At one time it seemed probable that the factional spirit among the spectators would lead to riot, as the feeling ran high and the crowd began surging back and forth about the prisoners, preventing the advance of the officers in charge.
At that moment there was a commotion far down the street, a clatter of pounding hoofs, a wild yell and a fusillade of revolver shots. Then there burst on the view of the crowd a figure so startling as to, for the moment, drive all thoughts of the prisoners from the minds of the wrangling spectators.
It was a great, rawboned, buckskin stallion, tearing up the main thoroughfare at a terrific pace, headed directly at the startled crowd. Astride the animal was a man to match—a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered fellow in buckskin trousers and red flannel shirt, his long mustache sweeping back about his neck and fluttering in the wind with the corners of the handkerchief knotted there. In each hand the recognized “bad man” carried a big revolver with which he was boring holes in the ether by way of announcing his approach.
The horse, with wide-distended nostrils and showing belts of white around the iris of its eyes, dashed madly at the crowd, which scattered like chaff.
Almost upon the officers and their prisoners the big rider yelled:
“Whoa!”
The animal stopped so suddenly that it sat upon its haunches and slid for a yard or two while the rider seemed almost precipitated over its suddenly dropped head.
He landed squarely in front of the officers, his towering height now seen to the full, with a gun in each hand, and leaning far forward until his black and flashing eyes were on a level with those of Red Dick, he bellowed:
“So yo’re ther skunk thet plugged my brothers, air ye?”
Red Dick, with all his boasted bravery and deeds of dare-deviltry, cowered before the newcomer.