There was a hot time in old Geronimo on the night that Ike Crittenden and his cowboys rode in, and in spite of everything he could do three of them wound up in the jag-cell before morning. Nevertheless he had plenty of witnesses and to spare, for the grand jury merely went over the same evidence that had been taken before the magistrate and handed down an indictment against Pecos Dalhart, accusing him of feloniously and unlawfully marking, branding, or altering the brand on one neat animal, to wit, a spotted calf, belonging to Isaac Crittenden of Verde Crossing. It was almost the first case on the calendar and the arraignment was set for the following Monday. Then Pecos Dalhart, defendant, slouched gloomily back to his cell and sat down to await the issue. The howls of Angevine Thorne, blended with the hoarse protests of Crit's cowboys, floated in to him from the jag-cell and he knew his faithful attorney had not deserted him, but what a broken reed was that to lean on when his whole future hung in the balance! Even as he listened he had an uneasy fear that Angy was giving the whole snap away to the drunken cowboys and once more he begged Bill Todhunter to throw Babe into the tanks where he could look after him. It was at this time, when things were at their worst, that Shepherd Kilkenny, the district attorney, came down to look into his case and find out how he would plead. He was a very cautious man, Mr. Kilkenny, and he never had a man indicted unless he held his written confession or knew beyond the peradventure of a doubt that he could convict him. In the case of Pecos Dalhart he had been unusually careful, for it was the first case of cattle stealing to come before him and most of his constituents were in the cow business; therefore, not to take any chances, he had followed it from the magistrate's court to the secret chambers of the grand jury, and now he was going after a confession. He came with gifts, a brace of cigars, but Pecos was well supplied with cigarette makings and waved them courteously aside. Then they got down to business. "Mr. Dalhart," began Kilkenny, "I'm the district attorney and I've come to talk over your case with you—in a friendly way, you understand. Ah—have you engaged an attorney? No? Well, that is hardly necessary, you know, but if you do call in a counsellor I am sure he will advise you to plead 'Guilty.' Ahem—yes, indeed. There's many a man stole his calf and got away with it, but you were caught in the act and observed by twenty witnesses. Not the ghost of a chance, you see; but if you plead 'Guilty' and throw yourself upon the mercy of the court it will cut your sentence in half, probably more. I'm a friend of yours, Mr. Dalhart, and I've often heard the sheriff speak of your exemplary character as a prisoner. All these things are appreciated, you know, and I—well, I'll do all I can for you with the judge. Now all you have to do is to sign this little paper and—"