The day of hearing having been reached, and all assembled, the Judges listened to the story of old broken Greeley, who had by no means recovered and was still swathed in bandages. The accused was a burly fellow under forty, powerful enough to have challenged a middleweight, who did not deny or extenuate the assault. “It is a very bad thing this man has done,” said Judge Hooker, clucking his tongue and shaking his head sadly. “Yes, my brother,” agreed the Navajo jurist. “It is a serious thing and it must not happen again. We must make an example of this man so all the people may know of it.” “We will,” said Hooker; and they withdrew to frame up a sentence. From their determined expressions I feared that friend prisoner would get at least a year in the hoosegow—an embarrassing piece of business, for the Regulations do not recognize any charge as deserving more than ninety days, and the Territorial Court had thought three years sufficient for cold-blooded murder in a recent Indian case. The judges reappeared. “He is a bad man,” said Hooker. “Yes, he is a dangerous fellow,” said Hostin Nez. “And so we will send him to jail for—ten days.” “Ten days!” I cried out. “Why, he nearly killed Greeley! That old man will suffer for weeks. You mean ten weeks, don’t you?” “No,” they said. “Ten days is a long time in jail.” The appellate power came into action. “Your decision, gentlemen, is overruled.” Hooker brightened, expecting a remission of at least five days, which would save his face at the mesa and perhaps prevent the prisoner from hating him for many years. “The prisoner will be confined for the period of sixty days, and during that time he will be employed at hard labor.” Hooker gasped, trembled, and was speechless. “You are a man without mercy,” declared old Hostin Nez. That was my last session of the Indian Court in the Hopi-Navajo country with native judges sitting. One might as well expect justice from a goose. For an Agent who wishes to evade responsibility, the “judges” are an excellent smoke-screen. He can always say—“It was done by the prisoner’s own people”: Pilate’s method. Aside from its having all the elements of farce, it breeds dissatisfaction and ill will among the people, while teaching them nothing. I know of nothing more unjust, unless it be the trial of an unlettered Indian according to the strict letter of white man’s law and the unwavering standard of the white man’s boasted morality. Thereafter I paid the salaries, and pleasantly chatted with the old gentlemen when they visited the Agency; but of their legal wisdom I wanted nothing. The Court proceeded to business without them.