# The Full of the Moon/Chapter 18

CHAPTER XVIII
"Sour-Dough" to the Rescue
"Looks to this court as though a city the size of what Hopedale is gettin' to be ought to provide some place for the handin' out of justice besides this here ex-palace of gilded vice."
Judge Bill Thompson fixed a sternly disapproving eye upon an unmistakable feminine garment which still facetiously draped the chandelier, though its owner had long since departed along with the prosperity of Hopedale, which period dated from the slump in silver.
The judge had viewed the garment often without comment, but he felt that because of the ladies present at the opening of Ben Evans's trial, he owed it to himself to make it known that the holding of court in such surroundings was without his sanction and not at all to his taste.
And, indeed, the setting was unique. Buxom damsels in purple tights blew foam ​from mugs of beer of amazing size in the highly colored lithographs on the wall. A spangled fan hid an unsightly stove-pipe hole. The spiders had woven their webs between the yellowing curtains of coarse lace at the dingy, fly-specked windows, and the floor was littered with the tarnished gilt which had dropped in chunks from the gaudy molding.
The judge with deliberate movement took his seat in a faded plush chair upon the raised platform where the orchestra of the dance-hall had twanged its wild music.
A plank across two stout whisky-barrels, made a satisfactory desk and, what with a short ax-handle for a gavel, a pitcher and glass, together with the armful of imposing volumes which the judge laid upon it, the furnishings, though novel, seemed complete.
The judge sniffed as he sat down. He looked at the whisky-barrels—they had long been empty; then he reached for the pitcher and regarded its contents long and steadfastly before he applied its side to his lips.
"Ah-h-h!" It was not known in Hopedale that the judge derived such satisfaction from a cooling drink of water.
​Rather as due the weight of his honorable office than from necessity, the judge settled a pair of nickel-plated spectacles upon his ruddy nose before he looked over the courtroom and inquired blandly:
"Has this here gent got ary lawyer to defend him?"
The question was purely a formal one, since it was well known that Bob was to appear for Ben, and the crowd which filled the improvised benches was due largely to curiosity arising from this fact.
Bob rose from his seat on a box, near the judicial keg.
"I am counsel for the defendant, your honor."
"Your honor!" The visible swelling of the judge's chest made him pitch backward. He regarded Bob severely:
"Air you a Jim-crow, or a reg'lar lawyer?"
"I have been regularly admitted to the New York bar."
The judge consulted a volume, pursed his lips, and considered.
"In which case," he said finally, "I reckon ​you air entitled to practise in this court with my permission."
Bob bowed deferentially: "I thank you."
The judge's hand executed a magnanimous flourish, and Fritz Poth pinched himself. Could that imposing personage, so severe and profound that the most audacious dared not address him familiarly, be the same that he had ejected from his hotel the night before for retiring with his boots on?
The judge raised the pitcher to his lips, removed the moisture with the back of his hand, and tapped sharply on the plank with the ax-handle:
"This here court will come to order—pronto!"
Silence fell.
"The jury will come to the front and set on this bench as I reads off their names. Old Man Hathaway!"
Ben leaned and whispered to Bob as a shifty-eyed person rose expectantly and shuffled forward.
"Challenge!" Bob called peremptorily.
Surprise was everywhere.
"Who you challenging, young feller?" ​inquired his honor, taken aback. "This is no time to start anything," he admonished.
"Surely," Bob replied suavely, "it is not necessary to remind the court that in objecting to a juror who is not satisfactory we are only exercising our rights?"
The judge stiffened.
"That may be law in New York, but 't'aint here," replied his honor. "We make ourn to suit ourselves. Hathaway, slide along on that bench and make room for Johnny-Behind-the-Deuce!"
"He owes Spiser a five hundred-dollar poker debt," Ben whispered.
"Challenge!" Bob called sharply.
The gambler who bore a surprising resemblance to the Jack of Spades, hesitated.
"You hop into that seat," commanded the judge. "French Pete!"
"He's diggin' post-holes for Spiser," was the information Ben imparted.
"Challenge!"
"Look here!" the judge turned fiercely upon Bob—"you cut in again and I'll fine you for contempt of court."
Bob returned imperturbably: "I merely ​want our objections noted, because, of course, we'll appeal this case if the verdict is against us."
The judge brought the ax-handle down with a resounding thwack.
"Order! That's pure sass, young man. No verdict of this here court was ever set aside yet. When a cattle-thief gets a sentence here he does time.
"Emanuel Armijo and Antonio Estrada, come forward and fill up the bench. Five jurors are enough on this case."
"Five jurors like those are enough on any case," Bob observed significantly, and another burst of laughter evidenced the spectators' appreciation of his meaning.
The judge reached for the pitcher and drank long and deep.
"Ah-h-h!" The rasping sound was beginning to bring an exchange of suspicious glances in the court-room.
"Gennelmen"—the judge swung the plush chair toward the self-conscious jury who looked uncommonly like a row of jailbirds—"this is a serious case what is up before us to-day, and one with which we have no ​manner of sympathy. Cattle and horse thievin' must be stomped out in this community, and it's up to you to do the stompin'.
"The name of Las Verdas County has allus been kept pretty nigh as pure and unpolluted as its air, all except them seventeen rustlers what was swung over the bluff. And how has it been kept so?"
The five jailbirds looked at each other. The judge answered for them:
"By our untiring and ceaseless vigilance! In other words, to use the picturesque vernacular of the community in which we reside, by flyin' down and bitin' a piece out of a rustler whenever we see one. Shall we set back and let a rambunctious son of Texas come in here and give the fairest spot on God's green earth a black eye by makin' it onsafe for an honest man to own a hoof of stock? Prisoner, stand up and tell the court your name."
The "rambunctious" son of Texas unfolded his six feet of body and faced the judge.
"Ben Evans."
"Ben Evans." The judge's face assumed an expression of cunning. "Were that your name where you came from, or one what ​pleased your fancy when you come into the territory?"
Ben answered curtly:
"It's my name anyhere."
"Whatcha gotta say, Mr. Evans, about this here rustlin' charge?" The judge's tongue sounded a little thick, and his eyes, as he fixed them upon Ben, watered weakly. "Air you guilty, young feller?"
"No; and what I have to say won't take long. I never run our brand on Spiser's cows, and he knows it. The rustlin's on the other side, and I can prove it. That's all I got to say, and you can believe it or not, as you blame please."
The prisoner sat down abruptly.
"Would it not be as well, your honor"—again the judge's spine stiffened—"a trifle more regular perhaps, to swear the jury and to request the plaintiff first to state his case?"
Bob's tone and manner was all deference as he arose to make the suggestion, but Nan saw his lips twitch ever so slightly at the corners.
The judge closed his eyes and considered ​these points for a time, pursing his lips as he deliberated.
It might be as well to humor this stranger, he reasoned. It would appear more impartial; and it was really a small matter, after all, whether the prisoner defended himself before he knew exactly of what he was accused, or afterward. The judge's hand sought the pitcher and, though his eyes were still closed, he found the handle with unerring instinct.
"Ah-h-h! Poth, do you think you can jump up a Bible handy?"
"They was one here"—Poth raised the dust of many months as he fumbled on a shelf—"but a doggone pack-rat got away with most of it. I know where they's a mail-order store's catalogue—a sheep-herder's Bible is better than nothin', jedge. Here's what's left of it!" Poth held up the chewed remnants, adding cynically: "Them rats can swaller more than I can."
" 'Tain't becomin', Mr. Poth," said the judge reprovingly, "in a gent as sells as poor whisky as you do to cast slurs at the Gospel. ​Will the Hon. 'Hank' T. Spiser kindly step forward and swear himself?"
Spiser, who had been leaning against the wall in the rear of the room, extracting vast satisfaction from Ben's predicament, Nan's pale face and anxious eyes, now pushed his way to the front and "swore himself" upon the tattered Bible.
"This fellow," he nodded contemputuously toward Ben, "was foreman for me for over a year, and gave fair satisfaction until a certain party"—his face was ugly with a sneer—"came into the country, when he began to neglect his work, and I fired him. He was sore, and threatened to get even.
"He went into partnership with a 'nester' down in the Longhorn bosque, and their herd didn't grow fast enough to suit 'em. My foreman saw some suspicious-looking brands in their bunch. I hired a couple of Mexicans to trail 'em, and he found it no great job to come up on this fellow Evans burning a brand. I had him arrested, and that's all there is to it."
He turned to leave the stand.
Bob stopped him with a quick gesture.
​"Just a moment, if you please. Not quite all there is to it, Mr. Spiser. If you will try, you may recall the fact that at the time you discharged Evans he reported having come upon your present foreman in the act of burning a brand on one of Blakely's cows."
"He did not report it," returned Spiser coolly.
Bob's restraining hand upon Ben's arm kept him in his seat.
"No?" Bob's tone was polite inquiry. "But if I should tell you that he did see your present foreman in the act of burning a brand, that I also was a witness, you would, of course, discharge him?"
Spiser replied with heat:
"That's my business."
"What—rustling?" And again the courtroom snickered at Bob's audacity.
"I appeal to the court." Spiser turned furiously upon his honor. "I didn't come up here to be insulted!"
"Tha'sh right!" The judge endeavored to rap for order, but missed the plank and brought the ax-handle down smartly upon his knee-cap. "Ouch! Tha'sh right! Can't no ​fresh dude come into this country and insult ol' fr'en' of mine—ol', ol' fr'en'." The judge was almost tearful.
"That will do for the present, Mr. Spiser." Bob received a look which left him in no doubt as to Spiser's feeling toward him as that person left the stand. "The prosecution has other witnesses, I presume?"
"Wher'sh that saddle-colored gent what seen this?" The judge's eyes roved over the court-room, and Juan Ospino stood up with a noticeable absence of alacrity.
Bob was an unexpected factor in the case, and sending Ben Evans to the penitentiary did not seem so simple as it had when his story was outlined for him by Spiser.
He knew the jury, which was of Spiser's choosing, and the judge were palpable tools, but there were the spectators to reckon with, and there was something very disconcerting in the directness of this suave young man. Ospino was visibly agitated as he swore to tell the truth and gave the court his name.
"It ees not much that I haf to say," he began in a high and tremulous voice. "Señor Spiser lose his cows, and he hire me to watch ​Ben Evans. I have not many days to wait. Then I see him run a cow into the arroyo. I tie my horse and crawl up where I can look. He haf the cow roped and throwed. It haf the L.X. brand, and I stay till I see him burn the brand with a piece of wire. Then I hurry away—queeick!"
"Why didn't you stop him, Ospino?"
The Mexican shrugged his shoulder.
"I am not prepare to die, señor."
"I can believe that," Bob observed. "And you are sure—very, very sure that you saw the L.X. brand?"
"Ver', ver' sure," replied the Mexican positively.
"How far off were you, Ospino?"
Instinctively the Mexican's eyes sought Spiser's and that person gave him a warning look.
"I t'ink one hundred yard, maybe."
"Did you ever work with a surveying party?"
The casual question brought a startled look into the Mexican's eyes, and again they sought the rear of the room as though for advice. He stammered finally:
​"I n-not remember."
"That will do"—the Mexican looked his relief—"but don't go. Sit there. I'll need you again. Mr. McCaffrey."
There was a buzz of surprise when the spectators saw Mr. McCaffrey's red head moving like a flambeau from the back of the room to the stand. Not so much surprise because he was an unexpected witness as because he answered to another name than "Sour-Dough."
"You know this witness, Ospino?" Bob asked, after Mr. McCaffrey had been sworn with much solemnity.
"Better nor a brother," replied Mr. McCaffrey. "Bunked with him for six weeks when we worked with the same survey outfit t'other side of Rincon."
"Why did he leave the surveying party?"
"Canned," Mr. McCaffrey answered briefly.
"Why?"
"Because he et prunes out'n the dish with his fingers every time 'twere passed, and he's near-sighted. Can't see much furderer than ​the end of his nose. The boss said he were a nuisance."
"That will do, Mr. McCaffrey."
"Ospino?"
The Mexican stood up with a sickly smile.
"Your honor!" Bob turned to the judge. His honor had slipped into dreamland. He was not only asleep, but a low gurgle proclaimed a coming snore.
Fritz Poth stepped forward and looked into the pitcher. It was empty, but there was no mistaking the lingering odor.
"Who done this?" he demanded.
"Never mind him," urged the citizens of Hopedale, now aroused. "He don't cut any figger, anyhow. We want to know who's lying in this here case."
"It's a very easy matter to find out," Bob replied. "Mr. McCaffrey, if you will be good enough to go to the opposite side of the street and hold up some object we can very quickly test this witness's eyesight."
Spectators, jury, prisoner—all save the slumbering law—piled out unceremoniously to the sidewalk. Spiser among them, his face like a thundercloud. Mr. McCaffrey walked ​briskly across the street and held up his dollar watch.
The perspiration stood out on the Mexican's forehead, and he screwed his face in a grimace of distress as he strained his eyes to distinguish the object in McCaffrey's hand.
"Don't be bashful, pardner," encouraged the crowd; "don't be scart of your voice! Speak right out!"
But Ospino was "scart" of other things than his voice, for he was unable to more than dimly see McCaffrey, much less his watch.
In desperation he blurted out at random:
"A gun!"
The spectators' derisive hoots told him of his failure.
"Guess again, greaser! Air you plumb sure that cow you saw wer'n't a burro?"
The spectators were with Bob now to a man, and Nan thought he never had looked more the thoroughbred than when upon their return to the court-room he stood up to address the jury.
The element in the court-room had the natives innate prejudice against an Eastern ​"dude," and Bob, in his well-fitting clothes, carefully groomed, typified in his appearance all that the word conveyed to their minds. But, unconsciously in his brief stay he had absorbed something of the vigor and vim of the West, or perhaps it was only that he gave freer rein to a naturally forceful personality.
At any rate, as he talked to the jury and to the spectators, the latter, in fact, being the ones to whom he directed his plea, he was as blunt, as vigorous, as unconventional as one of themselves, and the barrier of prejudice melted between them.
The jurors felt it, and squirmed uneasily in their seats as their eyes roved from Spiser's black countenance to the approving faces of the spectators. Spiser, for reasons best known to themselves, held each and every one of them in his unscrupulous grip, yet public opinion in Hopedale when thoroughly aroused was something to be reckoned with.
"Men of the jury," said Bob in conclusion, "it is for you to say whether Ben Evans is to go through life branded as a thief by a self-confessed liar and his no less culpable employer, or whether he is to walk out of the ​court-room cleared of this groundless and heinous charge!"
"Heinous charge!" The words and ensuing applause reached through the judge's slumbers to his befogged brain.
He sat up with a snort and rapped for order, inadvertently shoving one of his volumes to the floor. Bob picked it up and read: "Year-book of the Department of Agriculture, 1892."
"Heinous charge," reiterated the judge, "and hangin'sh too good for him!"
Fritz Poth stepped forward once more and slipped his hand under his honor's arm.
"Your bed's made up for you. Bill, and you'd better git to it. Young feller," he addressed Bob, "reckon I voice the sentiments of this here community when I says turn the prisoner loose?"
A yell of approval all but lifted the roof.
"Congratulations, Bob," Nan smiled radiantly as she extended her hand, "upon winning your first case."