Читать книгу Buffalo Bill's Boy Bugler; Or, The Last of the Indian Ring - Ingraham Prentiss - Страница 3

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It had come out of the long familiar war between the cattlemen and sheepmen. “Red Dick” and “Doc” Downs, cattlemen, were on trial for the shooting of Josh and Cabe Grey, sheep herders, and the slaughter of three hundred sheep. A typical Western crowd had drifted into Bozeman, including many soldiers from Fort Ellis. It was noon and the sun hung high and blazed down relentlessly on the perspiring spectators, as they poured out of the stuffy courtroom, at recess. Red Dick and Doc Downs were to be taken across the street to the hotel for lunch, and the crowd settled across the way to cheer or hiss the prisoners, as its sympathies dictated, as the handcuffed men were led forth by the officers.

Red Dick was known as a bad man and he looked the part. He stood six feet three in his stockings, was straight as an arrow, and, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, weighed 190 pounds. Contrary to the suggestion of his cognomen, he was not of Indian descent, but below the belt of tan at his neck the unbuttoned collar revealed skin as white as marble. It was a mass of curly, fiery-red hair that had given Richard Davids, from Vermont, his nickname in the West.

Red Dick’s steely gray eyes flashed, his hawk-bill nose sniffed contemptuously, and his short-cropped red mustache twitched nervously as he was led out of the courtroom and the hiss of his enemies fell on his ears.

Then came hoots and howls and verbal insults, intermingled with “tigers!” and “good boy, Dick!” “We’ll stand by you, Red!” etc.

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.

“It’s ‘Fighting Dan’ Grey!” gasped the crowd, as it scurried for quarters beyond the line of the big guns, which they felt sure were soon to be in action.

The officers shrank, too, and reached for their own guns in a half-hearted way.

Big Fighting Dan disdained the motion to draw on him, except to roar:

“Keep yer pepper boxes under yer co’t tails, officers, er it’ll be bad fer yer digestion.

“An’ so yo’re it! hey?” he boomed again.

“Waal, yo’re in ther han’s o’ ther law, jes’ now, an’ old Dan respects ther law, but Heaven hev mercy on yore pesky hide if I ever set my eyes onto yuh outside o’ ther clutches o’ ther sheriff an’ his men.”

Shoving his guns into his belt, the dark man continued:

“But I’m hyar an’ yo’re hyar, so now’s ther time ter pay my complerments—an’ thar yew hev um!”

He had suddenly reached forward, and, before the officers could protest or others divine his intention, he had grasped Red Dick by the chin with one hand and by the curling red hair with the other, and tipped the prisoner’s head far back. Then an amber stream left Dan’s dark lips, and Red Dick’s face ran with tobacco juice as he was released, a spluttering, raving, helpless wretch, while Fighting Dan turned away, swung into his saddle, and with a few parting shots dashed down the street and disappeared.

Taking advantage of the dazed condition of the crowd, the officers hurried their prisoners into the hotel.

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.