It was the day before his trial and even his six months in jail had not taught him to be patient. As soon as the cells were unlocked he began to pace up and down the corridor like a caged lion, scowling and muttering to himself. To the stray visitors who dropped in he was distant but civil, as befits a man who must act his part, but all the time a growing uneasiness was gnawing at his heart and he looked past them to the outer door. Hours dragged by and his uneasiness changed into despair; he hurled himself upon his bunk and was lying with his haggard face to the bars when the jail deputy entered and gazed in upon him curiously.
"They's a lady out here to see you," he whispered, laying his finger along his nose with an air of roguish secrecy, "shall I bring her in? She's got something she wants to give you!"
A vision of the unbalanced females who had been bringing flowers to a murderer came over Pecos and he debated swiftly with himself whether to accept this last humiliation or plead a sudden indisposition.
"She's been waiting around all the morning," continued the deputy. "Kinder shy, I reckon – shall I bring 'er in? She's a Mex!"
A Mex! The word shocked Pecos like a blow; it made him glad, and then it made him angry.
"Well, what's the matter with a Mex?" he demanded sharply. "Ain't a Mexican got no rights in this dam' jail? I guess she's as good as any white woman – show her in!"
He waited in palpitating silence, and when the soft rustle of skirts sounded down the corridor his heart stopped beating entirely. Then Marcelina pressed her face against the screened bars and gazed wistfully into the darkened cell. She had grown taller since he last saw her and her dark eyes had taken on a look of infinite melancholy; the rare promise of her youth had flowered suddenly in his absence and she stood before him a woman. Often in his dreams he had thought of her, but always as the black-eyed girl, saucy and fugitive as a bird, who had bewitched him with her childish graces; now she peered in at him through the prison bars with the eyes of a woman who has suffered and found her soul. For a moment she gazed into the darkness, and then she drew back involuntarily. The Pecos she had known was a grown-up boy, grim and quick in speech but full of the reckless fire of youth; a dashing cowboy, guiding his horse by a touch of the hand and riding, riding, always. Here was a hard-faced man, pale and bowed by confinement, and his eyes were like a starved animal's. She started and bit her lip.
"Are you Paycos?" she asked timidly.
The bitterness of his fate swept over Pecos at the words – he looked down at his crumpled clothes, his outworn boots, and faded shirt and rumbled in his throat.
"No, Marcelina," he said, "I'm only a caged wolf – a coyote that the vaqueros have roped and tied and fastened to a tree. I'm a hard-looker, all right – how'd you come to find me?"
She laid a brown hand against the bars as if in protest and motioned him nearer the screen.
"I have only been in town four days," she said hurriedly. "All summer I was shut up at Verde, and Ol' Creet – ah, that bad, ba-ad man! My mother took me to school the day he come to Geronimo. I am 'fraid, Paycos – but this morning I run away to see you. The seesters will be hunt for me now. Look Paycos" – she thrust her hand into the bosom of her dress and drew forth a small bundle, wrapped in a blue silk handkerchief – "Cuidado, be careful," she whispered; "when I keess you good-bye at the door I weel put thees een your hand —ssst!" She turned and looked up the corridor where the deputy was doing the Sherlock. He was a new man – the jail deputy – just helping out during the session of the court and correspondingly impressed with his own importance. Nothing larger than a darning-needle could be passed through the heavy iron screen, but all the same he kept his eye on them, and when he saw the quick thrust of her hand all the suspicions of the amateur sleuth rushed over him at once.
"Hey! What's that?" he demanded, striding down the run-around. "What you got hid there, eh?" He ogled Marcelina threateningly as he stood over her and she shrank before his glance like a school-girl. "Come, now," he blustered, "show me what that is or I'll take it away from you. We don't allow anything to be passed in to the prisoners!"
"She can't pass nothin' through here!" interposed Pecos, tapping on the screen. "You haven't got nothin', have you, Marcelina?"
"Well, I saw her hide something blue in her dress just now," persisted the jailer, "and I want to see it, that's all!"
"It was – it was only a handkerchief!" sobbed Marcelina, clutching at her breast. "No, no! Eet is mine – he – he geev it to me! You can not – " she choked, and backed swiftly toward the door. Like a panther Pecos whipped out of his cell and sprang against the corridor grating, but she was gone. The deputy made a futile grab as she darted away from him and sprang after her, but she swung the great door in his face and sped like a deer down the hall. The next moment she was gone, leaving Pecos and the deputy to have it out together.
"Aha!" cried the deputy vengefully, "you will try to smuggle things in, will you? I'll report this matter to Mr. Morgan at once!"
"Well, report it, then, you low-flung hound!" wailed Pecos, "report it, and be damned to you! But if I was outside these bars I'd beat you to death for this!" They raged up and down the grating, snarling at each other like dogs that fight through a lattice, and even when Boone Morgan came and called them down Pecos would not be appeased.
"He scairt my girl away!" he cried, scowling menacingly at the raw deputy. "She come to give me a handkerchief and he jumped at her. I'll fix him, the dastard, if ever I git a chance!" And so he raged and stormed until they went away and left him, mystified. To Boone Morgan it seemed as if his alcalde was raising a row out of all proportion to his grievance, but that was because Pecos could not explain his woes. Marcelina had promised to kiss him good-bye, and the damned deputy had intervened!
CHAPTER XX
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.