"Aw, to hell with 'im," growled Pecos scornfully; but at the same time he was interested. Life within prison walls is not very exciting—there is lots of company, but not of the best, and any man who does not want to hear dirty stories or learn how "mooching" and "scoffing" is done, or the details of the jungle life, is likely in time to become lonely. Already he was hungry for the outdoor life—the beating of the hot sun, the tug of the wind, the feel of the saddle between his knees—but alas, he was doomed to spend his unprofitable days in jail, a burden to himself and society! Six months in jail, before he could come before the grand jury and have his trial—six months, and it had not yet been six days. He drew the morning _Blade_ from his bosom and examined it carefully, searching vainly through editorial columns and patent insides until at last he caught the heading: "Jail Strike a Failure. Bad Man from Verde Crossing Makes Prisoners Clean Up." Then he read the article through carefully, mumbling over the big words in the hope of sensing their meaning and lingering long over his name in print. At the allusion to the _Voice of Reason_ he flushed hot with indignation; muttered curses greeted the name of Sheriff Morgan; but every time he came to "Mr. Dalhart" he smiled weakly and nursed his young mustache. But after he had finished he went back and gazed long and intently at his full name as given at the beginning:—"Mr. Pecos Q. Dalhart"—Pecos Q.! He read the entire paper over carefully and came back to it again; and that evening, when Mr. Baker of the _Blade_ strolled in, he beckoned him sternly to the bars. "Say," he said, "what the hell you mean by puttin' that 'Q.' in my name—Pecos Q. Dalhart? My name is Pecos straight—named after that river in Texas!" "Oh, is it?" cried the young reporter, making a hurried note. "Well, I beg your pardon, Mr. Dalhart, I'm sure. How's house-cleaning to-day? Organized your court yet? No? Well, when you do, let me know. Always like to be present, you understand, when you have a trial." He hurried away, as if upon important business, and slowed down as suddenly before the sheriff's office. "That 'Q.' did the business," he observed, glancing triumphantly at the assembled company. "I told you I'd make that rustler talk. A man may not give a dam' what you say about him but he goes crazy if you get his name wrong—I found that out long ago. Mr. Dalhart informs me that his name is Pecos straight—no 'Q.' in it. Pecos Straight Dalhart! All right, I'll try to get it right next time. What'll you bet we don't have another Kangaroo Court before the end of the week?" "The cigars," replied Boone Morgan casually. As a politician, cigars were a matter of small import to him—when he was not giving them away his friends were giving cigars to him.