Once more at the clamor of battle the jail deputies came rushing to the rescue, bending their futile pistols upon the yelling prisoners. "It's that blankety-blank, Pecos Dalhart!" shouted Bill Todhunter as he goggled through the bars. "Well, the son of a goat, ain't he a fightin' fool!" There was a note almost of admiration in his voice, for Pecos was punching heads and belting yeggs with the calculating rage of a conqueror. "Git out of my way, _umbres_!" he yelled to his Mexican retainers. "_Vaya se—vamos_—I can fix 'em!" And he surely did. In his strong hands the alcalde's strap was a deadly weapon; he swung it with a puncher's skill and laid it on like a horse-wrangler. Shrieks for mercy were mingled with howls of pain and every time a man stood up to him he slugged him with all his strength. The floor was strewn with yeggs and when he had beaten down all opposition he flogged them into their cells. [Illustration: "You _will_ turn this jail into a hog-waller, will you?" he demanded] "You _will_ turn this jail into a hog-waller, will you?" he demanded, when the corridor was cleared of men. "You _will_ throw slops on the floor and not half clean 'em up! Well, come outer there, you low-browed hobos—_I'll_ show you how it's done! Now take them swabs and fill your cans with water and wash this floor up right. No, you stay where you are, _umbres_; I want to show these brake-beam tourists who's the boss. _Jump_ now, you panhandlers, or I'll burn you up with this!" He swung his wet strap and popped it behind the Chi Kid, and Chi went on his way. Bill Todhunter and the jail deputy looked curiously on through the bars; the reporter for the morning _Blade_ showed up suddenly from nowhere and began to ask leading questions, but Pecos did not unbend. In vain the reporter tried to beckon him up to the bars—Pecos remembered him too well as the fresh young man who had made a jest of his breaking into jail; also he hoped he could do a little job of house-cleaning without going on record as the friend of old Boone Morgan. He might be a little weak on the revolution but he knew his natural enemies. These were the men who had thrown him into jail for branding his own cow's calf; they were the hirelings of the System, friends to the rich and enemies to the poor; to them the agony of his soul was no more than a passing jest. He turned on the reporter and scowled. "Go take a run and jump at yourself!" he said. CHAPTER XVII THE POWER OF THE PRESS