On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane

one is brandin' an orejano" he said, half to himself. "Might even be Pecos, makin' a signal fire. Hey, look at them bloody cowboys, ridin' in on it! Look at 'em go down that arroyo; will you? Say—I hope—"

      "Hope what?"

      "Well, I hope Pecos don't come across none of them Spectacle cows on the way in—that's all."

      "Ahh, Paycos weel be mad—he weel—Mira! Look, look!"

      A furious mob of horsemen came whirling down the trail, crowding about a central object that swayed and fought in their midst; they rushed it triumphantly into the open, swinging their ropes and shouting, and as the rout went by Angy saw Pecos, tied to his horse, his arms bound tight to his sides and a myriad of tangled reatas jerking him about in his saddle.

      As the rout went by Angy saw Pecos, tied to his horse, his arms bound tight to his sides

      "Hang the cow-thief!" howled the cowboys, circling and racing back, and all the time Pecos strained and tugged to get one hand to his gun. Then his wild eyes fell on Marcelina and he paused; she held out her hands, and Angy rushed behind the bar for his gun.

      "Here, what the hell you mean?" he yelled, breaking from the door. "Quit jerkin' him around like that, or I'll knock you off your horse!" He ran straight through the crowd, belting every horse he met with the barrel of his forty-five, until he brought up with his back to Pecos and his pistol on the mob. "Let go that rope, you—!" he cried, bringing his six-shooter to a point, and as the nearest cowboy threw loose and backed away he shifted his gun to another. "Throw off your dally," he commanded, "and you too, you low-flung Missouri hound! Yes, I mean you!" he shouted, as Crit still held his turns. "What right have you got to drag this man about? I'll shoot the flat out of your eye, you old dastard, if you don't let go that rope!"

      Old Crit let go, but he stood his ground with a jealous eye on his prize.

      "Don't you tech them ropes," he snarled back, "or I'll do as much for you. I caught him in the act of stealin' one of my cows and—"

      "You did not!" broke in Pecos, leaning back like a wing-broke hawk to face his exultant foe, "that calf was mine—and its mother to boot—and you go and burn it to a pair of Spectacles! Can't a man vent his own calf when it's been stole on 'im durin' his absence? Turn me loose, you one-eyed cow-thief, or I'll have yore blood for this!"

      "You don't git loose from me—not till the sheriff comes and takes you to the jug. Close in here, boys, and we'll tie him to a tree."

      "Not while I'm here!" replied Angy, stepping valiantly to the front. "They don't a man lay a finger on 'im, except over my dead body. You'll have to kill me—or I'll pot Old Crit on you, in spite of hell!" He threw down on his boss with the big forty-five and at a sign from Crit the cowboys fell back and waited.

      "Now, lookee here, Angy," began Crittenden, peering uneasily past the gun, "I want you to keep yore hand outer this. Accordin' to law, any citizen has a right to arrest a man caught in the act of stealin' and I claim that feller for my prisoner."

      "Well, you don't git 'im," said Angy, shortly. "What's the row, Pecos?"

      Pecos Dalhart, still leaning back like a crippled hawk that offers beak and claws to the foe, shifted his hateful eyes from Crittenden and fixed them on his friend.

      "I was ridin' down the arroyo," he said, "a while ago, when I came across my old milk cow that I bought of Joe Garcia." He paused and gulped with rage. "One ear was cropped to a grub," he cried, "and the other swallow-forked to 'er head—and her brand was fresh burnt to a pair of hobbles! The calf carried the same brand and while I was barring them Spectacles or Hobbles, or whatever you call 'em, and putting a proper Monkey-wrench in their place, this pack of varmints jumped in and roped me before I could draw a gun, otherwise they would be some dead."

      "Nothin' of the kind!" shouted back Crittenden. "You never bought a cow in your life, and you know it! I caught you in the act of stealin' my Spectacle calf and I've got witnesses to prove it—ain't that so, boys?"

      "Sure!" chimed the IC cowboys, edging in behind their boss.

      "And I demand that man for my prisoner!" he concluded, though pacifically, for Angy still kept his bead.

      The negotiations for the custody of Pecos were becoming heated when there was a familiar clatter at the ford and Bill Todhunter rode into camp. His appearance was not such an accident as on the surface appeared, since he had been scouting around the purlieus of Verde Crossing for some days in the hope of catching Old Crit in some overt act, but he put a good face on it and took charge of the prisoner at once. Prisoners were the fruits of his profession, like game to a hunter or mavericks to a cowman, and he pulled the gun out of Pecos's holster and threw loose the tangled ropes with the calm joy of a man who has made a killing.

      "Caught 'im in the act, did ye?" he said, turning to Crittenden. "Uh-huh—got any witnesses? All right—where's the calf? Well, send a man up for it, and bring the cow down, too. We'll have a preliminary examination before the J. P. to-morrow and I want that cow and calf for evidence. Now come on, Mr. Dalhart, and remember that anything you say is liable to be used against ye."

      Denying and protesting, Pecos did as he was bid; and, still denying his guilt, he went before the magistrate in Geronimo. Crittenden was there with his cowboys; the calf was there with his barred brand and bloody ears—and as the examination progressed Pecos saw the meshes of a mighty net closing relentlessly in upon him. In vain he protested that the calf was his—Isaac Crittenden, the cowman, swore that the animal belonged to him and his cowboys swore to it after him. In vain he called upon José Garcia to give witness to the sale—Joe was in debt to the Boss several hundred dollars and Old Funny-face, the cow, was being hazed across the range by a puncher who had his orders. His written bill of sale was lost, the mother with her brands and vents was gone, and a score of witnesses against him swore to the damning fact that he had been taken red-handed. After hearing all the evidence the Justice of the Peace consulted his notes, frowned, and held the defendant for the action of the grand jury. The witnesses filed out, the court adjourned, and a representative assemblage of cowmen congratulated themselves, as law-abiding citizens of Geronimo County, that there was one less rustler in the hills. At last, after holding up her empty scales for years, the star-eyed Goddess of Justice was vindicated; the mills of the law had a proper prisoner to work upon now and though they were likely to grind a little slow—the grand jury had just adjourned and would not be convened again until fall—they were none the less likely to be sure. Fortunately for the cause of good government the iron hand of the law had closed down upon a man who had neither money, friends, nor influence, and everybody agreed that he should be made an awful example.

      CHAPTER XIV

       THE KANGAROO COURT

       Table of Contents

      There are some natures so stern and rugged that they lean against a storm like sturdy, wind-nourished pines, throwing back their arms, shaking their rough heads, and making strength from the elemental strife. Of such an enduring breed was Pecos Dalhart and as he stood before the judge, square-jawed, eagle-eyed, with his powerful shoulders thrown back, he cursed the law that held him more than the men who had sworn him into jail. But behind that law stood every man of the commonwealth, and who could fight them all, lone-handed? Lowering his head he submitted, as in ancient days the conquered barbarians bowed to the Roman yoke, but there was rebellion in his heart and he resolved when the occasion offered to make his dream of the revolution a waking reality. The deputy who led him over to jail seemed to sense his prisoner's mood and left him strictly alone, showing the way in silence until they entered the sheriff's office.

      The reception room to the suite of burglar-proof apartments familiarly known as the Hotel de Morgan was a spacious place, luxuriously furnished with lounging chairs and cuspidors and occupied at the moment by Boone Morgan, a visiting deputy, three old-timers, and a newspaper reporter. The walls were decorated with