"I'd like to see the bunch of hobos that can man-handle _me_!" he snarled, making a pass at the sheriff. "Hey, bring me a dollar!" he commanded, speaking over his shoulder, and as the deputy went back to the office to get one from his envelope the Roman mob fell back and ceased its clamoring. The dollar was what they wanted. There was always a Mex to clean up, but the dollar went for a feed—fruit, candy, good things to eat—and not every man who entered could pay his fine. At the same time they stood off a little from the prisoner at the bar, for he had a bad look in his eye. The kangaroo sheriff, standing discreetly aloof, noticed it; the alcalde also; and in the premonitory hush that ensued even Boone Morgan began to read the signs of trouble. Next to his dream of breaking up the cattle-stealing business in the mountains, the Geronimo sheriff cherished the fond hope of building up a kangaroo court that would take the entire problem of jail discipline off his hands. It was an old idea, the kangaroo court, dimly reminiscent of frontier cow-camps but smelling more of hoboism, yet good for law and order if the right men were in power. Pete Monat was a terror to the evil-doer, especially if he was a Mex or darker, and Boone Morgan stood generously behind him, even when his decisions were a little rank. Right now the situation looked ominous and as Pecos continued to spit forth his venom, hissing and swelling like a snake at every approach of the pack, he made bold to interfere in the puppet play. "Here," he said, passing a dollar through the bars, "I'll advance you the money—these fellows won't hurt you none." "Keep your dirty dollar!" snapped Pecos, striking it away, "I got money of my own!" "Well, you don't need to git mad about it—I jest wanted to help you." "Yes, you help me! You throw me into jail for somethin' I never done and then bring this bunch of town boys in to see me kangarooed. That big stiff hain't got no right to fine me a dollar, an' you know it, but I'll give him the money all right—you jest wait!" He grinned sardonically at Michael Slattery, straightened his back and waited. He had all the time there was—the grand jury did not meet till Fall, and that was six months yet. This was the law they talked about—this was justice—to hold a man six months before he came to trial! Shut him up in that dark, stinking hole and keep him until he was broken! Sure—and let a bunch of yeggs spread-eagle him over a chair and beat him with a strap! For a year Pecos had been at war with society and never struck a blow for the revolution. But it was not too late. In turning him over to a kangaroo court Boone Morgan had added the last indignity—it was war now, and war to the knife. The deputy returned leisurely, and shoved a dollar bill through the bars.