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.