effects of "Alki" that even the district attorney
had laughed. According to Mike that was the way to get off easy, be
polite and respectful-like to the judge and jury and jolly up the
prosecuting attorney—and in this contention the unfortunate experience
of Pete Monat clearly bore him out. Pete had made the fatal mistake
of hiring, with two months' back pay, a "sucking lawyer" who had so
antagonized the district attorney that that gentleman had become
enraged, making such a red-hot speech against the damnable practice of
horse-stealing—"a crime, gentlemen of the jury, which, because it may
leave the innocent owner of that horse to die of thirst on the desert,
ought by rights to be made a capital offence"—that poor Pete was found
guilty and sentenced before he could build up a new defence.
"Oh, I don't hold nothin' agin you, Pardner," he replied, in answer to
Pecos's solicitude for the influence of his battered head, "the jury
didn't cinch me for my looks—it's that dam' narrer-headed jack-lawyer
that I got to thank f'r this. He wouldn't let me tell my story, jest
the way it was. You know, an' I know, that when a man gits his time on
the range the boss is obligated to give him a mount to town. How's a
cowboy goin' to git his riggin' to town—walk and pack his saddle? Well,
now, jest because I give old Sage some back talk and quit him when he
was short-handed he told me to walk; an' me, like the dam' fool I was,
I went out and roped a hoss instead. Then, jest to git even, he had me
arrested for a hoss-thief. But would this pin-head of a lawyer hear to
a straight talk like that? No—he has me plead 'Not guilty' and swear
I never took the hoss—an' you know the rest. That district attorney
is a mean devil—he won't let nobody stand against him—you might as
well plead 'Guilty' and take the mercy of the court as to try to buck
against him. But whatever you do, Pardner, don't hire no tin-horn
lawyer—I give ten years of my life to find that out." Pete sighed and
rubbed his rough hands together wearily—it would be long before they
felt the rope and the branding iron and the hard usage of honest toil.
A great pity came over Pecos at the thought of his unhappy lot, and
he treated him kindly before the other prisoners; but all the time a
greater fear was clutching at his heart. Pete had taken a horse, but
he had burned a calf—and Arizona hates a rustler worse than it hates
a horse-thief. For all his strength and spirit, he was caught—caught
like a rat in a trap—and as the imminence of his fate came over him he
lost his leonine bearing and became furtive, like the rest of them.
Outwardly he was the same, and he ruled the jail with a rod of iron,
but at heart he was a true prisoner—cunning, cringing, watchful,
dangerous—all his faculties centred upon that one thought, to escape!