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 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 "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 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 "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 "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 "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 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 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 "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, 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 "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 "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 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 "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 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 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 "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 "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. 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 "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 "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 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 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 "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 "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 "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 "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 "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 |