CHAPTER XVII
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!