THE LAW AND THE EVIDENCE
As the rising sun poured its flood of glorious light into the
court-house square and the janitor, according to his custom, threw
open the court-room doors to sweep, there was a scuffling of eager
feet from without and the swift-moving pageantry of the Dalhart
trial began. A trio of bums who had passed the night _al fresco_ on
the park benches hustled past the astounded caretaker and bestowed
themselves luxuriously on the front seats. As the saloons opened up and
discharged their over-night guests others of the brotherhood drifted
in and occupied the seats behind, and by the time the solid citizens
of Geronimo had taken care of their stock, snatched their breakfasts,
and hurried to the scene there was standing room only in the teeming
chamber of justice. Only the special venire of jurymen took their time
in the matter and the sweating bailiff had to pass them in through
the side door in order to get them seated inside the railing. At
nine-thirty Boone Morgan brought in the defendant, freshly shaven and
with his hair plastered down across his forehead, and sat with him near
the jail door. It was all in the line of duty, but there were those
who remarked that it was right clever of old Boone to throw in that
way with his jail alcalde. Some people would have put the nippers on
him for the cow-thief that he was, and chained him to a deputy. Behind
them, the cynosure of all eyes, sat the counsel for the defendant,
Angevine Thorne, his round baby face illuminated with the light of a
great resolve. On that day he was going to save his friend from prison
or climb spider-webs in the attempt. A hush fell over the assembly
as the hour of trial drew near and only the gaunt figure of Shepherd
Kilkenny, pacing up and down before the empty jury-box, suggested the
battle that was to come. The rest was as pathetic as the Angelus.
The soft morning breeze breathed in through the windows and as Pecos
glimpsed the row of horses tied to the hitching rack he filled his
lungs deep with the sweet air, and sighed. The invalid who has been
confined to his room longs vaguely for the open air, but to the strong
man of action, shut up for months in a close cell, the outer world
seems like a dream of paradise and he sees a new heaven in the skies.
In the tense silence of waiting the tragedy in his face afflicted the
morbid crowd and made them uneasy; they shifted their eyes to the
stern, fighting visage of the district attorney and listened hopefully
for the clock. It struck, slowly and with measured pauses, and as the
last stroke sounded through the hall the black curtain behind the bench
parted and the judge stepped into court. Then instantly the sheriff's
gavel came down upon the table; the People rose before the person of
the Law, and in sonorous tones Boone Morgan repeated the ancient
formula for the calling of the court.
"_Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!_ The District Court of Geronimo County is now in
session!"
The judge threw off his robes and sat down and as the audience sank
back into their crowded seats he cast one swift, judicial glance at the
defendant, the clerk, and the district attorney and called the case
of Pecos Dalhart, charged with the crime of grand larceny. With the
smoothness of well-worn machinery the ponderous wheels of justice began
to turn, never halting, never faltering, until the forms prescribed
by law had been observed. One after the other, the clerk called the
names of the forty talesmen, writing each name on a slip of paper as
the owner answered "Here"; then at a word from the judge he placed the
slips in a box and shook out twelve names upon the table. As his name
was called and spelled each talesman rose from his seat and shambled
over to the jury-box, turning his solemn face from the crowd. They
held up their right hands and swore to answer truthfully all questions
relative to their qualifications as jurors, and sat down to listen
to the charges; then, after reading the information upon which the
accusations were based, the district attorney glanced shrewdly at the
counsel for defendant and called the first juryman. The battle had
begun.
The first talesman was a tall, raw-boned individual with cowman written
all over him, and the district attorney was careful not to ask his
occupation. He wanted a jury of twelve cowmen, no less; and, knowing
every man in the venire either by sight or reputation, he laid himself
out to get it.
"Mr. Rambo," he began, "do you know the defendant in this case?" He
indicated Pecos Dalhart with a contemptuous wave of the hand, and Mr.
Rambo said he did not. "Know anything about this case?"
"Only what I read in the papers," responded the cowman dryly.
"You don't believe everything you read, do you, Mr. Rambo? If you were
passed for a juror you wouldn't let anything you have read influence
your mind, if it was proven that the defendant was guilty, would you?"
"No, sir!"
"If I should prove to your satisfaction that the defendant
here"—another contemptuous wave of the hand—"had wilfully and
feloniously stolen and branded the animal in question, what would your
verdict be—'Guilty' or 'Not guilty'?"
"W'y—er—'Guilty'!"
"Pass the juror!" snapped the district attorney, and then he looked at
the counsel for the defendant as if imploring him not to waste any of
the court's valuable time.
"Mr. Rambo," began Angy, singing the words in a child-like, embarrassed
manner, "you are engaged in the business of raising cattle, are you
not?"
The district attorney winced at this, but Angevine Thorne did not take
advantage of his discovery. He also wanted a jury of twelve cowmen,
though he did not show his hand.
"Very good," he observed, "and I suppose, Mr. Rambo, that you are
acquainted with the law in this case which makes it a felony for any
man to mark or brand the stock of another man? Very good. Have you any
prejudice against that law, Mr. Rambo? You believe that it should be
enforced impartially, do you not—against the rich as well as the poor?
Very good. Pass the juror!"
For a moment Shepherd Kilkenny could hardly believe his ears. The drift
of every one of the questions had led naturally up to a challenge and
yet at the end Angy had passed the juror. He glanced quickly at the
innocent face of his opponent, opened his mouth to speak, and then
hurried on with his examination. The second man was interested in the
cattle business, too; and when Angy passed him the judge felt called
upon to speak.
"You know, do you not, Mr. Thorne," he said, "that it is your
privilege to excuse any juror whose occupation or condition of mind
might indicate a prejudice against your client?"
"Yes, indeed, Your Honor," replied Mr. Thorne, suavely, "but I have
perfect confidence in the integrity of the two gentlemen just passed. I
feel sure that they will do full justice to Mr. Dalhart."
"Very well, then," said His Honor, "let the examination proceed!"
With all the address of a good tactician who sees that his opponent
has mistaken a two-spot for an ace, Shepherd Kilkenny flew at his
task, but each time that Angy passed one of his cowmen he paused just
the fraction of a second, glanced apprehensively about the room, and
rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The defence was playing right into his
hand, but he didn't know whether he liked it or not. When it came to
the peremptory challenges he excused two health-seekers and a mining
man, but Thorne did not challenge a man. Once more the clerk shook
the names out of his box and within half an hour the district attorney
had the very jury he wanted—every man of them interested in the cattle
business and ready to cinch a rustler as they would kill a rattlesnake.
It seemed almost too good to be true. Even the staid judge was
concerned, for he had a sober sense of justice and Angy's appointment
had been slightly irregular; but after a long look at that individual
he motioned for the trial to proceed. The evidence was all against the
defendant anyway, and he could cut off a year or two on the sentence to
make amends.
"Swear the jurors!" he said, and holding up their rope-scarred hands
and looking coldly across the room at the alleged rustler, the twelve
cowmen swore to abide by the law and the evidence and a true verdict
find. Then the district attorney pulled his notes from his hip-pocket
as a man might draw a deadly weapon and began his opening statement to
the jury.
"Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "in the case of the
People of the Territory of Arizona _versus_ Pecos Dalhart, we shall
show that on or about the eighth day of May the said Pecos Dalhart did
wilfully, feloniously, and unlawfully pursue, rope, and brand a calf,
said calf being the property of Isaac Crittenden of Verde Crossing,
Territory of Arizona; that the said Pecos Dalhart was arrested and,
upon being taken before a magistrate, he did plead 'Not guilty' and was
held for the grand jury, which handed down an indictment against him;
that upon being arraigned before the judge he did plead 'Not guilty'
and was remanded for trial upon the crime charged in the indictment,
to wit:—that he did feloniously and unlawfully mark, brand, or alter
the brand on a neat animal, to wit, one red-and-white spotted calf,
said calf being the property of Isaac Crittenden, of Verde Crossing,
Territory of Arizona, contrary to the form, force, and effect of the
statute in such case made and provided and against the peace and
dignity of the People of the Territory of Arizona. Mr. Crittenden, will
you please take the stand!"
All the other witnesses had been relegated to the jury-room, where
they would be beyond the sound of the court, but being the complaining
witness Isaac Crittenden was entitled to remain and he sat just behind
the district attorney, fumbling with the high collar that galled his
scrawny neck and rolling his evil eye upon the assemblage. As he rose
up from his place and mounted the witness stand a rumble of comment
passed through the hall and the sheriff struck his gavel sharply for
order.
"Swear the witness, Mr. Clerk," directed the judge, and raising his
right hand in the air Isaac Crittenden rose and faced the court,
looking a trifle anxious and apprehensive, as befits one who is about
to swear to a lie. Also, not being used to actions in court, he
entertained certain illusions as to the sanctity of an oath, illusions
which were, however, speedily banished by the professional disrespect
of the clerk. Reaching down under the table for a penholder which
he had dropped and holding one hand weakly above his head he recited
with parrot-like rapidity the wearisome formula of the oath:—"Do you
solemnly swear that the evidence you are about to give in the case of
the People _versus_ Pecos Dalhart shall be the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth, s'elpyougod?"
Crittenden blinked his good eye and sat down. There was nothing very
impressive about the proceeding, but all the same he was liable for
perjury.
"Calling your attention to the eighth day of May, of the present
year, where were you on that day, Mr. Crittenden?" It was the first
gun in the real engagement and the surging crowd about the doors quit
scrouging for a view and poised their heads to listen. The voice of the
district attorney was very quiet and reassuring, and Isaac Crittenden,
taking his cue, answered with the glib readiness of a previous
understanding.
"I was gathering cattle with my cowboys near my ranch at Verde
Crossing."
"And upon returning to your home did you encounter any one in the deep
_arroyo_ which lies above your ranch?"
"Yes, sir," responded Crittenden, "I come across Pecos Dalhart."
"Is this the gentleman to whom you refer?" inquired Kilkenny, pointing
an accusing thumb toward Pecos. "Very good, then—you identify the
defendant. Now, Mr. Crittenden, what was the defendant doing at that
time?"
"He had a spotted calf of mine strung out by a little fire and was
alterin' the brand with a runnin' iron." Old Crit's eye wandered
instinctively to Pecos Dalhart as he spoke and gleamed with a hidden
fire, but his face was as expressionless as a death mask.
"I offer the following animal in evidence," said the district attorney,
beckoning toward the side door. "Bring in the exhibit!" And as Bill
Todhunter appeared, sheepishly leading the spotted calf, which had
been boarded all summer in town, he threw out his hand dramatically and
hissed:
"Do you identify this animal? Is that the calf?"
"I do!" responded Crit. "It is the same animal!"
"That's all!" announced Kilkenny, and with a grin of triumph he
summoned the hawk-eyed jurymen to inspect the brand. There it was,
written on the spotted side of the calf, in ineffaceable lines—the
plain record of Pecos Dalhart's crime, burned with his own hands.
Across the older scar of Isaac Crittenden's brand there ran a
fresh-burnt bar, and below the barred Spectacle was a Monkey-wrench,
seared in the tender hide. To a health-seeker or a mining man the
significance of those marks might be hidden, but the twelve cowmen
on the jury read it like a book. Only one thing gave them a passing
uneasiness—Crit's Spectacle brand was very evidently devised to burn
over Pecos Dalhart's Monkey-wrench, but that was beside the point.
They were there to decide whether Pecos Dalhart had stolen that
particular spotted calf, and the markings said that he did. By that
broad bar which ran through the pair of Spectacles he deprived Isaac
Crittenden of its ownership, and by the Monkey-wrench burned below he
took it for his own. All right then,—they retired to their seats and
Angevine Thorne took the witness.
They faced each other for a minute—the man who had committed a crime
and covered it, and the man who had sworn to expose his guilt—and began
their fencing warily.
"Mr. Crittenden," purred Angy, "you are in the cattle business, are you
not? Yes, indeed; and about how many cattle have you running on your
range?"
"I don't know!" answered Crittenden gruffly.
"At the last time you paid your taxes you were assessed for about ten
thousand, were you not? Quite correct; I have the statement of the
assessor here to verify it. Now, Mr. Crittenden, kindly tell the jury
what per cent of those cattle are calves?"
"I don't know," replied Crit.
"No?" said Angy, with assumed surprise. "Well then, I hope the court
will excuse me for presuming to tell a cowman about cows but the
percentage of calves on an ordinary range is between fifty and sixty
per cent. So, according to that you have on your range between five and
six thousand calves, have you not? Very good. And now, Mr. Crittenden,
speaking roughly, about how many of your cattle are solid color?"
"I don't know!" scowled Crit.
"You don't know," repeated Angy gravely. "Very good. I wish the
court to note that Mr. Crittenden is a very poor observer. Now, Mr.
Crittenden, you have stated that you do not know how many cattle you
have; nor how many of said cattle are calves; nor how many of said
calves are solid color or spotted. Will you kindly inform the court,
then, how you know that the calf which has been produced in evidence
is yours?"
"Well—" said Crittenden, and then he stopped. The one thing which he
was afraid of in this trial was about to happen—Angy was going to
corner him on the maternity of the calf, and that would make him out a
cow-thief. The district attorney scowled at him to go ahead and then,
in order to cover up the failure, he leapt to his feet and cried:
"Your Honor, I object to the line of questioning on the ground that it
is irrelevant, incompetent, and immaterial!"
"If the court please," spoke up Angevine Thorne, "the witness has
positively identified the calf in question as his own, although it is
a matter of record that he possesses four or five thousand calves, all
of which have been born within the past year and over half of which are
spotted. It is the purpose of the defence to prove that this calf does
not belong to the witness; that it was the property of Pecos Dalhart
at the time the alleged crime was committed, _and that it had been
previously stolen by Isaac Crittenden_!"
As he shouted these words Angy pointed an accusing finger at Old Crit,
who started back like a man who had been struck, and while the clamor
of deputies and bailiffs filled the court-room they stood there like
the figures in a tableau, glaring at each other with inextinguishable
hatred.
"Order in the court! Order in the court!" cried the bailiffs, beating
back the crowd, and when the assembly had been quieted the judge
motioned to Angy to proceed.
"Objection is overruled," he said, and bent his dark brows upon Isaac
Crittenden. "Let the witness answer the question."
"Well, the calf had my brand on it," responded Crittenden defiantly,
and then, egged on by Angy's sarcastic smile, he went a step too far.
"Yes, and I know him, too!" he blurted out. "I'd know that calf among a
thousand, by them spots across his face."
"Oh, you would, would you?" spoke up Angy quickly. "You have a
distinct recollection of the animal on account of its peculiar markings
then; is that right? Very good. When did you put your brand on that
calf, Mr. Crittenden?"
"Last Spring," replied Crittenden grudgingly.
"You know the law regarding the branding of calves," prompted Angy.
"Was the calf with its mother at the time?"
"It was!"
"And did she bear the same brand that you burned upon her calf?"
"She did!"
"Any other brands?"
"Nope!"
"Raised her yourself, did you?"
"_Yes!_" shouted Crittenden angrily.
"That's all!" said Angy briefly, and Isaac Crittenden sank back into
his chair, dazed at the very unexpectedness of his escape. It was a
perilous line of questioning that his former roustabout had taken up,
leading close to the stealing of Upton's cattle and the seizing of
Pecos Dalhart's herd, but at the very moment when he might have sprung
the mine Angy had withheld his hand. The gaunt cowman tottered to his
seat in a smother of perspiration, and Shepherd Kilkenny, after a
moment's consideration, decided to make his hand good by calling a host
of witnesses.
They came into court, one after the other, the hard-faced gun-men that
Crittenden kept about his place, and with the unblinking assurance of
men who gamble even with life itself they swore to the stereotyped
facts, while Angy said never a word.
"The People rest!" announced the district attorney at last, and lay
back smiling in his chair to see what his opponent would spring.
"Your Honor and gentlemen of the jury," began Angevine Thorne, speaking
with the easy confidence of a barrister, "the prosecution has gone
to great lengths to prove that Pecos Dalhart branded this calf. The
defence freely admits that act, but denies all felonious intent. We
will show you, gentlemen of the jury, that at the time he branded the
animal it was by law and right his own, and that during his absence it
had been feloniously and unlawfully branded into the Spectacle brand by
the complaining witness, Isaac Crittenden. Mr. Dalhart, will you please
take the stand!"
Awkward and shamefaced in the presence of the multitude and painfully
conscious of his jail clothes, Pecos mounted to the stand and turned
to face his inquisitor. They had rehearsed the scene before—for
Babe Thorne was not altogether ignorant of a lawyer's wiles—and his
examination went off as smoothly as Kilkenny's examination of Crit,
down to the point where Pecos was rudely pounced upon and roped while
he was branding his spotted calf. Then it was that Angevine Thorne's
voice began to ring like a trumpet, and as he came to the crucial
question the audience stood motionless to listen.
"Now, Mr. Dalhart," he clarioned, "you say that you purposely barred
the Spectacle brand upon this calf and burned your own brand, which
was a Monkey-wrench, below it? What was your reason for that act?"
"My reason was that the calf was mine!" cried Pecos, rising angrily to
his feet. "When I first come to Verde Crossing I bought an old spotted
cow and her calf from José Garcia and branded them with a Monkey-wrench
on the ribs—I kept her around my camp for a milk cow. That first calf
growed up and she was jest comin' in with another one when I went to
New Mexico last Fall. Well, when I came back last Spring I hadn't got
into town yet when I come across my old milk cow with her ears all
chopped up and her brand burned over and this little calf, lookin' jest
like her, with a Spectacle brand burned on his ribs. That made me mad
and I was jest ventin' the calf back to a Monkey-wrench when Crittenden
and his cowboys jumped in and roped me!"
"You say that you bought the mother of this calf from José Garcia?"
"Yes, sir! I paid him twenty-five dollars for the cow and five dollars
for the first calf."
"What were the brand and markings of this cow at the time you bought
her?"
"She had a Mexican brand, like an Injun arrer struck by lightning, on
her left hip, a big window or _ventano_ in the left ear, and a slash
and underbit in the right. Garcia vented his brand on her shoulder and
I run a Monkey-wrench—that's my regular, registered brand—on her ribs,
but I never changed her ear marks because I kept her for a milk cow
anyway."
"Your Honor," interposed Kilkenny, rising with a bored air to his
feet, "I object to this testimony on the ground that it is irrelevant,
incompetent, and immaterial. I fail to see the relation of this
hypothetical milk cow to the question before the court."
"The cow in question was the mother of the calf which my client is
accused of stealing!" cried Angy, panting with excitement as he saw
the moment of his triumph approaching. "She was sold to the defendant
and he had a legal right to her offspring. Can a man steal his own
property, Your Honor? Most assuredly not! I wish to produce that cow in
evidence and I will bring competent witnesses to prove that she belongs
by rights to Pecos Dalhart. Bring in the exhibit, Mr. Todhunter!"
He waved his hand toward the side door and as Kilkenny saw the _coup_
which had been sprung on him he burst into a storm of protest. "I
object, Your Honor!" he shouted, "I object!"
"Objection overruled!" pronounced the judge. "Let the cow be brought in
as quickly as possible and after the examination of the exhibit we will
proceed at once to the argument."
He paused, and as the crowd that blocked the side door gave way before
the bailiffs, Old Funny-face was dragged unwillingly into court and
led to the sand boat to join her calf. At the first sight of her
dun-colored face and spotted neck every man in the jury-box looked at
his neighbor knowingly. They were cowmen, every one of them used to
picking out mothers by hair-marks in the corral cut, and Old Funny-face
was a dead ringer for her calf. Even to the red blotch across his dun
face the calf was the same, and when Funny-face indignantly repulsed
its advances they were not deceived, for a cow soon forgets her
offspring, once it is taken away. But most of all their trained eyes
dwelt upon the mangled ears, the deep swallow fork in the left and the
short crop in the right, and the record of the brands on her side.
There was the broken arrow, just as Pecos had described it, and the
vent mark on the shoulder. It would take some pretty stiff swearing
to make them believe that that Spectacle brand on her ribs had not
been burnt over a Monkey-wrench. It was Angy's inning now, and with a
flourish he called Pecos to the stand and had him identify his cow; but
when he called José Garcia, and José, gazing trustfully into Angy's
eyes, testified that she was his old milk cow and he had, _sin duda_,
sold her to Pecos Dalhart for twenty-five dollars, the self-composed
Kilkenny began to rave with questions, while Crittenden broke into a
cold sweat. Not only was the case going against him, but it threatened
to leave him in the toils. It was too late to stop Garcia now—he had
said his say and gone into a sullen silence—there was nothing for it
but to swear, and swear hard. Kilkenny was on his toes, swinging his
clenched fist into the hollow of his hand and raging at the witness,
when Crittenden suddenly dragged him down by the coat-tails and began
to whisper into his ear. Instantly the district attorney was all
attention; he asked a question, and then another; nodded, and addressed
the court.
"Your Honor," he said, "I will excuse the witness and ask to call
others in rebuttal. Will you take the chair, Mr. Crittenden!"
Old Crit advanced to the stand and faced the court-room, a savage gleam
in his eye.
"Do you recognize this cow, Mr. Crittenden?" inquired Kilkenny mildly.
"Yes, sir, I know her well. She's an old gentle cow that's been hangin'
around my corral for years. I took her from Joe Garcia, last Spring,
for some money he was owin' me."
"What?" yelled Angy, springing up from his chair, "do you mean to say—"
"I object, Your Honor!" clamored Kilkenny desperately. "I object! The
witness is mine!"
"The People's witness," ruled the judge; "let the examination proceed."
"Is this cow the mother of the calf in question—do you identify her as
the mother of this calf?"
"I do!" repeated Crittenden solemnly. "And you can summon any of my
cowboys—they'll swear to her."
"Take the witness!" said Kilkenny, leering at Angevine Thorne, and in
spite of all Angy could do Crit stuck to his story, word for word. One
after the other his cowboys took the chair, glanced at their boss, and
identified the cow and calf. Kilkenny had won, and before Babe Thorne
could collect his wits he plunged into his closing argument.
"Gentlemen of the jury," he cried, "the people of Geronimo County are
looking to you to-day to vindicate justice in the courts. It is the
shame of Geronimo County—spoken against her by all the world—that not
a single cattle-thief has ever been convicted in her courts. Men have
been tried; their guilt has been demonstrated to a moral certainty; but
the evidence has been insufficient, and they have escaped. Gentlemen
of the jury, a year and a half ago the defendant in this case came to
Geronimo County without a cent; he went to work for Mr. Crittenden, who
kindly took him in; but within a few months, gentlemen of the jury,
Pecos Dalhart left the service of his benefactor and moved to Lost Dog
Cañon. Six months later, gentlemen, when the sheriff at the risk of his
life rode into his guilty hiding-place, Mr. Dalhart had _two hundred
head of cattle_ shut up in a secret pasture! _Two—hundred—head_,
gentlemen; and he defied the sheriff of this county _to even collect
the taxes_ upon those cattle! Gentlemen of the jury, I ask you, Where
did this man get those two hundred head of cattle? Did he bring them
with him? No, for the evidence shows that he rode in alone. Did he buy
them? No, for he had no money. Gentlemen of the jury, that man who sits
before you _stole_ those cattle, and he does not dare to deny it!"
He paused and looked about the court-room, and a great hush came upon
the entire assembly. Every man in the crowded standing room stood
silent and the surge of those without the doorway died down in a tremor
of craning heads. Kilkenny had won—but he had not finished. Point by
point he went over the chain of his evidence, testing every link to
prove that it was true, and then in a final outburst of frenzy he drove
the last point home.
"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, in closing, "the defendant stands
before you, convicted by his own words. He acknowledges that he
branded the calf; he acknowledges that he set at defiance all law
and justice and robbed the man who had befriended him—and what is
his defence? That Isaac Crittenden had robbed him of his cow! Isaac
Crittenden, who has cattle on a thousand hills! A man known, and
favorably known, in this community for twenty years! Gentlemen, I ask
of you, whose word will you take in this matter? The word of this
self-confessed cattle-rustler and his Mexican consort or the word of
Isaac Crittenden of Verde Crossing? Gentlemen of the jury, it has
been the shame of Geronimo County for many years that this practice
of rustling cattle has never received its fitting rebuke. It has been
the shame of Arizona that the rights of the cattle men, the men who
dared the Indians and braved the desert and made this country what
it is, have never been protected. You have seen what this negligence
has brought to our near neighbor, Tonto County—a cattle war in
which over fifty men have given up their lives; a beautiful cattle
country, devastated of all its flocks and herds. It has brought death,
gentlemen, and destruction of property, and—_bankruptcy_! Gentlemen, I
ask you for a verdict of 'Guilty'!"
He sat down, and Angevine Thorne rose to his feet, bewildered. The
speech which he had prepared to save his friend was forgotten; the
appeals which he could have made were dead. He gazed about the court
and read in every eye the word that was still ringing in his ears:
"Guilty!" And yet he knew that Pecos was not guilty. Cattle he had
stolen, yes—but not the cattle in court. They, of all the animals he
had owned, had been honestly acquired; but Old Crit had sworn him into
prison. It was right, perhaps, but it was not Law—and it was the law
that held him. As he looked at the forbidding faces before him, each
one hard and set by the false words of Crit and Shepherd Kilkenny, the
monstrous injustice of the thing rushed over him and he opened his
lips to speak. It was a conspiracy—a hellish combination of lawyers
and the men they served, to beat the poor man down. The old rage for
the revolution, the rage which he had put so resolutely from his
heart, rushed back and choked him; he scowled at the sneering district
attorney and Old Crit, humped over in his chair; and turned to the
glowering audience, searching with the orator's instinct for a single
friendly face. But there was none; every man was against him—every one!
He raised his hand to heaven—and stopped. There was a struggle in the
doorway—a bailiff, tall and burly, was thrusting back a young girl who
struggled to get free—and then like a flash of light Babe Thorne saw
her face, the wild-eyed, piteous face of Marcelina!
"Here!" he commanded, leaping upon a chair and pointing with an
imperious hand. "Let that girl in! Your Honor, I demand that that girl
be let in! This trial is her trial, Your Honor—she is Marcelina Garcia,
my friend's affianced bride!" In that single moment he saw it—the
last desperate chance to save his friend—a sentimental appeal to the
jury! How many men have been saved from prison and gallows and the
just punishment of their crimes by such a ruse! Given the aged mother,
the despairing wife, the sweetheart, clinging to his hand, and all the
thunderings of Jove will fail of conviction. The law and the evidence
are nothing; Reason is dethroned and Justice tips her scales to send
the prisoner free. With a surly frown the bailiff let go his hold and
like a hunted creature that flees from the memory of her pursuers
Marcelina ran panting down the aisle and threw herself at the feet of
the just judge.
"Oh, Meester," she cried, holding up her hands, "do not send Paycos to
preeson! Look, here are the ears of Old Funny-face, his cow, what Ol'
Creet stole while he was gone! Paycos did not steal the cow—no, no! He
buy heem from my papa, and this is _mi padre's_ mark!" She unwound the
blue silk handkerchief that encased them and thrust into the hands of
the astounded judge—_two ears!_ With eager glances she held them up—the
keys which Old Crit had cut from Funny-face's ears on the day that he
stole Pecos's herd—and thrust her brown finger through the Mexican
_ventano_. Then, impatient of her English, she snatched them back and,
scampering back to where Old Funny-face still stood on the sand boat,
she fitted the crop and swallow-fork back into the mangled ears.
"Look! Look!" she cried, "these are the dried-up ears what Ol' Creet
cut from my Paycos's cow, that day when he stole his cattle. My leetle
brothers bring them from the corral to play with and I hide them, to
show to Paycos. Meester, he is bad man, that Creet! He—he—"
She faltered and started back. There before her, humped over in his
chair, sat Isaac Crittenden, and his one eye covered her like the evil
glare of a rattlesnake.
"_Santa Maria!_" she gasped. "_Madre de Dios! Creet!_" And with a
scared sob she turned and ran to Babe. It was an affecting scene, but
Babe did not overdo it.
"Your Honor," he said, speaking over her bowed head with portentous
calm, "I wish to offer these two ears in evidence as an exhibit in
this case. One of them, you will notice, is cut in a swallow-fork and
exhibits, above, the _ventano_ which defendant testified belonged to
the mother of this calf; the other is cropped short and exhibits the
slash and Mexican _anzuelo_; both of them show the peculiar red and
white spots which gave to the cow in question the name of Funny-face.
After the jury has inspected the exhibit I will ask that Marcelina
Garcia be sworn."
It was not a long speech and had nothing of dramatic appeal; and yet
as it came out, this was Angevine Thorne's closing speech. When he saw
how the pendulum had swung, Shepherd Kilkenny, the fighting district
attorney, went into a black, frowning silence and refused to speak
to Old Crit; but as the judge began his instructions to the jury
he suddenly roused up and beckoned to Boone Morgan. They whispered
together while the law was being read and then the sheriff went over
and spoke a few words to Pecos Dalhart.
"Sure!" nodded Pecos, and at the signal Shepherd Kilkenny rose quickly
to his feet.
"Your Honor," he said, bowing apologetically to the judge, "in
consideration of the evidence which has just been introduced I wish to
withdraw my former request to the jury, and I now ask for a verdict
of 'Not guilty.'" He sat down, and a hum went up from the crowded
court-room like the zooning of swarming bees. There was something
coming—something tremendous—that they all knew; and when the verdict
was given not a man moved from his place. Then Boone Morgan rose up
from beside the district attorney and touched Isaac Crittenden on the
shoulder. There was nothing rough about it, and Crittenden followed
without a word, but the significance was plain. The man who had sworn
others into prison had done as much for himself, and it would take
a Philadelphia lawyer to turn him loose. He had sworn that the cow
was his, and the ear keys showed that he lied. Swallow-fork and crop,
and Mexican marks above, and Old Funny-face, wagging her mangled ears
in court! There had never been a cow-thief convicted in the Geronimo
courts, and Old Crit would spend every cent he had to keep out of jail,
but if Shepherd Kilkenny could not get him on evidence like that, then
tyranny is dead and the devil has lost his claws.