Red Dick’s handcuffs were removed to allow him to wash the tobacco stains from his face, but he was in too much of a rage to eat. He sat and indulged in savage mutterings by way of intrenchment of his vow to torture Fighting Dan at the stake, if he—Dick—ever got out of the grip of the law.
Doc Downs had little to say. He had escaped the wrath of Fighting Dan, for which he was thankful, and the sympathy and hatred of the crowd seemed to centre on Red Dick, rather than on him.
Doc was shrewd enough to keep still and remain in the background. Doc was not a practicing physician, as one might infer from his nickname. If there was anything which Doc knew less about than another, it was the application of drugs or the uses of lance and bandage. For some reason which never had been explained, Doc’s parents had given him the prefix “Modoc.” As a boy he had been “Mo,” and then “Mod,” now “Doc.”
Doc wasn’t smart enough to be a first-class bad man, although he had aspirations in that direction, and he was too indolent to earn an honest living. So, when Red Dick, the dashing cowboy, blew into town one day and flourished a wad that would have blocked the pathway of a four-year-old steer, Doc hitched onto the tail of the curly-haired comet.
There was one thing Doc could do—cook—and by means of that seldom-exercised talent he had won the favor of Red Dick.
Doc’s allegiance to his employer had got him into this fuss. With Red he had flourished guns and swaggered before the sheepmen on the ranges. And one day, when the mix-up came with the Greys, Doc had closed his eyes and blazed away as Red Dick had done. When he saw the Greys down, rolling on the ground and groaning, he became panicky and would have bolted, but for Red Dick, who ordered that every sheep on the section be shot. Then the two had spent the remainder of the day in riding down and slaughtering the innocent animals.
Doc was sorry, and he had no hesitation about saying so—when Red Dick was beyond hearing.
The sympathies of the cattle raisers were with Red Dick, even at this early day, for they had begun to feel the increasing encroachment of the sheep herders on the range. The sheepmen backed the Greys, who had been seriously wounded in the encounter, as well as sufferers financially in the loss of three hundred sheep. The Greys were quiet, peaceable ranchers, and considered honest by those who knew them.
Fighting Dan was the black sheep in the Grey family. Dan was big, and fierce, and courageous, and a gambler. He tore big holes in the atmosphere and made lots of noise, but he had never killed his man, in spite of his reputation. Dan’s favorite method was physical, unarmed violence. Two ordinary men were as boys in his grasp. He delighted in seizing a disputant at cards, to whirl the victim high above the top of his own head, which was six feet and a half above the floor.
Fighting Dan had once taken possession of a saloon that had won his disfavor, and poured liquor down the proprietor’s throat until he was unconscious. Dan had then set up the drinks for everybody in sight for half a day.