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.