CHAPTER XIV
THE KANGAROO COURT
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 a galaxy of hard-looking pictures labelled "Escaped" and "Reward," many of which had written across their face "Caught," and some "Killed"; there was a large desk in the corner, a clutter of daily papers on the floor, and the odor of good cigars. Upon the arrival of Pecos Dalhart the sheriff was engaged in telling a story, which he finished. Then he turned in his swivel-chair, sorted out a pen and opened a big book on the desk.
"Mr. Dalhart, I believe," he said, smiling a little grimly.
Pecos grunted, and the deputy taking the cue, began a systematic search of his pockets.
"Grand larceny – held for the grand jury," he supplemented, and the sheriff wrote it down in the book thoughtfully.
"Sorry I can't give you the bridal chamber, Mr. Dalhart," he continued, "but it's occupied by a check-raiser; and I wouldn't think of puttin' a cowman in the jag-cell with all them sheep-herders – so I'll have to give you Number Six, on the first floor front. Pretty close quarters there now, but you'll have all the more company on that account, and I'll guarantee the boys will make you welcome." He paused and winked at the reporter, who sharpened a pencil and laughed. Boone Morgan's Kangaroo Court was a local institution which gave him a great deal of josh copy in the course of a year and he lit a cigar and waited to observe Pecos Dalhart's reception. The kangaroo alcalde or judge was a horse-thief, the sheriff was a noted strong-arm man from the East, the district attorney was an ex-lawyer taking a graduate course in penology, and altogether they made a very taking dramatis personæ for little knockdown skits on court-house life.
"Mr. Pecos Dalhart, cowman and brand-expert extraordinary, is down from the Verde for a few days and is stopping at the Hotel de Morgan pending the action of the grand jury in regard to one spotted calf alleged to have been feloniously and unlawfully taken from Isaac Crittenden, the cattle king. In the absence of the regular reception committee, Michael Slattery, the kangaroo sheriff, conducted Mr. Dalhart before his honor the alcalde who welcomed him in a neat speech and conferred upon him the freedom of the city. After a delightful half-hour of rough-house the entire company sat down to a choice collation of fruit provided by the generosity of the guest of honor."
Something like that would go very well and be good for the drinks in half the saloons in town. Only, of course, he must not forget to put in a little puff about the sheriff – "Sheriff Morgan is very proud of the excellent order maintained in the county jail," or something equally acceptable.
The deputy continued his search of Pecos Dalhart's person, piling money, letters, jack-knife, and trinkets upon the desk and feeling carefully along his coat lining and the bulging legs of his boots – but Pecos said never a word. It was a big roll of bills that he had brought back from New Mexico – five months' pay and not a dollar spent. Some fellows would have the nerve to get married on that much money. There was a genuine eighteen-carat, solitaire-diamond engagement-ring among his plunder, too, but it was no good to him now. The sheriff examined it curiously while he was counting the money and sealing the whole treasure in a strong envelope.
"I'm dam' sorry I can't give you that bridal chamber," he observed, flashing the diamond and glancing quizzically at the reporter, and Pecos felt the hot blood leap throbbing to his brain.
"You go to hell, will you?" he growled, and a dangerous light came into his eyes as he rolled them on the laughing crowd.
"Here, here!" chided the deputy, grabbing him roughly by the arm, and with the gang following closely upon his heels he led the way to the cells. A rank smell, like the cagey reek of a menagerie, smote their nostrils as they passed through the first barred door and at sight of another prisoner the men inside the tanks let out a roar of joy and crowded up to the bars. It was the flush time of year, when the district court was in session, and the authors of six months' crime and disorder were confined within that narrow space awaiting the pleasure of the judge. Some there were with the healthy tan of the sun still upon their cheeks, and the swarthy sons of Mexico showed no tendency to prison pallor, but most of the faces were white and tense, with obscenely staring eyes and twitching lips, and all of them were weary unto death. Like wild beasts that see a victim led to their gate they stormed and chattered against the bars, shouting strange words that Pecos could not understand until, at an order from the deputy, they scuttled back to their cells.
The Geronimo County jail was a massive structure of brick, pierced by high windows set with iron gratings. A narrow corridor led around the sides, separating the great double-decked steel tanks from the outer wall, and within this triumph of the iron-master's craft the victims of the law's delay swarmed about like chipmunks in a cage. Down the middle of the steel enclosure there extended a long corridor with washrooms at the end and on either side were rows of cells, with narrow, inter-connected gates which could be opened and closed from without. At the word of command each prisoner slipped deftly through his door; the deputy unlocked an iron box, heaved away upon a lever, and with a resounding clang all the gratings on one side came to and were fastened by the interlocking rods. He opened a box on the opposite side of the entrance and clanged those doors in place, thus locking up the last of his dangerous charges and leaving the corridor empty. Then, producing another key, he unlocked the great sliding gate, pulled its heavy panels ajar, and shoved Pecos roughly through the aperture. Once more the gates clashed behind him, the interlocking cell doors flew open, and with a whoop the uncaged prisoners stepped forth and viewed their victim.
There is no pretence about a kangaroo court. By luck and good conduct a citizen of the outer world may entirely escape the punitive hand of the law, but every man who entered the Geronimo County jail was ipso facto a delinquent. More than that, he was foredoomed to conviction, for there is no law so merciless as that of the law's offenders. The rulings of the kangaroo alcalde are influenced by neither pleadings nor precedents, and his tyranny is mitigated only by the murmurings of his constituents and the physical limitations of his strong right hand. Unless by the heinousness of his former acts he has placed himself in the aristocracy of crime, he must be prepared to defend his high position against all comers; and as the insignia of his office he carries a strap, with the heavy end of which he administers summary punishment and puts down mutinies and revolts. Pete Monat was the doughty alcalde in the Geronimo Bastile, and he ruled with an iron hand. For sheriff he had Michael Slattery, a mere yegg, to do the dirty work and hale prisoners before the court. The district attorney was John Doe, a fierce argufier, who if his nerve had been equal to his ambition would long since have usurped the alcalde's place. There were likewise jail-lawyers galore, petty grafters who pitted their wits against the prosecuting attorney in a brave attempt to earn a fee, or at least to establish a factitious claim against the defendant. Out they surged, sheriff, lawyers, and alcalde, and bore down on Pecos in a body, the sheriff to arrest him, the lawyers to get his case, and the alcalde to tip his chair against the grating, where the reporter could see all the fun, – and try the case in style.
"Fuzzy!" thundered the yegg sheriff, laying a heavy hand upon Pecos's shoulder, "I arrest youse in the name of the law!"
"The hell you say!" exclaimed Pecos, backing off; and in an instant the hardened jail-birds knew that they had a "gay-cat." Only Rubes and gay-cats resisted arrest in jail – the old-timers stepped up promptly, before the sheriff could "give them the roust" from behind.
"Yes, an' fer breakin' into jail!" hollered Slattery. "Come on now and don't make me any trouble or I'll cop youse in the mush!"
"Arraign the prisoner," shouted the alcalde pompously, "bring 'im up hyar, an' ef he's half as bad as he looks he'll git the holy limit. Wake up thar, you, an' he'p the sheriff, or I'll set you to scrubbin' floors."
They came in a struggling mass, dominated by the tall form of the sheriff, and before Pecos was aware of his destiny he was hustled before the judge.
"What is the charge against this mug?" inquired Pete Monat, slapping his strap across his knee for silence.
"Breakin' inter jail, Yer Honor!" responded the sheriff, bowing and touching his forelock.
"Prisoner at the bar," declaimed the alcalde, "you are charged with wilfully, feloniously, an' unlawfully breakin' inter this hyar jail – do you plead 'Guilty' or 'Not guilty'?"
"I don't plead," said Pecos, with suspicious quiet.
"'Don't plead' is the same as 'Not guilty,'" announced the judge, "and bein' as the district attorney is such a long-winded yap I'll jest pull off this examination myse'f. How come you're hyar, then, you low-browed reperbate, ef you didn't break inter jail? Answer me thet, now, an' be dam' careful to say 'Yer Honor' or I'll soak you for contempt of court!"
"Say," said Pecos, speaking through the gratings to Boone Morgan, "do I have to stand for this? I do? Well, to hell with such a layout! Here, keep your hands off o' me now, or somebody'll git badly hurt!" He placed his back against the grating and menaced the strong-armed sheriff with a tense fist, turning a scornful eye upon the clamoring judge.
"Oyez! Oyez! Silence in the court!" bellowed Pete Monat, leaping up on his chair. "The prisoner is found guilty and sentenced to pay a fine of one dollar, or pack out the slops for a week! Mr. Sheriff, bring 'im up, an' ef he resists we'll give 'im thirty slaps with this hyar!" He held up his black strap threateningly, but Pecos only skinned his teeth like a wolf that is caught in a trap, and stood at bay.
"I'd like to see the bunch of hobos that can man-handle me!" he snarled, making a pass at the sheriff. "Hey, bring me a dollar!" he commanded, speaking over his shoulder, and as the deputy went back to the office to get one from his envelope the Roman mob fell back and ceased its clamoring. The dollar was what they wanted. There was always a Mex to clean up, but the dollar went for a feed – fruit, candy, good things to eat – and not every man who entered could pay his fine. At the same time they stood off a little from the prisoner at the bar, for he had a bad look in his eye. The kangaroo sheriff, standing discreetly aloof, noticed it; the alcalde also; and in the premonitory hush that ensued even Boone Morgan began to read the signs of trouble. Next to his dream of breaking up the cattle-stealing business in the mountains, the Geronimo sheriff cherished the fond hope of building up a kangaroo court that would take the entire problem of jail discipline off his hands. It was an old idea, the kangaroo court, dimly reminiscent of frontier cow-camps but smelling more of hoboism, yet good for law and order if the right men were in power. Pete Monat was a terror to the evil-doer, especially if he was a Mex or darker, and Boone Morgan stood generously behind him, even when his decisions were a little rank. Right now the situation looked ominous and as Pecos continued to spit forth his venom, hissing and swelling like a snake at every approach of the pack, he made bold to interfere in the puppet play.
"Here," he said, passing a dollar through the bars, "I'll advance you the money – these fellows won't hurt you none."
"Keep your dirty dollar!" snapped Pecos, striking it away, "I got money of my own!"
"Well, you don't need to git mad about it – I jest wanted to help you."
"Yes, you help me! You throw me into jail for somethin' I never done and then bring this bunch of town boys in to see me kangarooed. That big stiff hain't got no right to fine me a dollar, an' you know it, but I'll give him the money all right – you jest wait!" He grinned sardonically at Michael Slattery, straightened his back and waited. He had all the time there was – the grand jury did not meet till Fall, and that was six months yet. This was the law they talked about – this was justice – to hold a man six months before he came to trial! Shut him up in that dark, stinking hole and keep him until he was broken! Sure – and let a bunch of yeggs spread-eagle him over a chair and beat him with a strap! For a year Pecos had been at war with society and never struck a blow for the revolution. But it was not too late. In turning him over to a kangaroo court Boone Morgan had added the last indignity – it was war now, and war to the knife.
The deputy returned leisurely, and shoved a dollar bill through the bars.
"Much obliged," said Pecos, and he spoke so quietly that even the kangaroo sheriff was deceived. "Here's your dollar," he said, turning to hold out the money, "come and git it." There was a sinister note in that last phrase, but Slattery did not catch it. He was a tall, hulking man, heavy-handed and used to his own way; the cattle-rustler was short and broad, like a stocky, hard-rock miner, and he stood with his back to the bars as if he were afraid. "Come and git it," he said, very quietly, but as Mike Slattery reached out his hand for the money the cowboy grinned and jerked it back. Slattery grabbed, and like a flash Pecos put over a blow that was freighted with sudden death. It landed behind the yegg sheriff's massive jaw, threw him sideways and whirled him over; then the thud of the blow was followed by a thump and like a boneless carcass he piled up on the floor. To a man a few removes farther from the ape the thump on the concrete floor would have resulted in a cracked skull, but fortunately for Slattery hard heads and evil dispositions generally go together, and he was safe from anything short of an axe. It was the blow under the ear that had jarred his brains – the bump against the concrete only finished the job up and saved him from something worse. Without looking to see where his victim fell Pecos Dalhart leapt vengefully into the swarming crowd of prisoners, knocking them right and left like ten-pins and shouting in a hoarse voice:
"Come an' —huh– git it! Come —huh– and git it!" And at every grunt he sent home a blow that laid his man on the floor.
"Back to your cells!" roared Boone Morgan, rattling the grating like a lion caged away from a deadly battle. "Git back there and let me have a chance!" But his voice was drowned in the deep-voiced challenge of Pecos, the shrieks of trampled Mexicans, the curses and sound of blows. Pandemonium broke loose and in the general uproar all semblance of order was lost. On the outside of the bars a pair of shouting deputies menaced the flying demon of discord with their pistols, calling on him to stop; Boone Morgan tried to clear the corridor so that he could open the door; but they might as well have thundered against the wind, for Pecos Dalhart had gone hog wild and panic lay in his wake.
"Yeee-pah!" he screamed, as the way cleared up before him. "Hunt your holes, you prairie dogs, or I'll shore deal you misery! Out of my road, you dastards – I'm lookin' for that alcalde!" He fought his way down the corridor, leaving his mark on every man who opposed him, and Pete Monat came half way to meet him. Pete had been a fighter himself when he first broke into the Geronimo jail and the confinement had not thinned his sporting blood. He held the alcalde's strap behind him, doubled to give it weight, and at the very moment that Pecos came lunging in he laid it across his cheek with a resounding whack. The angry blood stood out along the scar and before Pecos could dodge back he received another welt that all but laid him low.
"Hit 'im again! Smash 'im! Fly at 'im, Pete!" yelled the crowd without, and at the appearance of a leader the beaten gang of hobos came out of their holes like bloodhounds. Pecos heard the scuffle of feet behind him and turned to meet them. The fury in his eye was terrible, but he was panting, and he staggered as he dodged a blow. For a single moment he appraised the fighting odds against him – then with an irresistible rush he battered his way past the alcalde and grabbed the back of his chair. In the sudden turmoil and confusion that humble throne of justice had been overlooked. It stood against the grating beyond which Boone Morgan and his deputies cheered on the kangaroos, and as Pecos whirled it in the air their shouting ceased.
There was a crash, a dull thump, and Pete Monat pitched forward with his throne hung round his neck. The strap which had left its cruel mark on Pecos fell to the floor before him, and Pecos, dropping the broken back of the chair, stooped and picked it up. The alcalde lay silent now beside the inert body of his sheriff and a great hush fell upon the prison as he stood over them, glaring like a lion at bay. He held up a bruised and gory fist and opened it tauntingly.
"Here's your dollar," he said, waving the bloody bill above his head, "come and git it, you sons of goats! You don't want it, hey? Well, git back into your cells, then – in with you, or I'll lash you to a frazzle!" They went, and as the interlocking doors clanged behind them Pecos turned to Boone Morgan and laughed. "That's what I think of your Kangaroo Court," he said, "and your own dam' rotten laws. Here's to the revolution!"
He flung his blood-red arms above his head and laughed again, bitterly; and after they had carried out the injured he paced up and down the corridor all night, cursing and raving against the law, while the battered inmates gazed out through their bars or nodded in troubled sleep. It was the revolution – no laws, no order, no government, no nothing! The base hirelings of the law had thrown him into jail – all right, he would put their jail on the bum.
CHAPTER XV
THE REVOLUTION IN FACT
OUTSIDE of the kangarooing of Rubes, the coming and going of prisoners, and such exceptional entertainment as that put up by Pecos Dalhart upon his initiation into the brotherhood, there were only two events a day in the Geronimo jail – breakfast and dinner. Breakfast, as with the French, was served late, and dinner at the hour of four. On account of the caterer being otherwise engaged in the early morning the café-au-lait in bed was dispensed with and déjeuner served promptly at nine. It was a hard-looking aggregation of citizens that crept out of their cells at the clanging of the interlocking gates and there was not a man among them who dared look Pecos in the eye as they slunk down the corridor to wash. Battered in body and cowed in spirit they glanced up at him deprecatingly as he stood with the strap in his hand, and there was no mercy written in the cattle-rustler's scowling visage. These were the men who would have put their heels in his face if he had gone down before their rush – they were cowards and ran in packs, like wolves. They were grafters, too; the slinking, servile slaves of jail alcaldes, yegg sheriffs, and Boone Morgan's swaggering deputies. More than that, they would mob him if he gave them half a chance. So he stood silent, watching them, man after man, and there was not one who could look him in the face.
It was Bill Todhunter who opened the gates that morning – the same keen-eyed, silent deputy who had fetched Pecos down from the mountains – and as his former prisoner, now transformed into the stern master of Geronimo jail, came near, he looked him over gravely.
"Feelin' any better?" he inquired.
"Nope," scowled Pecos, and there the matter dropped. After the affair of the night before he had expected to be put in irons, at least, or thrown into the dungeon, but nobody seemed to be worrying about him, and the prison routine went on as usual. The drunks in the jag-cell woke up and began to wrangle; the long-termers in the deck above scuffled sullenly around over the resounding boiler plate; and from the outer office they could hear the cheerful voices of old-timers and politicians discussing affairs of state. A long-term trusty came clattering down the iron stairs and passed out through the two barred doors to work up an appetite for breakfast by mowing the court-house lawn. As for Pecos, he was used to having his breakfast early and his Trojan exertions of the night before had left him gaunted, though he carried off his stoic part bravely. Nevertheless he showed a more than human interest in the steel front gate, and when at last, just as the clock tolled nine, it swung open, admitting the Chinese restaurateur who contracted for their meals, there was a general chorus of approval. Hung Wo was the name of this caterer to the incarcerated, and he looked it; but though his face was not designed for a laughing picture his shoulders were freighted with two enormous cans which more than made up for that. Without a word to any one he lowered the cans to the floor, jerked off the covers, and began to dish up on the prison plates. To every man he gave exactly the same – a big spoonful of beans, a potato, a hunk of meat, half a loaf of bread, and a piece of pie – served with the rapidity of an automaton.
Without waiting for orders the prisoners retreated noisily into their cells and waited, the more fastidious shoving sheets of newspaper through the small openings at the bottom of their doors to keep their plates off the floor. But here again there was trouble. The incessant hammering of pint coffee cups emphasized the starved impatience of the inmates; the food grew cold on the plates; only one thing lay in the way of the belated breakfast – Pecos refused to go into a cell. Before the fall of the kangaroo court it had been the privilege and prerogative of Mike Slattery to remain in the corridor and assist in the distribution of the food, but Mike was in the bridal chamber now with his jowls swathed in cotton, sucking a little nourishment through a tube. Pete Monat was there also, his head bandaged to the limit of the physician's art, and mourning the fate which had left him such a hard-looking mug on the eve of a jury trial. The verdict would be guilty, that was a cinch. But at least Pete was able to eat his breakfast, whereas there were about forty avid kangaroos in the tanks who were raising their combined voices in one agonizing appeal for food. It was a desperate situation, but Pecos, as usual, was obdurate.
"Let the Chink come in – I won't hurt 'im!" he said; but Bill Todhunter shook his head.
"The Chink won't come," he said.
"Whassa malla Mike?" inquired Hung Wo nervously. "He go Yuma?"
"No, Charley," returned Todhunter, "last night he have one hell of a big fight – this man break his jaw."
"Whassa malla Pete?"
"This man break his head with chair."
"Ooo!" breathed Hung Wo, peering through the bars, "me no go in."
"Well, now, you see what you git for your cussedness," observed the deputy coldly. "The Chink won't come in and the chances are you'll starve to death; that is, providin' them other fellers don't beat you to death first, for makin' 'em lose their breakfast. Feelin' pretty cagey, ain't they?"
They were, and Pecos realized that if he didn't square himself with Hung Wo right away and get him to feed the animals, he would have a bread riot on his hands later – and besides, he was hungry himself. So he spoke quickly and to the point.
"What's the matter, Charley?" he expostulated, "you 'fraid of me?"
"Me no likee!" said the Chinaman impersonally.
"No, of course not; but here – lemme tell you! You savvy Pete Monat – all same alcalde, eh? You savvy Mike – all same boss, hey? Well, last night me lick Pete and Mike. You see this strap? All right; me boss now – you give me big pie every day, you come in!"
"Me no got big pie to-day," protested Hung Wo anxiously.
"Oh, that's all right – me takum other feller's pie, this time – you come in!"
"Allite!" agreed the simple-minded Oriental, and when the iron doors rolled apart he entered without a quiver. Back where he came from a bargain is a bargain and it is a poor boss indeed who does not demand his rake-off. The day was won and, throwing back his head imperiously, Pecos stalked down the line of cells until he came to the one where the inmates were making the most noise.
"Here!" he said, and when they looked up he remarked: "You fellers are too gay to suit me – I'll jest dock you your pieces of pie!" And when the Chinaman arrived Pecos carefully lifted the pie from each plate and piled all up on his own. "This'll teach you to keep your mouths shut!" he observed, and retiring to the iron gates he squatted down on his heels and ate greedily.
"Well, the son-of-a-gun," murmured Bill Todhunter, as he took notice of this final triumph, and the men in the cells became as quiet as a cage of whip-broke beasts when the lion tamer stands in their midst. As Pecos Dalhart drank his second cup of coffee and finished up the last slab of pie a realizing sense of his mastery came over him and he smiled grimly at the watchful faces that peered out through the cell gratings, blinking and mowing like monkeys in a zoo. They were beaten, that was plain, but somehow as he looked them over he was conscious of a primordial cunning written on every savage visage – they bowed before him; but like the leopards before their tamer, they crouched, too. That was it – they crouched and bided their time, and when the time came they would hurl themselves at his throat. But what was it for which they were waiting? All the morning he pondered on it as he paced to and fro or sat with his back to the bars, watching. Then, as the day warmed up and his head sank momentarily against his breast he woke with a start to behold a prison-bleached hand reaching, reaching for his strap. Instantly he rose up from his place and dealt out a just retribution, laying on his strap with the accuracy of a horse-wrangler, but even with the howling of his victim in his ears he was afraid, for he read the hidden meaning of that act. With the nerveless patience of the beast they were waiting for him to go to sleep!
Once before, on the open range, Pecos Dalhart had arrayed himself against society, and lost, even as he was losing now. Sooner or later, by day or by night, these skulking hyenas of the jail-pack would catch him asleep, and he shuddered to think how they might mangle him. He saw it clearly now, the fate of the man who stands alone, without a friend to watch over him or a government to protect his life. Not in two hurly-burly days and nights had he closed his bloodshot eyes, and as the heaviness of sleep crept upon him he paced up and down the corridor, wrestling with the spectre that was stealing away his wits and hoping against hope that Boone Morgan would come to his aid, for Boone had seen his finish from the first. In sodden abandonment to his destiny he looked one of the cells over to see if it could be barricaded, but when one door was open they were all open and there was no protection against stealth or assault. He had not even the protection of the cave-dweller who, when sleep overcame him, could retire and roll a great stone against his door. Yet as the possession of sleep took hold upon him he routed out the inmates of the cell nearest to the gate, climbed into the upper bunk and lay there, rigid, fighting to keep awake.
It was quiet now and the shuffling of the long-termers above him came fainter and fainter; some drunk out in the jag-cell woke up from his long slumber and began to sing mournfully; and Pecos, struggling against the deadly anæsthetic of his weariness, listened intently to every word.
"My friends and relations has caused a separation,"
chanted the dirge-like voice of the singer,
"Concerning the part of some favorite one.
Besides their vexation and great trubbelation
They will some time be sorry for what they have done."
The voice sounded familiar to Pecos – or was it the music? – well, never mind, he would hear it to the end.
"My fortune is small, I will truly confess it,
But what I have got it is all of my own,
I might have lived long in this world and enjoyed it
If my cruel friends could have left me alone.
"Farewell to this country, I now must leave it,
And seek my way to some far distant land.
My horse and my saddle is a source of all pleasure
And when I meet friend I'll join heart and hand.
"Farewell to the girl that I no more shall see,
This world is wide and I'll spend it in pleasures,
And I don't care for no girl that don't care for me,
I'll drink and be jolly and not care for no downfall.
"I'll drownd my troubles in a bottle of wine;
I'll drownd them away in a full-flowing bumper
And ride through the wild to pass away time.
And when Death calls for me I'll follow him home.
"No wife, no children will be left to suffer,
Not even a sweetheart will be left to mourn.
I'll be honest and fair in all my transactions,
Whatever I do, I intend to be true.
"Here is health and good wishes to all you fair ladies —
It is hard, boys, to find one that will always be true."
A hush fell upon the jail as the singer wailed forth his sad lament, and when the song was ended a murmur ran along the hall. Pecos listened, half in a doze, to the muttered comments; then with a jerk he sat up and stared. The man in the next cell had said,