The doctor's features spread into a broad grin. "You've all seen the dog-team, and here's the red hair." His fingers sunk into his prisoner's fiery locks with a grip that threatened to leave him a scalp for a trophy. Thorn cursed and twisted.
The crowd's allegiance had been quick to shift, but it veered back to O'Neil with equal suddenness.
"Bunco!" yelled a hoarse voice, after a brief hush.
"Lynch 'em!" cried another; and the angry clamor burst forth anew.
"Don't be foolish," shouted Murray; "nobody has been hurt."
"We'd have been on the trail to-morrow. Send 'em down the river barefoot!"
"Yes! What about that gang from Omar?"
"I'm afraid they'll have to take care of themselves," O'Neil said. "But these two men aren't altogether to blame; they're acting under orders. Isn't that right?" he asked Thorn.
The miner hesitated, until the grip in his hair tightened; then, evidently fearing the menace in the faces on every side, he decided to seek protection in a complete confession.
"Yes!" he agreed, sullenly. "Gordon cooked it up. It's all a fake."