"Did he act strangely after receiving that blow?"
"Why, yes; I reckon you would yerself. He hit him a good lick. It was fer ridin' Hank's favourite mare, an' from that time to now Juan ain't never been on horseback since. That shows he's loco. Any man what walks is loco. Part o' the time, Juan, he's bronco, but all the time he's loco."
"He has spells of violence?"
"Shore. You know that. You seen how he fit that Injun — "
"Oh, keep him to the line," protested the prosecutor.
"We won't take up that just now, Curly," said Franklin.
"Well, this here shorely is the funniest layout I ever did see," said Curly, somewhat injured. "A feller can't say a d——d thing but only jest what you all want him to say. Now, say — "
"Yes, but — " began Franklin, fearing that he might meet trouble with this witness even as the prosecutor had, and seeing the latter smiling behind his hand in recognition of this fact.
"Now, say," insisted Curly, "if you want something they ain't none o' you said a word about yet, I'll tell you something. You see, Juan, he had a sister, and this here Cal Greathouse, he — "
"I object, yo' Honah! I object!" cried the State's attorney, springing to his feet. "This is bringin' the dignity o' the law into ridicule, sah! into ridicule! I object!"
"Er, ah-h-h!" yawned the judge, suddenly sitting up, "'Journ court, Mr. Clerk! We will set to-morrow mornin' at the same place, at nine o'clock. — Mr. Sheriff, take charge of the prisoner. — Where is the sheriff, Mr. Clerk?"
"Please the Court," said the prosecuting attorney, "Sheriff Watson is not here to-day. He is lyin' sick out to his ranch. He was injured, yo' Honah, in arrestin' Ike Anderson, and he has not yet recovered."
"Well, who is in charge of this prisoner?" said the Court. "There ought to be some one to take care of him."
"I reckon I am, Judge," said Curly. "He is sort o' stayin' with me while Bill's under the weather."
"Well, take him in charge, some one, and have him here in the morning."
"All right, judge," said Curly quietly, "I'll take care of him."
He beckoned to Juan, and the giant rose and followed after him, still smiling and pleased at what to him also was a novel show.
It was three o'clock of the afternoon. The thirst of a district Judge had adjourned the district court. Franklin's heart sank. He dreaded the night. The real court, as he admitted to himself, would continue its session that night at the Cottage bar, and perhaps it might not adjourn until a verdict had been rendered.
CHAPTER XXIX THE VERDICT
There came over the town of Ellisville that night an ominous quiet. But few men appeared on the streets. Nobody talked, or if any one did there was one subject to which no reference was made. A hush had fallen upon all. The sky, dotted with a million blazing stars, looked icy and apart. A glory of moonlight flooded the streets, yet never was moon more cold.
Franklin finished his dinner and sat down alone for a time in the great barren office of the depot hotel where he made his home. The excitement of the trial, suspended at its height, was now followed by reaction, a despondency which it was hard to shake off. Was this, then, the land of his choice? he thought. And what, then, was this human nature of which men sung and wrote? He shook himself together with difficulty.
He went to his room and buckled on his revolver, smiling grimly as he did so at the thought of how intimately all law is related to violence, and how relative to its environment is all law. He went to Battersleigh's room and knocked, entering at the loud invitation of that friend.
"Shure, Ned, me boy," said Battersleigh, "ye've yer side arms on this evenin'. Ye give up the profission of arms with reluctance. Tell me, Ned, what's the campaign fer the evenin'?"
"Well," said Franklin, "I thought I'd step over and sit awhile with
Curly this evening. He may be feeling a little lonesome."
"Quite right ye are, me boy," said Battersleigh cheerfully. "Quite right. An' if ye don't mind I'll just jine ye. It's lonesome I am meself the night."
Battersleigh busied himself about his room, and soon appeared arrayed, as was Franklin himself, with a revolver at his belt.
"Shure, Ned, me boy," he said, "an officer an' a gintleman should nivver appear abroad without his side arms. At laste, methinks, not on a night like this." He looked at Franklin calmly, and the latter rose and grasped the hand of the fearless old soldier without a word. The two strolled out together down the street in the direction of the shanty where Curly was keeping his "prisoner."
At this place they saw a few men sitting outside the door, calmly smoking — among these Sam, the liveryman, a merchant by name of Chapman, and a homesteader who was known as One-eyed Pennyman. Inside the house, playing cards with Curly, were four other men. Franklin noticed that they all were armed. They all appeared, from their story, to have just dropped in to pass a little time with Curly. From time to time others dropped in, most of them remaining outside in the moonlight, sitting on their heels along the porch, talking but little, and then mentioning anything but the one subject which was uppermost in every one's mind. Yet, though nothing was said, it might well be seen that this little body of men were of those who had taken the stand for law and order, and who were resolved upon a new day in the history of the town.
It was a battle of the two hotels and what they represented. Over at the great barroom of the Cottage there was at the same time assembled a much larger gathering, composed chiefly of those transient elements which at that time really made up the larger portion of the population of the place — wide-hatted men, with narrow boots and broad belts at which swung heavy, blued revolvers with broad wooden butts — a wild-looking, wild-living body of men, savage in some ways, gentle in others, but for the most part just, according to their creed. The long bar was crowded, and outside the door many men were standing along the wide gallery. They, too, were reticent. All drank whisky, and drank it regularly. Up to ten o'clock the whisky had produced no effect. The assembly was still engaged in deliberation, drinking and thinking, calmly, solemnly.
At ten o'clock a big Texan raised his glass high above his head and smashed it upon the bar.
"Law an' order be damned!" said he. "What kind o' law an' order is it to let a murderin' Greaser like that come clear? Which of us'll be the next he'd kill?"
There was no answer. A sigh, a shiver, a little rustling sound passed over the crowd.
"We always used ter run our business good enough," resumed the Texan.
"What need we got o' lawyers now? Didn't this Greaser kill Cal?
Crazy? He's just crazy enough to be mean. He's crazy so'st he ain't
safe, that's what."
The stir was louder. A cowman motioned, and the barkeeper lined the whole bar with glasses, setting out six bottles of conviction.
"Curly means all right," said one voice. "I know that boy, an' he's all right."
"Shore he's all right!" said the first voice, "an' so's Bill Watson all right. But what's the use?"
"Loco, of course the Greaser's loco," broke in another speaker. "So's a mad dog loco. But about the best thing's to kill it, so'st it's safer to be roun'."
Silence fell upon the crowd. The Texan continued. "We always did," he said.
"Yes," said another voice. "That's right. We always did."
"Curly'll never let him go," said one irrelevantly. "Seems to me we better sen' this Greaser off to the States, put