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.”