“ ‘They tells me,’ sez old John, ‘some punchers has found a human skeleton over in the mouth o’ Bisbee Canyon,’ sez he.
“ ‘Yes,’ sez I, slappin’ him on the back and laughin’, ‘and,’ sez I, ‘I knows what greaser used to own that skeleton.’
“ ‘Is that so?’ sez old John. ‘Well,’ sez he, ‘that Mexican won’t never steal no more hosses.’ ”
Juan Soto’s case illustrates Slaughter’s methods as neatly as anything that happened during his two terms in office. Juan Soto was a Spaniard who had come originally from California and was prosperously settled in Contention. He handled his affairs so adroitly as the leader of a band of robbers that operated up and down the San Pedro, running off cattle, holding up travellers on the highway, and committing an occasional murder, that the citizens of Contention had no suspicions that he was a criminal but held him in great respect. Slaughter himself was in the dark for a long time as to Soto’s connection with the thieves, though he often wondered where all the money came from that the Spaniard spent in lordly wise across Tombstone bars.
Sheriff Slaughter had a deputy working for him named Burt Alvord, in whom he had great confidence and who rewarded that confidence by shrewd, faithful service, though in after years he himself turned outlaw and engineered a number of daring train robberies. Alvord was a roistering good fellow who drank and gambled and made many friends in the shady walks of life. These friendships he cultivated assiduously for business reasons, being a good detective and having a good detective’s faith in the value of stool pigeons. It was one of these secret informers who first directed Alvord’s suspicions toward Juan Soto.
But suspicion was one thing and evidence another, and Slaughter found it extremely difficult to fasten guilt definitely upon the crafty Spaniard. The sheriff learned that Soto was frequently away from his home in Contention all night on mysterious missions and returned at dawn. He learned also that, before coming to Arizona, Soto had been a member of a desperate band of criminals in California. While Slaughter was busy with his investigations, two cattle buyers were robbed and murdered near the Mexican line. Information he received left no doubt in the sheriff’s mind that this atrocity was the work of Soto’s band and that Soto himself had taken a personal part in it. Slaughter rode over to Contention and brought Soto back a prisoner.
Soto was acquitted at his trial in Tombstone. As he left the courtroom a free man, he smiled a sly smile of triumph in Slaughter’s face. Which, it may be remarked, was a tactical error. It was whispered that the jury had been bribed. That may or may not have been true. The evidence was strong, but there were certain missing links, and the jury had given Soto the benefit of what it deemed a reasonable doubt. But, knowing what he did about Soto’s clandestine affairs, Slaughter looked upon the verdict as an outrageous miscarriage of justice. Soto’s guilt had not been proved to the satisfaction of the jury. Slaughter knew he was guilty. The jury of twelve men had brought in a verdict of innocence; the jury of one man returned a verdict of guilt. When, a few days later, Soto rode to his home in Contention at dawn after one of his nocturnal adventures, Slaughter stepped from a doorway with his pearl-handled six-shooter at a level.
“Soto,” said the sheriff, “I’ll give you ten days to get out of the country.”
But the amazed Spaniard had other plans. He argued the matter.
“The jury acquitted me,” he objected. “My business is here in Contention. You’ve no right to order me out of the country.”
“The jury failed to put you in the penitentiary where you belong,” replied Slaughter. “But I’ll kill you if I catch you in this country after ten days. That’s your time limit. Remember—ten days.”
Slaughter’s peremptory order struck Soto as pretty high-handed. Unjust, also, in view of his acquittal, and, moreover, unlawful. The sheriff had no right to order him out of the country. Absolutely no right of any kind. Soto voiced his indignant resentment in Contention saloons.
“I am Juan Soto,” he said to his Mexican admirers, tapping himself upon the breast. “That fellow Slaughter thinks he is dealing with a baby. But I will show him.”
The ninth day arrived. Soto was tippling among sympathetic comrades.
“Well, Juan,” said one of his friends, “what are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” flared Soto with a defiant laugh. “I am going to stay right here in Contention. I’ve just as good a right to stay in this country as Slaughter himself. He can’t run me out.”
The sun of the tenth day shone brightly over Contention. Soto’s Mexican comrades gathered in a saloon. They would have a social glass with Juan. He was in trouble. A drink or two would cheer him up. But Soto did not appear. His friends looked at one another with faint, dubious smiles. Juan had talked so big and brave the night before. It was unbelievable that, after all, he had obeyed the order of this fellow, Slaughter. Ah, there down the street, Señora Juan Soto was sweeping off her front steps. The Mexicans would inquire.
“Buenas dias, señora. Adonde esta Juan?”
The woman, leaning on her broom handle, gave a shrug.
“Se fue,” she replied. “Este es todo. Yo no se por adonde.”
That was all. Juan Soto had vanished.
It was a year later that a number of robberies were committed in Sulphur Springs Valley around Pierce. Juan Soto recently had settled in the valley. As that was not the San
