"Giddap," he called. "Git along, Diablo!"

Diablo walked gently forward.

"Hurry up! I ain't got all day!" And the boy thumped the giant with his bare heels.

Diablo broke into a trot as soft, as smooth flowing, as water passing over a smooth bed of sand. Bull ran to the corner of the shed and gaped after them until the pair slid around a corner and were gone. Instinctively he drew off his hat and gaped.

He was startled back to himself by loud laughter nearby, and, looking up, he saw an old fellow in overalls with a handful of nails and a hammer. He stood among a scattering of uprights which represented, apparently, the beginnings of the skeleton of a barn. Now he leaned against one of these uprights and indulged his mirth. Bull regarded him mildly; he was used to being laughed at.



CHAPTER 14

"That's the way they all do," said the old man. "They all gape the same fool way when they see Diablo the first time."

"Is that the wild horse?" asked Bull in his gentle voice. "That's him. I s'pose after seeing Tod handle him, you'll want to try to ride him right off?"

Bull looked in the direction in which the horse had disappeared. He swallowed a lump that had risen in his throat and shook his head sadly.

"Nope. You see, I dunno nothing about horses, really."

The old man regarded him with a new and sudden interest.

"Takes a wise man to call himself a fool," he declared axiomatically.

Bull took this dubious bit of praise as an invitation and came slowly closer to the other. He had the child's way of eyeing a stranger with embarrassing steadiness at a first meeting and thereafter paying little attention to the face. He wrote the features down in his memory and kept them at hand for reference, as it were. As he drew nearer, the old man grew distinctly serious, and when Bull was directly before him he gazed up into the face of Bull with distinct amazement. At a distance the big man did not seem so large because of the grace of his proportions; when he was directly confronted, however, he seemed a veritable giant.

"By the Lord, you are big. And who might you be, stranger?"

"My name's Charlie Hunter; though mostly folks call me just plain Bull."

"That's queer," chuckled the other. "Well, glad to know you. I'm Bridewell."

They shook hands, and Bridewell noted the gentleness of the giant. As a rule strong men are tempted to show their strength when they shake hands; Bridewell appreciated the modesty of Charlie Hunter.

"And you didn't come to ride Diablo?"

"No. I just stopped in to see him. And—" Bull sighed profoundly.

"I know. He gives even me a touch now and then, though I know what a devil he is!"

"Devil?" repeated Bull, astonished. "Why, he's as gentle as a kitten!"

"Because you seen Tod ride him?" Bridewell laughed. "That don't mean nothing. Tod can bully him, sure. But just let a grown man come near him—with a saddle! That'll change things pretty pronto! You'll see the finest little bit of boiled-down hell-raising that ever was! The jingle of a pair of spurs is Diablo's idea of a drum—and he makes his charge right off! Gentle? Huh!" The grunt was expressive. "And what good's a hoss if he can't be rode with a saddle?" He waved the subject of Diablo into the distance. "They ain't any hope unless Hal Dunbar can ride him. If he can't, I'll shoot the beast!"

"Shoot him?" echoed Bull Hunter. He took a pace back, and his big, boyish face clouded to a frown. "Not that, I guess!"

"Why not?" asked Bridewell, curious at the change in the big stranger. "Why not? What good is he?"

"Why—he's good just to look at. I'd keep him just for that."

"And you can have him just for that—if you can manage to handle him. Want to try?"

Bull shook his head. "I don't know nothing about horses," he confessed again. He glanced at the skeleton of standing beams. "Building a barn, eh?"

"You wouldn't call it pitching hay or shoeing a hoss that I'm doing, I guess," said the old fellow crossly. "I'm fussing at building a barn, but a fine chance I got. I get all my timber here—look at that!"

He indicated the stacks of beams and lumber around him.

"And then I get some men out of town to work with me on it. But they get lonely. Don't like working on a ranch. Besides, they had a scrap with me. I wouldn't have 'em loafing around the job. Rather have no help at all than have a loafer helping me. So they quit. Then I tried to get my cowhands to give me a lift, but they wouldn't touch a hammer. Specialists in cows is what they say they are, ding bust 'em! So here I am trying to do something and doing nothing. How can I handle a beam that it takes three men to lift?"

He illustrated by going to a stack of long and massive timbers and tugging at the end of one of them. He was able to raise that end only a few inches.

"You see?"

Bull nodded.

"Suppose you give me the job handling the timbers?" he suggested. "I ain't much good with a hammer and nails, but I might manage the lifting."

"All by yourself? One man?" he eyed the bulk of Bull hopefully for a moment, then the light faded from his face. "Nope, you couldn't raise 'em. Not them joists yonder!"

"I think I could," said Bull.

Old Bridewell thrust out his jaw. He had been a combative man in his youth; and he still had the instinct of a fighter.

"I got ten dollars," he said, "that says you can't lift that beam and put her up on end! That one right there, that I tried to lift a minute ago!"

"All right," Bull nodded.

"You're on for the bet?" the old man chuckled gayly. "All right. Let's see you give a heave!"

Bull Hunter obediently stepped to the timber. It was a twelve footer of bulky dimensions, heavy wood not thoroughly seasoned. Yet he did not approach one end of it. He laid his immense hands on the center of it. Old Bridewell chuckled to himself softly as he watched; he was beginning to feel that the big stranger was a little simple-minded. His chuckling ceased when he saw the timber cant over on one edge.

"Look out!" he called, for Bull had slipped his hand under the lifted side. "You'll get your fingers smashed plumb off that way."

"I have to get a hold under it, you see," explained Bull calmly, and so saying his knees sagged a little and when they straightened the timber rose lightly in his hands and was placed on his shoulder.

"Where'd you like to have it?" asked Bull.

Bridewell rubbed his eyes. "Yonder," he said faintly.

Bull walked to the designated place, the great timber teetering up and down, quivering with the jar of each stride. There he swung one end to the ground and thrust the other up until it was erect.

"Is this the way you want it?" said Bull.

By this time Bridewell had recovered his self-possession to some degree, yet his eyes were wide as he approached.

"Yep. Just let it lean agin' that corner piece, will you, Hunter?"

Bull obeyed.

"That might make a fellow's shoulder sort of sore," he remarked, "if he had to carry those timbers all day."

"All day?" gasped Bridewell, and then he saw that the giant, indeed, was not even panting from his effort. He was already turning his attention to the pile of timbers.

"Here," he said, reluctantly drawing out some money. "Here's your ten."

But Bull refused it. "Can't take it," he explained. "I just made the bet by way of talk. You see, I knew I could lift it; and you didn't have any real idea about me. Besides, if I'd lost I couldn't have paid. I haven't any money."

He said this so gravely and simply that old Bridewell watched him quizzically, half suspecting that there was a touch of irony hidden somewhere. It gradually dawned on him that a man who was flat broke was refusing money which he had won fairly on a bet. The idea staggered Bridewell. He was within an ace of putting Bull Hunter down as a fool. Something held him back, through some underlying respect for the physical might of the big man and a respect, also, for the honesty which looked out of his eyes. He pocketed the money slowly. He was never averse to saving.

"But I've been thinking," said Bull, as he sadly watched the money disappear, "that you might be needing me to help you put up the barn? Do you think you could hire me?"

"H'm," grumbled Bridewell. "You think you could handle these big timbers all day?"

"Yes," said Bull, "if none of 'em are any bigger than that last one. Yes, I could handle 'em all day easily."

It was impossible to doubt that he said this judiciously and not with a desire to overstate his powers. In spite of himself the old rancher believed.

"You see," explained Bull eagerly, "you said that you needed three men for that work. That's why I ask."

"And I suppose you'd want the pay of three men?"

Bull shook his head. "Anything you want to pay me," he declared.

The rancher frowned. This sounded like the beginning of a shrewd bargain, and his respect and suspicion were equally increased.

"Suppose you say what you want?" he asked.

"Well," Bull said slowly, "I'd have to have a place to sleep. And—I'm a pretty big eater."

"I guess you are," said Bridewell. "But if you do three men's work you got a right to three men's food. What else do you want?"

Bull considered, as though there were few other wishes that he could express. "I haven't any money," he apologized. "D'you think maybe you could pay me a little something outside of food and a place to sleep?"

Bridewell blinked, and then prepared himself to become angry, when it dawned on him that this was not intended for sarcasm. He found that Bull was searching his face eagerly, as though he feared that he were asking too much.

"What would do you?" suggested Bridewell tentatively.

"I dunno," said Bull, sighing with relief. "Anything you think."

It was plain that the big man was half-witted—or nearly so. Bridewell kept the sparkle of exultation out of his eyes.

"You leave it to me, then, and I'll do what's more'n right by you. When d'you want to start work?"

"Right now."



CHAPTER 15

When Bull left the dining room that night after supper, Mrs. Bridewell looked across the table at her husband with horror in her eyes.

"Did you see?" she gasped. "He ate the whole pot of beans!"

"Sure I seen him," and he grinned.

"But—he'll eat us out of house and home! Why, he's like a wolf!"

Bridewell chuckled with superior knowledge. "He's ate enough for three," he admitted, "but he's worked enough for six—besides, most of his wages come in food. But work? I never seen anything like it! He handled more timbers than a dozen. When it come to spiking them in place he seen me swinging that twelve-pound sledge and near breaking my back. 'I think it's easier this way,' he says. 'Besides you can hit a lot faster if you use just one hand.' And he takes the hammer, and sends that big spike in all the way to the head with one lick. And he wondered why I didn't work the same way! Ain't got any idea how strong he is."

Mrs. Bridewell listened with wide eyes. "The idea," she murmured. "The idea! Where's he now?"

Her husband went to the back door. "He's sitting over by the pump talking to Tod. Sitting talking like they was one age. I reckon he's sort of half-witted."

"How come?" sharply asked Mrs. Bridewell. "Ain't Tod got more brains than most growed-up men?"

"I reckon he has," admitted the proud father.

And if they had put the same question to Bull Hunter, the giant would have agreed with them emphatically. He approached the child tamer of Diablo with a diffidence that was almost reverence. The freckle-faced boy looked up from his whittling when the shadow of Bull fell athwart him, with an equal admiration; also with suspicion, for the cowpunchers, on the whole, were apt to make game of the youngster and his grave, grown-up ways. He was, therefore, shrewdly suspicious of jests at his expense.

Furthermore, he had seen the big stranger heaving the great timbers about and whirling the sledge with one hand; he half suspected that the jokes might be pointed with the weight of that heavy hand. His amazement was accordingly great when he found the big man actually sitting down beside him, cross-legged, and he was absolutely stupefied when Bull Hunter said, "I've been aiming at this chance to talk to you, Tod, all day."

"H'm," grunted Tod noncommittally, and examined the other with a cautious side glance.

But the face of Bull Hunter was unutterably free from guile. Tod instantly began to adjust himself. The men he most worshiped were the lean, swift, profanely formidable cowpunchers. But there was something in him that responded with a thrill to this accepted equality with such a man as Bull Hunter. Even his father he had seen stricken to an awed silence at the sight of Bull's prowess.

"You see," explained Bull frankly, "I been wondering how you managed to handle Diablo the way you do."

Tod chuckled. "It's just a trick. You watch me a while with him, you'll soon catch on."

But Bull shook his head as he answered, "Maybe a mighty bright man might figure it out, but I'm not good at figuring things out, Tod."

The boy blinked. He was accustomed to the studied understatement of the cowpunchers and he was accustomed, also, to their real vanity which underlay the surface shyness. But it was patent that Bull Hunter, in spite of his size, was truly humble. This conception was new to Tod and slowly grew in his brain. His active eyes ran over the bulk beside him; he almost pitied the giant.

"Besides," pondered Bull heavily, "I guess there's a whole lot of bright men that have seen you handle Diablo, but they couldn't make out what you did. They tried to ride Diablo and got their necks nearly broken. They were good riders, but I'm not. You see, Diablo's the first horse I've ever seen that could really carry me." He added apologetically, "I'm so heavy."

No vanity, certainly. He gestured toward himself as though he were ashamed of his brawn, and the heart of Tod warmed and expanded. He himself would never be large, and his heart had ached because of his smallness many a time.

"Yep," he said judiciously, "you're pretty heavy. About the heaviest I ever seen, I guess. Maybe Hal Dunbar is as big, but I never seen Hal."

"I've heard a good deal about Hal, but—"

He stopped short and stiffened. Tod saw that the eyes of the big man had fixed on the corral in which stood Diablo. A puff of wind had come, and the great black had thrown up his head into it, an imposing picture with mane and tail blown sidewise. Not until the stallion turned away from the unseen thing which he had scented in the wind, did Bull turn to his small companion with a sigh.

Tod nodded, his eyes glinting. "I know," he said. "I used to feel that way—before I learned how to handle Diablo." He interpreted, "You feel like it'd be pretty fine to get onto Diablo's back and have him gallop under you."

"About the finest thing in the world," sighed Bull Hunter. He cast out his great hands before him as he tried to explain the mysterious emotions which the horse had excited in him. "You see, Tod, I'm pretty big and I'm pretty slow. Most folks have horses, and they get about pretty lively on 'em, but I've always had to walk."

The enormity of this lack made Tod stare, for travel and horses were inseparably connected in his mind. He shuddered a little at the thought of the big man stalking across the burning and interminable sands of the desert or toiling through the mountains. It seemed to him that he could see the signs of that pain stamped in the face of Bull Hunter, and his heart leaped again in sympathy.

"So when I saw Diablo—" Bull paused. But Tod had understood. Suddenly the boy became excited.

"Suppose you was to learn to ride Diablo before Hal Dunbar come to try him out? Suppose that?"

"Could you teach me?" the giant asked in an almost awed whisper.

The child looked over his companion with a vague wonder. It would be a tremendous responsibility, this teaching of the giant, but what could be more spectacular than to have such a man as his pupil? But to share his unique empire over Diablo—that would be a great price to pay!

"No," he decided, "it wouldn't do. Besides, suppose even I could teach you how to ride Diablo—with a saddle, which I don't think I could—what would happen when Hal Dunbar come up to these parts and found that the hoss he wanted was somebody else's? He'd make an awful fuss—and he's a fighting man, Bull."

He said this impressively, leaning a little toward the giant, and he was rewarded infinitely by seeing the right hand of the giant stir a little toward the holster at his thigh.

"I guess I'd have to take my chance with him," was all Bull answered in his mildest tone.

Tod was beginning to guess that there was a certain amount of mental strength under this quiet exterior. He had often noted that his father, who made by far the most noise, was more easily placated than his mother, in spite of her gentle silences. The strength of Bull Hunter had a strain of the same thing about it.

"You'd take a chance with Hal Dunbar?" he repeated wonderingly. He trembled a little, with a sort of nervous ecstasy at the thought of that coming encounter. "That's more'n anybody else in these parts would do. Why, everybody's heard about Hal Dunbar. Everybody's scared of him. He can ride anything that's big enough to carry him; he can fight like a wildcat with his hands; and he can shoot like"—his eye wandered toward a superlative—"like Pete Reeve, almost," he concluded with a tone of awe.

A spark of tenderness shone in the eye of Bull. "D'you know Pete Reeve?"

"No, and I don't want to. Ma had a brother once, and he met up with Pete Reeve."

A tragedy was inferred in that oblique reference. Bull decided that this was a conversational topic on which he must remain silent, and yet he yearned to speak of the little withered catlike fellow with the wise brain who had done so much for him.

"When I'm big enough," mused the boy with a quiet savagery, "maybe I'll meet up with Pete Reeve."

Bull switched the talk to a more comfortable topic. "But how'd you make a start with that man-eating Diablo?"

Tod studied, the question. "I got a way with hosses, you see," he began modestly.

He played two brown fingers in his mouth and sent out a shrilling whistle that was answered immediately by a whinny, and a little chestnut gelding, sun-faded to a sand color nearly, cantered into view around the corner of a shed and approached them. He came to a pause nearby, and having studied Bull Hunter with large, unafraid, curious eyes for a moment, began to nibble impertinently at the ragged hat brim of the child.

"Git away!" exclaimed Tod, and when the chestnut made no move to go, the brown fist flashed up at the reaching head. But the head was jerked away with a motion of catlike deftness.

"He's a terrible bother, Crackajack is," said the boy angrily, and from the corner of his eye he stole a glance of unspeakable pride at the big man.

"He's a beauty," exclaimed Bull Hunter. "A regular beauty!"

For Crackajack combined the toughness of a mustang and the lean, strong running lines of a thoroughbred in miniature. His legs were as delicately made as the legs of a deer; his head was a little model of impish intelligence and beauty.

"You and Crackajack are pals," said Bull. "I guess that's what you are!"

"We get on tolerable well," admitted the boy, whose heart was full with this praise of his pet.

Bull continued on the agreeable topic. "And I'll bet he's fast, too. He looks like speed to me!"

"Maybe you don't know hosses, but you sure got hoss sense." Tod chuckled. "Most folks take Crackajack for a toy pony. He ain't. I've seen him carry a full-grown man all day and keep up with the best of 'em. He don't mind the weight of me no more'n if I was a feather. He's fast, he's tough, and he knows more'n a hoss should know, you might say!"

He changed his voice, and a brief command made Crackajack give up his teasing and retreat. Bull watched the exquisite little creature go, with a smile of pleasure. He did not know it, but that smile unlocked the last door to Tod's heart.

"He was pretty near as wild as Diablo when I first got him," said the boy. "And mean—say, he'd been kicked around all his life. But I fatted him up in the barn, and he got so's he'd follow me around. And now he runs loose like a dog and comes when I whistle. He knows more things than you could shake a stick at, Crackajack does." "I'll bet he does," said Bull with shining eyes.

"Say," said the boy suddenly, "I'm going to tell you about the way I worked with Diablo."

"I'll take that mighty kind," said Bull gratefully. "D'you think I'd have a chance with him even if you showed me how?"

"You got to have a way with hosses," admitted the boy, and he examined Bull again. "But I think you'll get on with hossflesh pretty well. When Diablo first come, he used to go plumb crazy when anybody come near his corral. He still does if a growed man comes there. Well, they used to go out and stand and watch him and laugh at him prancing around and kicking up a fuss at the sight of 'em.

"And it made me mad. Made me plumb mad to see them bother Diablo when he wasn't doing no harm, when they wasn't gaining anything by it, either."

"I used to go out when nobody was around and stand by the bars with a bit of hay and grain heads in my hand. First off he'd prance around even at me, but pretty soon he seen that I wasn't big enough to do him no harm, and then he'd just stand still and snort and look at me. Along about the third time he took notice of the grain heads and come and smelled them, and the next day he ate 'em.

"Well, I kept at it that way. Pretty soon I went inside the corral. Diablo just come up sort of excited and trembling and didn't know whether to bash my head in with his forehoofs or let me go. Then he seen the grain heads and ate them while he was making up his mind what to do about me. And he winded up by just having a little talk with me. He was terribly dirty and dusty, and he was shedding. Nobody dared to brush him, and so I took a soft-haired brush and started to work on his neck. He liked it, and so I dressed him down and left him pretty near shining. And every day after that I went and had a talk with him and brushed him. Then I rode Crackajack up to the bars and let Diablo see me on him, with no bridle or saddle. Pretty soon I found out that it was the saddle and the bridle and the spurs that scared Diablo to death. He didn't mind anything else so very much. So one day I climbed up the fence and slid onto Diablo's back, and he just turned his head and snorted at me. Just then Pa seen me and let out a terrible yell, and Diablo pitched me right off over his head and over the fence. But I got right up and came back to him. He seen that he could get me off whenever he wanted to and he seen that I didn't do him no harm when I got on.

"After that everything was easy. I never bothered him none with a saddle or a bridle. And there you are. D'you think you can do the same?"

"But the saddle and the bridle?" said Bull. "What about them?"

"That's up to you to figure out a way of getting him used to 'em. I'll go introduce you now, if I can."

Bull rose, and the boy led the way.

"If he takes to you pretty kind," said the boy, "you may have a chance. But if he begins acting up, it won't be no use."



CHAPTER 16

Diablo greeted them with a throwing up of his formidable head. He took his place in the very middle of his corral, but when Bull Hunter and his small guide reached the bars, the black stallion seemed to go suddenly mad. He flung himself into the air and came down bucking. Back and forth across the corral he threw himself in the wildest swirl of pitching that Bull Hunter had ever seen or ever dreamed of.

"He's an educated bucker, you see?" said the boy in admiration. "They ain't any trick that he don't know. Look!"

Diablo had begun to sunfish in the most approved method, and swirled from this to some fence rowing as swift as the jagged course of lightning. At every jump Bull could see an imaginary rider snapped from the back of the black giant. A cloud of dust was sent swishing up, and in the midst of this fog, Diablo came to a pause as sudden as the beginning of his strange struggle against an imaginary foeman; but it seemed to Bull Hunter that the ground beneath his feet was still quivering from the impacts of that mighty body.

"That's just his way of telling you what he'll do when you try to saddle him," chuckled the boy.

As he spoke he slipped through the bars of the corral.

"Look out!" exclaimed Bull in horror, for the stallion had rushed at the small intruder with gaping mouth. Bull reached for his gun—Diablo was already on the child, but at the last minute he swerved, and flashed around Tod in a circle.

"He's all right," Tod was shrilling through his laughter, for the horrified face of Bull amused him. "That's just his way of saying that he's glad to see me!"

In fact, Diablo came to a sudden halt directly behind the child, his head towering aloft above that of Tod while he flashed his defiance at Bull Hunter, as though he were making use of the small bulwark of Tod against the stranger.

"Diablo, you old fool," the boy was saying, as he reached up and managed to wind his fingers in the end of Diablo's mane, "you come along and meet my friend, Bull Hunter. I figure you're going to get to know him pretty good before long. Hey, Bull, come up close to the bars so's he can see you ain't got a rope or a whip or spurs, and stick your hand out so's he can sniff at it. That's his way of saying how d'ye do."

Bull obeyed, and to his amazement, Diablo responded to the small forward urge of the child's hand and approached the bars one trembling step at a time. Bull began to talk to him softly. He had never talked like this to any living creature. He did not know exactly what he said. The words came of their own accord into his throat. He only knew that he wanted to reassure the big, powerful, uncertain brute, and though Diablo stopped short at the first sound of Bull's voice and laid his ears back, he presently pricked one of those ears again and allowed himself to be drawn forward with long, crouching strides.

"That's the way!" said the child softly, as though he feared that a loud voice might break in upon the spell. "You know how to talk to him! And, outside of me, you're the only one that does! I knew you'd have it in you!"

For Diablo had extended his long neck and actually sniffed the hand of Bull Hunter. He immediately tossed his head aloft, but he did not flinch away.

"That's half the fight won already," advised the boy in the same soft voice. "D'you want to try the saddle on him now?"

"The saddle? Now?" exclaimed Bull. "I should say not! Why, he don't hardly know me; I'll have to get acquainted before I try anything like that."

He discovered that Tod was nodding in hearty approval.

"You do know," he said. "Don't tell me that you ain't been around hosses a pile. Yep, you got to get acquainted. What you want to do now?"

Bull considered. "I'd like to have something to show him that it isn't unpleasant having me around. I'd like to have him see some good results, you know? Is there anything I could feed him?"

The boy chuckled. "Best thing is some dried prunes with the pits taken out of 'em. I have some at the house. They get stuck in Diablo's teeth and it's sure funny to see him eat 'em. But he just nacherally plumb likes the taste of the prunes."

He followed his own suggestion by scampering away to the house and returned almost at once with a hat full of the prunes.

"You want to feed him these now?"

"First," said Bull, "I'd like to have you leave us alone. If I can't teach him to like me all by myself, then I'd better give up right away."

The boy looked at him in surprise and then impulsively stretched out his hand. They shook hands gravely.

"You got the right idea, pardner," said Tod. "Go ahead—and good luck! And keep talking to him all the time. That's the main thing!"

He retreated accordingly, but before the evening was over, Bull regretted dismissing his little ally so quickly, for although Diablo indulged in no more threatening outbreaks of temper, he resolutely refused to eat the prunes from Bull's hand. Several times he approached the bars of the corral and the patiently extended hand, but always he drew back, snorting, and sometimes he would run around the corral, shaking his head and throwing up his heels after the manner of a horse tempted but still afraid of being overruled.

It was long after dark when Bull gave up the attempt. He went back to the bunkhouse, rolled up the blankets which had been assigned to him, and carried them out to the corral. Close to the fence he laid them down, and a few minutes later he was wrapped in them and sound asleep. The last thing he remembered was the form of the great stallion, standing watchfully in the exact middle of the corral, the starlight glimmering very faintly in his big eyes.

Bull Hunter fell asleep and had a nightmare of the arrival of the famous Hal Dunbar the next day, a fierce conquest of Diablo, and the battle ending with the departure of Dunbar on the back of the stallion.

The dream waked him, nervous, and he turned and saw Diablo standing huge and formidable in the darkness, as though he had not moved from his first position.

In the morning the arduous labors of the building began again, and though the prodigious appetite of Bull at the breakfast table made even old Bridewell look askance, Bull had not been at work an hour handling the ponderous uprights and joists before his employer was smiling to himself. His new hand was certainly worth his keep, and more, for weariness seemed a stranger to that big body, and no weight was too great to be cheerily assumed. And always he worked with a sort of nervous anxiety as though he feared that he might not be doing enough.

During the day Bridewell attempted to probe the past history of his hired man, expecting a story as big as the body of the man, but Bull was discreetly vague, for he had no wish to reveal his connection with Pete Reeve; and if he left out Reeve, he felt that there was nothing in his life worth talking about. Many a time he wondered what the little gunfighter was doing, and what trail he was riding now. A dangerous trail, he doubted not, and a lawless trail, he greatly feared. But someday he might be able to find the terrible little man and bring him back to a truer place in society.

That night he began again the long, quiet struggle with Diablo; and before he ended, Diablo had gathered some of the dried fruit from the palm of his hand with a sensitive, trembling pair of lips. And he had come back for more, and more. Yet it was not until the next night that Bull ventured inside the bars of the corral and sat cross-legged on the ground, with a vague feeling that Diablo would be less alarmed if his visitor bulked less large.

Inside the bars he seemed an entirely new proposition to the stallion. The big black kept discreetly on the far side of the corral with much snorting and stamping, and it was not until the next evening that he ventured to approach the man. Still another day passed before Bull was allowed to stand and touch the neck of the black; and that, it seemed to him, was the greatest forward step toward the conquest.

It was terribly slow work, and in the meantime the skeleton frame of the barn was fast rising. Would he accomplish his purpose by the time the barn was completed and Bridewell no longer had a use for him? Or would Hal Dunbar arrive before that appointed time? That night, however, another portentous event happened. Waking in the night, Bull heard a sound of deep, regular breathing close to him, and, turning on his side, he saw that Diablo had lain down as close to him as the corral fence would allow, and there he slept, panther-black, sleek in the starlight. Bull stretched out his hand. The head of the stallion jerked up, but a moment later he carelessly sniffed the extended fingers and resumed his position of repose. And the heart of Bull Hunter swelled with triumph.

That event gave him a new idea, and the following evening he made a groundwork of branches in the corner of the corral itself, and put down his blankets on the evergreens. Diablo was much concerned and walked about examining the new work from every angle. There Bull slept, and the next night he found that during the day the stallion had torn the boughs to pieces and scattered them about. He patiently laid a new foundation, and after this the bed was left strictly alone.

In the meantime Bull had made a light, strong halter of rawhide, and after several attempts he managed to slip it onto the head of Diablo. Once in place, it was easy to teach Diablo that he must follow when he felt a pull on the halter—the first steps were rewarded with dried prunes, and after that it was simple.

On that evening, also, Bull made his next step forward toward the most difficult proposition of all—he took a partly filled barley sack and put it on the back of Diablo. The next moment the sack was shot into the air as Diablo leaped up and arched his back like a cat at the height of his leap. He came down trembling and snorting, but Bull picked up the fallen sack and allowed him to smell it. Diablo found that the smell was good and that the hateful sack even contained things very good to eat. The next time the sack was put on his back he quivered and shrank, but he did not buck it off.

After that, Bull spent his evenings in gradually increasing the weight of that sack until a full hundred pounds caused Diablo no worry whatever, and when this point had been attained, Bull decided that he might venture his own bulk on the back of Diablo. He confided his purpose to Tod, and the boy, greatly excited, hid himself at a distance to watch.

In the beginning it was deceptively easy. Diablo stood perfectly unconcerned as Bull raised himself on the bars of the fence. And when the long legs of Bull were passed over his back, Diablo merely turned his head and sniffed the shoe tentatively. Slowly, very softly, steadying himself on the top bar of the fence, Bull lowered his weight more and more until the whole burden was on the back of the stallion—and then he took his hands from the top rail.

But the moment he released that grip there was a change in Diablo, as though he realized that the man had suddenly trusted himself entirely to his mount. Bull felt a sudden wincing of all that great body; the quarters sank and trembled. He thought at first that it was because the horse was failing under the weight of this ponderous burden; but instinct told him a moment later that it was fear, and a mixture of suspicious anger.

Diablo took one of his long, catlike steps, and paused without bringing up his other foot. In vain Bull spoke to him, softly, steadily. Diablo took another step, quickened to a soft trot, and stopped suddenly. That weight on his back failed to leave him. He began to tremble violently. Bull felt the sudden thundering of the great heart beneath the pressure of his knee.

To the stallion, this man had been a friend, a constant companion. The touch of his hand was pleasant. Pleasanter still was the continual deep murmur of the voice, reassuring, telling him of a superior and guardian mind looking out for his interests. Now that hand was stroking his sleek neck and that voice was steadily in his ear. But the position was the most hated one. To be sure, there was no saddle, no cutting, binding cinch, no drag of cruel Spanish curb to control his head, no tearing spurs to threaten him. But his flanks twitched where the spurs had dug in many a time, and he panted, remembering the cinches. Those memories built up a panic. He became unsure. The voice reached him less distinctly. Moreover it was a strange time of the evening. The light of the day was nearly done; the moon was barely up, and all things were ghostly and unreal in that slant light.

Something of all that went through the mind of Diablo was understood by Bull Hunter. It was telegraphed to him by the twitching and vibration of great muscles, by the stiff arching of the neck, and the snorting breathing. But he was beginning to forget fear. The stallion danced lightly forward, and as the wind struck the face of Bull Hunter he suddenly rejoiced. This was what he had dreamed of, to be carried thus lightly, easily. The weight that had crushed other horses was nothing to Diablo. It made him feel buoyant. He became tinglingly alert. On the back of Diablo not a horse of the mountains could overtake him if he fled; and not a man of the mountains could escape him if he pursued on the back of the stallion.

That thought had hardly formed in his excited mind when Diablo sprang, cat-footed, to one side. It made Bull Hunter sway, and he naturally sought to preserve his balance by gripping the powerful barrel of the horse with his knees. But at the first touch of the knee Diablo went suddenly mad. Exactly what he did Bull Hunter never knew. Indeed, it seemed that Diablo left his feet, shot a dizzy height into the air, and at the crest of his rise did three or four things at once. At any rate, as the stallion landed, Bull pitched from the arched back and hurtled forward and to the right side. He landed heavily against the ground, his head striking a small rock; and he lay there a moment, stunned.

Far off he heard Tod shrilling at him, "Bull! Are you hurt?"

He gathered himself together and arose, "I'm all right. Stay where you are!"

"Don't try him again. He'll kill you, Bull!"

"Maybe. But I'm going to try."

Diablo stood on the far side of the corral in the moonlight, a splendid figure with haughty tail and head. Inwardly he was trembling, enraged. He knew what would come. He had thrown men before, and usually he had tried to batter them to pieces after they fell. This man he had no desire to batter. There had been no saddle, no bridle, no spurs, no quirt—nevertheless, he must not be controlled by the hand of any man! But having thrown the fellow, now other men would run on him, swinging the accursed ropes over their heads, shouting, cursing at him in strident voices. Vitally he yearned to break through the bars of the corral and flee, but the bars were there and he must stay in the inclosure with this friendly enemy. It was not the prostrate man he feared so much as vengeance from other men, for that had always been the way.

But no one came. No shouts were heard except from the small, thin, familiar voice of Tod. And presently the giant arose from the ground where he had fallen and came toward him. Diablo flattened his ears expectantly. At the first throat-tearing curse he would charge. But no curse came. The man approached, as always, with extended hand, and the voice was the smooth, gentle murmur that carries peace into the shadowy mind of a horse.

Something relaxed in Diablo. If the man did not resent being thrown off—if that were a sort of game, as it were—why should he, Diablo, resent having the man on his back? The hand touched his nose gently; another hand was stroking his neck.

Presently he was led to the fence and again that heavy weight slid onto his back. He crouched again, with waves of blind panic surging up in him, but the panic did not master his sense this time, and as his brain cleared he began to discover that there was no urging, no will of another imposed upon him. He could walk where he pleased, following his own sweet will, or else he could stand still. It made no difference; but the soft-touching hand and the deep, quiet voice were assuring him that the man was glad to be up there on his back.

Diablo turned his head. One ear quivered and came forward tentatively; then the other. He had accepted Bull Hunter.

Afterward Bull found Tod. The boy wrung his hand ecstatically.

"That's what I call game!" he said.

"Why, Tod," the big man smiled, "you did the same thing."

"He knew I was nothing. But you're a growed man. But—what's this, Bull? Your back's all wet."

"It's nothing much," said Bull calmly. "When I fell, my head hit a stone. There's some things worth paying for, and Diablo's one of them."



CHAPTER 17

The cut proved, as he had said, to be a small thing; but it turned out that Diablo was far from won. He was haltered and he would carry Bull bareback. The saddle was quite another affair. So Bull returned to the idea of the barley sack, with gradual additions. On each side of the sack he attached hanging straps. Diablo snorted at these and tried them with his teeth. They reminded him vaguely of the swinging stirrups that had so often battered his tender sides. He discovered that the straps were not alive, however, and were not harmful. And when their length was increased and an uncovered stirrup was tied on each side, he gradually became accustomed to these also. The next stage was passing the straps under his belly. They were tied there loosely, the circle was completed, and Diablo, examining them critically, found nothing wrong. Then, a dozen times in a single evening, the straps were drawn up, tighter and tighter, until they touched him. At this he became excited, and it required all the resourcefulness of Bull to quiet him. But in three days the barley sack and its queer-looking additions had been changed for a true saddle—with the cinches drawn up tight enough for riding. And this without eliciting a single bucking spasm from Diablo!

Not even to Tod did Bull Hunter impart his great tidings. He had not yet climbed into that real saddle; Diablo had not yet heard the creak of the stirrup leathers under the weight of his rider. Indeed, there was still much to be done before the happy day when he saddled the black stallion and took down the bars of the corral gate and rode him out. And rode him without a bit! For on the point of steel in the mouth of Diablo, Bull Hunter knew that the horse would be against it resolutely. So he confined himself to a light hackamore alone. That was enough, for Diablo had learned to rein over the neck and stop at the slightest pull of the reins.

The next morning he went out to his work with a light heart. They had had the help of several new men during the past ten days and now the frame of the roof was almost completed. It would not be long before Bull's services could be dispensed with and he connected the idea of the completion of the barn in a symbolic fashion with the completion of his conquest of the stallion. The two would be accomplished in the same moment, as it were. No wonder, then, that as he climbed the ladder up the side of the barn, with the ladder quaking beneath his weight, Bull Hunter began to sing, his thundering bass ringing among the ranch buildings until Mrs. Bridewell opened the kitchen window to hear the better, and old Bridewell stopped his ears in mock dismay at the thunder of Bull's voice.

But the work was not two hours old when little Tod scampered up to his side.

"Bull," he whispered, "Hal Dunbar is down yonder with a couple of men. He's come to ride Diablo. What'll we do, Bull? What'll we do?"

"Diablo will throw him," said Bull with conviction.

"But he won't. He can't," stammered the boy in his excitement. "Nothing could throw Hal Dunbar. Wait till you see him! Just you wait till you see. Gee, Bull, he's as big as you and—"

The other qualifications were apparently too amazing to be adequately described by the vocabulary of Tod.

"If any other man can ride Diablo," said Bull at length, "I don't think I care about him so much. I've been figuring that I'm the only man who can get on his back. If somebody else can handle him, they're welcome to the horse as far as I'm concerned."

"Are you going to let him go like that?" Tod was bitter with shame and anger. "After all our work, are you going to give him up without a fight?"

"A fight would be a gunfight, and a gunfight ends up in a death," said Bull gently. "I don't like bloodshed, Tod!"

The boy writhed. Here was an idol smashed with a vengeance!

"I might of knowed!" he groaned. "You ain't nothing but—but a big hulk!"

And he turned on his heel and gave the exciting news to his father.

For an event of this caliber, Bridewell called down all his men from the building, and they started for the corral. Hal Dunbar and his two men already were standing close to the bars, and Diablo stood quivering, high-headed, in the center of the inclosure. But, of the picture, the attention of Bull Hunter centered mainly on Hal Dunbar.

His dreams of the man had been true. He was a huge fellow, as tall as Bull, or taller, and nearly as bulky. But about Bull Hunter there was a suggestion of ponderous unwieldiness, and there was none of that suggestion about Hal Dunbar. He was lithe and straight as a poplar, and as supple in his movements. The poise of his head and the alertness of his body and something of lightness in his whole posture told of the trained athlete. Providence had given the man a marvelous body, and he had improved it to the uttermost. To crown all, there was a remarkably handsome face, dark eyes and coal-black hair.

Yet, more than the imposing body of this hero of the ranges, Bull was impressed by the spirit of the man. The thing that Tod had felt, he felt in turn. It shone from the eye, it spoke in the set of Dunbar's mouth, something unconquerable. It was impossible, after a single glance, to imagine this man failing. Diablo, it was true, had the same invincible air. Indeed, they seemed meant for each other, this horse and this man. They might have been picked from a crowd and the one assigned to the other. Huge, lithe, fleet, powerful, and fiercely free, surely Hal Dunbar was intended by fate to sit in the saddle and govern Diablo according to his will.

The heart of Charlie Hunter sank. Here was the end, then, of all the love he had put into his work, of all the feminine gentleness with which he had petted Diablo and soothed him. And he discovered, in that bitter moment, that he had not worked merely to gain control of the horse. There would be no joy in making Diablo bend to his will. His aim was, and from the first unconsciously had been, to win Diablo so that the stallion would serve him joyously and freely out of the love he bore him. As he thought of this, his glance rested on the long, spoon-handled spurs of big Hal Dunbar.

Dunbar was shaking hands with Bridewell, leaning a trifle over the little old man.

"Here's one that'll be sorry to see you ride Diablo," said Bridewell. He pointed to Hunter. "He's been working weeks, trying to make a pet out of the hoss."

"A pet out of him? A pet?" echoed Dunbar.

He measured Bull Hunter with a certain bright interest. The sleeves of Bull were rolled up to the elbows and down the forearms ran the tangling masses of muscle. But the interest of Dunbar was only monetary. Presently his lip curled slightly, and he turned his haughty head toward the great stallion.

"I'll do something more than pet him. Ill make something useful out of the big brute. Saddle him, boys!"

He gestured carelessly, and his two attendants started toward the corral, one with a heavy saddle and one with a rope. As he stood rolling his cigarette and watching negligently, he impressed Bull as a veritable knight of the ranges, a baron with baronial adherents. It came partly from his splendid stature, and more from his flauntingly rich costume. The heavy gold braid on the sombrero, the gilded spurs, the brilliant silk shirt would have been out of place on another man, but they fit in with Hal Dunbar. They were adjuncts to the pride of his face. Bull's attention wavered to Tod.

"Are—are they going to rope Diablo?"

Tod flashed a half-disgusted, half-despairing glance up at his companion.

"What d'you think they're going to do? What do you think?"

Bull turned away, sick hearted. He could not bear the thought of the great stallion struggling helpless in the snaky coils of the rope. But of course there was no other way. Yet his muscles tightened, and the perspiration poured out on his forehead as he heard a shout from one of the men, then a brief drumming of Diablo's hoofs, and finally the heavy thud as the stallion struck full length on the ground.

That sound stunned Bull as though he had received a blow himself. Every nerve in him was tingling, revolting against the brutality. They were idiots, hopeless fools, to dream of conquering Diablo by brute force. And if they succeeded, they would have a broken-spirited horse on their hands, worse than useless, or else a treacherous man-killer to the end of his days.

He looked again. Diablo, saddled and blindfolded was being driven out of the corral; a man held him on either side, and his mouth, dragged out, was already bleeding from the cruel Spanish bit. At that Bull Hunter saw red.

When his senses returned to him, he went hurriedly to Dunbar.

"Friend," he said, earnestly pleading, "will you let me make a suggestion?"

The insolent dark eyes ran over him mockingly.

"Oh, you're the fellow who tried to make a pet out of Diablo? Well, what's the suggestion?"

"If you wear those spurs you'll drive him mad! Take 'em off, Mr. Dunbar!"

Dunbar stared at him in amazement, and then looked to the others. "Did you hear that? This wise one wants me to try to ride without spurs. Who taught you to ride, eh?"

"I don't know much about it," confessed Bull humbly, "but I know you're apt to cut him up badly with those big spurs."

"And what the devil difference does that make to you?" cried Dunbar with heat. "And what do you mean by all these fool suggestions? I'm riding the horse!"

Bull drew back, downheaded. Hal Dunbar cast one contemptuous glance toward him and then stepped to the side of Diablo. The stallion was quivering and crouching with fear and anger, and shaking his head from time to time to get clear of the bandage which blinded him and made him helpless. Now and then he reared a little and came down on prancing forefeet, and Bull noted the spring and play of the fetlock joints. The whole running mechanism of the horse, indeed, seemed composed of coiled springs. Once released, what would the result be? And the first hope entered his mind, the first hope since he had seen the proud form of Hal Dunbar.

Now the big man set his hand on the pommel and vaulted into the saddle with a lightness that Bull admired hugely. Under the impact of that descending bulk the stallion crouched almost to the earth, but he came up again with a snort and a strangled neigh of rage.

"Are you ready?" called Dunbar, gathering the reins, and giving the string of his quirt another twist around his right hand.

One of his men had mounted his horse with a rope, the noose end of which was around Diablo's neck. This would serve as a pivot block to keep Diablo running in a circle. If he tried to run in a straight line the running noose would stop him and choke him down. He would have to gallop in a circle for his bucking, and to help keep him in that circle, the spectators now grouped themselves loosely in a wide rim. But Bull Hunter did not move. From where he stood he could see all that he wished.

"All ready!" called the man with the rope.

"Let her go, then!"

The bandage was torn from the eyes of the stallion by Dunbar's second assistant, and the fellow leaped aside as he did so. Even then he barely escaped. Diablo had launched himself in pursuit, and his teeth snapped a fraction of an inch from the shoulder of the fugitive as the rope came taut and jerked him aside, and the full weight of Dunbar was thrown back on the reins.

That mighty wrench of back and shoulder and arm would have broken the jaw of an ordinary horse; it hardly disturbed Diablo. His head was first tucked back until his chin was against his breast, but a moment later he was head down, bucking as never horse bucked before. One second earlier Hal Dunbar had seemed almost as powerful as the animal he rode; now he suddenly became small.

For one thing Diablo wasted no time running against the rope. He followed the line of least resistance and bolted around the wide circle with tremendous leaps, gathering impetus as he ran—then stopping in mid-career by the terrific process of hurling himself in the air and coming down on four stiff legs and with his back humped so that the rider sat at the uneasy apex of a pyramid. And this was merely a beginning. That wild category of tricks which Bull had seen partially unraveled the first time he visited the horse was now brought forth again, enlarged, improved upon, made more intricate, intensified. But well and nobly did Hal Dunbar sustain his fame as a peerless rider. He rode straight up, and a cheer came from the spectators when they saw that he was not touching leather in the midst of the fiercest contortions of Diablo. It seemed that the great brute would snap the very saddle off his back, but still the rider sat erect, swaying as though in a storm, but still firmly glued to the saddle.

Even the heart of Bull Hunter warmed to the battle. They were a brutally glorious pair as they struggled. The wrenching hand of the rider and the Spanish bit had bloodied the mouth of the stallion, the spurs were clinging horribly at his sides, and he fought back like a mad thing. He flung himself on the ground, Dunbar barely slipped from the saddle in time, and whipped onto his feet again, but as he lurched up, he carried the weight of the rider again, for Dunbar had leaped into his seat, and as Diablo came up on all fours, it could be seen that the big man had secured both stirrups—the difficult thing in that feature of the fight. Dunbar urged the stallion on with a yell; and swinging the quirt over his head, he brought it down with a stinging cut on the silky flanks of the great horse. Bull Hunter crouched as though the lash had cut into his own flesh. He became savage for the moment. He wanted to have his hands on that rider!

But the cut of the quirt transformed Diablo. If he had fought hard before, he now fell into a truly demoniacal frenzy. The long flashing legs were springs indeed, and the moment his hoofs struck the earth he was flung up again to a greater height. He was sunfishing now in that most deadly manner when the horse lands on one forehoof, the rider receiving a double jar from the down-shock and then the whiplash snap to the side. Hal Dunbar was no longer using his quirt. It dangled idly at his side. The joy had gone from his face. In its place, as shock after shock benumbed his brain, there was an expression of fierce despair. Neither was he riding straight up, but he was pulling leather.

Otherwise, nothing human could have retained a seat in the saddle for an instant. Diablo, squealing, snorting, and grunting with effort, was dashing back and forth, flinging himself aloft, coming down on one stiff leg, doubling back with jackrabbit agility.

There was no longer applause from the onlookers. Old Bridewell himself in all of his years had never seen riding such as this, and it seemed that Diablo at last had met his master. Never had he fought as he fought now; never had he been stayed with as he was now. With foam and sweat the great black was reeking, but never once were the efforts relaxed. It was too terrible a sight to be applauded.

Then, at the end of a run, instead of hurling himself into the air as he had usually done before, Diablo flung himself down and rolled. It caught Dunbar by surprise, but the yell of horror from the bystanders stimulated him to sharp action, and he was out of the saddle in the last hair's breadth of time.

Diablo had been carried on over to his feet by the impetus of the fall, and he was already rising when Dunbar leaped for the saddle. Fair and true he struck the saddle and with marvelous skill his left foot caught the stirrup and clung to it—but the right foot missed its aim, and, before Dunbar could lodge his foot squarely, the stirrup was dancing crazily as Diablo began a wild combination of cross-bucking and sunfishing. The hat snapped from the head of Dunbar and his long black hair tossed; with both hands he was clinging. All joy of battle was gone from him. In its place was staring fear, for his right foot was still out of the stirrup.

"Choke him down! Choke him—" he shrieked.

Before he could be obeyed by his confused henchmen, Diablo shot into the air and at the very crest of his rise, bucked. Dunbar lurched to one side. There was a groan from the bystanders; and the next instant the stallion, landing on the one stiffened foreleg, had snapped his rider from the saddle and hurled him to the ground.

He lay in a shapeless heap, and the stallion whirled to finish his enemy.



CHAPTER 18

Every second of the fight Bull Hunter had followed the actions of the horse as though he were directing them from the distance with some electric form of communication and control. When Hal Dunbar with a yell of despair was flung sidewise in the saddle as Diablo bucked in mid-air, Bull Hunter knew what was coming and lurched through the line of watchers. Straight across the open space of the circle he raced as he had never run before, and while the others stood frozen, while the man with the rope tugged futilely, Bull came in front of the stallion as Diablo whirled to smash his late rider to a pulp. There was no question of Dunbar crawling out of the way. He had rolled on his back with arms outstretched, helplessly stunned. Even in the lightning speed of the action Bull found time to wonder what would be the result if the hoof of the wild horse crashed down into that upturned, handsome face, now stained with crimson and black with dust.

He had no time to imagine further. Diablo, red-eyed with anger, had whirled on him and reared, and swerving from those terrible, pawing hoofs, Bull Hunter leaped in and up. His goal was not the tossing bridle rein, but the stout strap which circled the head just above the bit, and his big right hand jarred home on this goal. All his weight was behind his stiffened arm, and under the blow the stallion lurched higher. A down-sweep of a forefoot gashed Bull's shoulder and tore his shirt to shreds. But he pressed, expecting every instant the finishing blow on his head. In he went, with all his weight behind the effort, and felt the stallion stagger on his hind legs, then topple, lose balance, and fall with a crash on his side!

Bull followed him in the fall, for half a step, then whirled, scooped the nerveless body of Hal Dunbar in his arms, and rushed staggering under the burden to the edge of the circle. Diablo had regained his footing instantly, but as he strove to follow, the rope had drawn taut about his throat, and he was checked.

As for Bull Hunter, he laid the senseless burden down in safety, and turned toward the stallion. One haunting fear was in his mind. Had Diablo been sufficiently blinded in the excitement of the battle to fail to recognize him, or had the great horse known the hand that toppled it back? In the latter case Bull Hunter could never come near the black without peril of his life.

In a gloomy quandary he stared at the trembling, shining giant, who stood with his head high and his tail flaunting, and all the fierce pride of victory in his eye. One knot of people had gathered over the fallen Hal Dunbar, but some remained, dazed and gaping, looking at the form of the conqueror. A wild temptation came to Bull to test the horse even in this crisis of excitement, with every evil passion roused in him. He stepped out again, his right hand extended, his voice soft.

"Diablo!"

The stallion jerked his head toward the voice, but the head was twitched away as the man with the rope brought it taut again.

"You fool!" he shouted. "Get back, or the hoss'll nail you!"

Unreasoning rage poured thrilling through Bull Hunter. He shook his great fist at the other.

"Slack away on that rope or I'll break you in two!"

There was a moment of amazed silence; then, with a curse, the rider threw the rope on the ground.

"Get your head broke then!"

Bull Hunter had forgotten him already. He had resumed that approach. At his voice the stallion turned that proud and terrible head—with the ears flattened against his neck. It gave him an ominous, snakelike appearance about the head, but still Bull went steadily and slowly toward him with his hand out, that ancient gesture of peace and good will. There were shouts and warnings from the others. Hal Dunbar, his senses returned, had staggered to his feet; he had received no injury in the fall, and now he gaped in amazement at this empty-handed man approaching the stallion. And Diablo was no longer controlled by the rope!

But all the outcries meant nothing to Bull Hunter. They faded to a blur. All he saw was the head of the stallion. Had he known and remembered that fall and the hand that forced him to it? He could not tell. There might be any murderous intent in that quivering, crouching form.

Just that name, over and over again, very softly, "Diablo! Steady, Diablo!"

Now he was within two paces—within a yard—his fingers were close to the terrible head and the ears of Diablo pricked forward.

"Ah, Diablo! They'll never touch you with the spurs again!"

The stallion made a long step, and with his head raised he looked over the shoulder of Bull Hunter and snorted his defiance at all other men in the world! And down his neck the big, gentle hand was running, soothing his quivering body, and the steady voice was bringing infinite messages of reassurance to the troubled brain. That hand was loosening now the rope which was burning into his neck—loosening it, drawing it off. And now the bridle followed; and Diablo's mouth was free from the cruel taint of the steel. The head of the stallion turned—great, soft eyes looked into the face of Bull Hunter and accepted him as a friend forever.

Hal Dunbar, groggy from the shock of the fall, staggered toward them.

"Get away from the horse!" he commanded. "Hey, Riley, grab Diablo for me again. I'll ride him this time."

He was too unsteady to walk in a straight line, but the fire of battle was in his eyes again. There was no doubting the gameness of the big man. Old Bridewell caught his arm and drew him back.

"If Diablo gets a sniff of you on the wind he'll come at you like a wolf. Stand back here—and watch!"

Hal Dunbar was too dazed to resist. Besides, he began to see that all eyes were focused on the black stallion and the man beside him. That man was the huge, cloddish stranger who had advised him to ride without spurs. Then the full meaning came to Dunbar. The rope was no longer around the neck of the stallion. The very bridle had been taken from his head, and yet the stranger stood undaunted beside him, and the stallion did not seem to be angered by that nearness.

The next thing Dunbar heard was the voice of Bridewell saying, "Nerviest thing I ever seen. I been putting this Bull Hunter down for a half-wit, pretty near. All his strength in his back and none in his head. But I changed my mind today. When you hit the ground, Diablo whirled on you, and he'd of smashed you to bits before they could choke him down and pull him away, but Bull came out of the crowd on the run, grabbed the bridle, made Diablo rear, took that cut on his shoulder, and threw him fair and square. Finest, coolest, headiest thing I ever seen done with a hoss in a pinch. And he saved your skin, Dunbar. You'd be a mess this minute, if it wasn't for Hunter! He threw Diablo and turned around and picked you up as if you was a baby and packed you over here. Then he went back—and you see what's he's doing?"

"He saved my life?" muttered Dunbar. "That big—He saved my life?"

Gratitude, for the moment at least, was obscured in his mind. All he felt vividly was a burning shame. He, Hal Dunbar, the invincible, had been beaten fairly and squarely in the battle with the horse; not only this, he had been saved from complete destruction only by the intervention of this nonentity, this Bull Hunter whom he had scorned only a few moments before. He looked about him in blind anger at the bystanders. Worst of all, this was a new country where he was only vaguely known, and whenever his name was mentioned in these parts in the future, there would be someone to tell of the superior prowess of Hunter, and how the life of Dunbar was thrown away and saved by another. No wonder that big Hal Dunbar writhed with the shame of it.

He forgot even that emotion now in wonder at what was happening. Hunter had stepped to the side of the horse, raised his foot, and put it in the stirrup. Did the fool intend to climb into the saddle while that black devil was not blindfolded, without even a bridle?

That, in fact, was what he was doing. The steady murmur of the voice of Hunter reached him as the big man soothed the horse. He saw the head of Diablo turn, saw him sniff the shoulder of his companion, and then Hunter lifted himself slowly into the saddle. There was a groan of excitement from the spectators, and at the sound rather than at the weight of his back, Diablo crouched. It was only for a moment that he quivered, wild-eyed, irresolute. Then he straightened and threw up his head. Bull Hunter, his face white and drawn but his mouth resolute, had touched the shining flank of the stallion, and Diablo moved into a soft trot, gentle as the flowing of water.

Before him the circle split and rolled back. He glided through, guided by a hand that touched lightly on his neck, and in an utter silence he was seen to turn the corner of the nearest shed and approach the corral. Hal Dunbar, rubbing his eyes, was the first to speak.

"A trick horse!" he said. "By the Lord, a trick horse!"

"The first time I ever seen him play that trick," gasped old Bridewell, his eyes huge and round, "except when Tod was up on him. I dunno what's happened. It's like a dream. But there's a saddle on him now, and that was something even Tod could never make him stand. I dunno what's happened!"

The little crowd broke up into chattering groups. Here had been a thing that would bear telling and retelling for many a year. In the confusion Dunbar's man, Riley, approached his employer.

Both gratitude and shame were forgotten by Dunbar now. He gripped the shoulder of this man and groaned, "I've lost him, Riley! The only horse ever foaled that could have carried me the way a man should be carried. Now I'll have to ride plow horses the rest of my life!"

He pointed to the cloddish, heavy-limbed gray which he had ridden in his quest for the superhorse at the Bridewell place.

"I been thinking," said Riley. "I been thinking a pile the last few minutes."

"What you been thinking about? What good does thinking do me? I've lost the horse, haven't I, and that half-wit has him?"

"He has him—now," suggested Riley, watching the face of the big man for fear that he might go too far.

"You mean by that?" queried the master.

"Exactly," said Riley. "Because he has the black now, it doesn't mean that he's going to have him forever, does it?"

"Riley, you're a devil. That fellow saved my life, they tell me."

"I don't mean you're going to bump him off. But suppose you get him to come and work on your place? There might be ways of getting the hoss—buying him or something. Get him there, and we'll find a way. Besides, he can teach you how to handle the hoss before you get him. I say it's all turned out for the best."

Dunbar frowned. "Take him with me? And every place I go I hear it said, 'There's the man who rode the horse that threw Dunbar!' No, curse him, I'll see him in Hades before I take him with me!"

"How else are you going to get the hoss? Tell me that?"

"That's it," muttered Dunbar. "I've got to have him. I've got to have him! Did you watch? I felt as if the big black devil had wings."

"He had you in the air most of the time, all right," and Riley grinned.

"Shut up," snapped his master. "But the chief thing is, I want to show that big black fiend that I'm his master. He—he's beaten me once. But one beating doesn't finish me!"

"Then go get Hunter to come with us when we ride back."

Dunbar hesitated another instant and then nodded. "It has to be done."

He strode off in pursuit of Bull and presently found the big man in the corral rubbing down the stallion; the little bright-eyed Tod was close beside them. It had been a great day for Tod. First he had felt that his giant pupil was disgraced—a man without spirit. And then, in the time of blackest doubt, Bull Hunter had become a hero and accomplished the great feat—ridden Diablo, before all the incredulous eyes of the watchers. All of Tod's own efforts had been repaid a thousandfold when he heard Bull say to one of those who followed with questions and admiration, "It's not my work. Tod showed me how to go about it. Tod deserves the credit."

That was the reason that Tod's eyes now were supernally bright when big Hal Dunbar approached. Diablo showed signs of excitement, but Charlie Hunter quieted him with a word and went to the bars of the corral. The hand of Dunbar was stretched out, and Bull took it with humble earnestness.

"I'm glad you weren't hurt bad," he said. "For a minute or two I was scared that Diablo—"

"I know," cut in Dunbar, for he detested a new description of the scene of his failure. Then he made himself smile. "But I've come to thank you for what you did, Hunter. Between you and me, I know that I talked rather sharp to you a while back. I'm sorry for that. And now—why, man, your side must be wounded!"

"It's just a little scratch," said Bull good-naturedly. "It isn't the first time that Diablo has made me bleed but now—well, isn't he worth a fight, Mr. Dunbar?"

And he gestured to the magnificent, watchful head of the stallion. The heart of Hal Dunbar swelled in him. By fair means or foul, he must have that horse, and on the spot he made his proposition to Hunter. He had only to climb on the back of Diablo and ride south with him; the pay would be anything—double what he got from Bridewell, who, besides, was almost through with him, Dunbar understood.

"But I'm not much good," and Bull sighed reluctantly. "I can't use a rope, and I don't know cattle, and—"

"I'll find uses for you. Will you come?"

So it was settled. But before Bull climbed into the saddle and started off after Dunbar, little Tod drew him to one side.

"There ain't any good in Dunbar. Watch him and—remember me, Bull."



CHAPTER 19

That ride to the southern mountains seemed to Bull Hunter to mark a great point of departure between his old life and a new life.

He had not heard Riley, fox-faced and wicked of eye, say to his master, "What this big fool needs is a little kidding. Make him think that we figure him to be a big gun." He had not seen Hal Dunbar make a wry face before he nodded.

All that Bull Hunter could know was that the three men—Riley, Dunbar, and Joe Castor—were all exceedingly pleasant to him on the way. Of all the men in the world, only Pete Reeve had treated him as these men were now doing, and it was sweet beyond measure to Bull Hunter to be treated with considerate respect, to have his opinion asked, to be deferred to and flattered. As for the thousand little asides with which they made a mock of him, they were far above his head. It seemed only patent to Bull Hunter that he had been accepted freely into the equal society of men.

He drew a vague comparison between that success and his mastery of Diablo. The big stallion was like a kitten under his hand. It required much coaxing during the first half-day of riding to bring Diablo within speaking distance of the other men, but gradually he discovered that they could do him no harm so long as the gentle voice of Hunter was near him; thereafter he was entirely amenable to reason. One could see that the stallion was learning difficult lessons, but he was learning them fast. Eye and ear and scent told him that these creatures were dangerous. Old experience told him that they were dangerous, and only a blind trust in Bull Hunter enabled him to conquer the panic which surged up in his brain time and again. But he kept on trying, and the constant struggle against men which had featured his life made him astonishingly quick to pick up new facts. The first step had been the hard one, and it seemed to Bull Hunter that the close-knit, smooth-flowing muscles beneath him were carrying him onward into the esteem of all men. To Diablo he gave the praise, and after Diablo to little freckled Tod, and to Pete Reeve, the fighter. As for taking any credit for himself, that idea never came to him for a moment.

The long trip took two days. They crossed the green, rolling hills; they passed the foothills, and climbing steadily they came onto a broad, high plateau—it was a natural kingdom, this ranch of the Dunbars. The fence around it was the continuous range of mountains skirting the plateau on all sides, and in every direction up to those blue summits as far as the eye carried, stretched the land which owned Hal Dunbar as master. To Bull Hunter, when they reached the crest, and the broad domain was pointed out to him, this seemed a princely stretch indeed, and Hal Dunbar was more like a king than ever. It was easy to forgive pride in such a man and a certain asperity of temper. How could so rich and powerful a man be like others?

The ranch house was worthy of such a holding. A heavy growth of beautiful silver spruce swept up the slope of some hills, and riding through the forest, one caught the first glimpse of the building. It was spread out carelessly, the foundations laid deep to cover the irregularities of the ground. It was a heterogeneous mass, obviously not the work of any one builder. Here a one-story wing rambled far to the side, built heavily, of logs rudely squared, and there was a three-story frame section of the house; and still again there was a tall tower effect of rough stone. As for the barns and sheds which swept away down the farther and lower slopes, the meanest of them looked to Bull as though it might have made a home of more than average comfort.

The three other riders noted the gaping astonishment of Bull and passed the wink quietly around. To Hal Dunbar it was growing more and more annoying that he had to trouble himself with such a clod of a man and use diplomacy where contemptuous force would have been so much more after his heart. But he continued to follow the scheme first laid down for his pursuit by clever Riley, and when they came to the wide-ranging stable he assigned the black stallion to a roomy box stall. Bull Hunter thanked him for the courtesy as though it had been a direct personal favor; as a matter of fact, Hal felt that he was merely taking care of a horse which was already as good as his.

Coming back toward the house Bull walked slowly in the rear of the little party. He wanted to take plenty of time and drink in the astonishing details of what to him was a palace. And about the weather-beaten old house he felt that there was a touch of mystery of a more or less feudal romance. Climbing the steps to the porch he turned; a broad sweep of hills opened above the tops of the spruces, and the blue mountains were piled beyond.

While he stood, a door slammed, and he heard a girl's mellow voice calling, "Hello, Hal, what luck?"

"What luck? No luck!" grumbled young Dunbar. "All the luck has gone the way of my ... friend ... here." He brought out the last words jokingly. "This is Charlie Hunter, commonly called Bull for reasons you may guess. Bull, this is Mary Hood."

Bull had turned lumberingly, and he found himself staring at a girl in a more formal riding outfit than he had ever seen before, with tall boots of soft red leather, and a little round black hat set on her hair, and a coat fitted somewhat closely. The rather masculine outfit only served to make her freer, more independent, more delightfully herself, Bull Hunter thought. She looked him up and down and reserved judgment, it seemed.

"He rode Diablo," Dunbar was explaining.

"And that's why you brought him?" she asked, flashing a queer glance at Hal.

Then she came a pace down the steps and shook hands with Bull. He took the small hand carefully, with a fear that the bones would break unless he were excessively gentle. At last she laughed so frankly that a tingle went through his big body, and he peered closely at her. As a rule the laughter of others made him hot with shame, but this laughter was different; it seemed to invite him into a pleasant secret.

"I'm glad to meet the man who conquered Diablo," she was saying.

"I didn't beat Diablo," he hastened to explain. "We just sort of reached an understanding. He saw that I didn't mean him any harm—so he let me ride him. That's all there was to it!"

He saw her eyes narrow a trifle as she looked down at him, for she had drawn back to the level of the porch. Was she despising him and condemning him merely because he had told her the truth? He flushed at the thought, and then he was called into the house by Dunbar and brought to a room. The size of it inspired him with a profound awe, and he was still gaping when Dunbar left him.

In the hall the master of the house met Riley, and the fox-faced lieutenant drew him aside.

"I've got a plan," he said.

"You're full of plans," muttered Dunbar evilly.

All the way home he had been striving to find some way of explaining his lack of success with the stallion to Mary Hood. She had grown up on the ranch with him, for her father had been the manager of the ranch for twenty years; and she had grown up with the feeling that Hal Dunbar was infallible and invincible.

"Did you see the big hulk look at Mary Hood?" Riley asked.

The name came pat with the unpleasant part of Hal's brooding, and his scowl grew blacker. "What about it?"

"Looked at her as though she was an angel—touched her hand as though it was fire. I tell you, Hal, she knocked Hunter clean off his balance."

"Not the first she's done that to," said Hal with meaning.

"Maybe not. Maybe not," said Riley rather hastily. "But I been thinking. Suppose you go to Mary and tell her that you're dead set on keeping this Hunter with you. Tell her that he's a hard fellow to handle, that he likes her, and that the best way to make sure of him is for her to be nice to him. She can do that easy. She takes nacheral to flirting."

"Flirt with that thick-head? She'd laugh in my face."

"She'd do more than that for you, Hal."

"H'm," grunted Dunbar, greatly mollified. "I ask her to make Hunter happy. What comes of it? If her father sees Hunter make eyes at her he'll blow the head off the clodhopper."

"I know." Riley nodded. "He's always afraid she'll take a fancy to one of the hands and run off with him, or something like that. He's dead set agin' her saying two words to anybody like me, say!"

He gritted his teeth and flushed at the thought. Then he continued. "But that's just what you want. You want to get Hunter's head blown off, don't you?"

Dunbar caught the shoulder of Riley and whirled him around.

"Are you talking murder to me, Riley?"

"I'm talking sense," said Riley.

"By the Lord," growled Dunbar, "you're a plain bad one, Riley. You like deviltry for the sake of the deviltry itself. You want me to get—"

"How much do you want the black hoss, chief?" Dunbar sighed.

"You can't touch him, after him saving your life, and I can't touch him, because everybody knows that I'm your man. But suppose you get the girl and Hunter planted? Then when Jack Hood rides in this afternoon, I'll take him where he can see 'em together. Leave the rest to me. Will you? I'll have Jack Hood scared she's going to elope before morning, and Jack will do the rest. You know his way."

"Suppose Hood gets killed?"

"Killed—by that? Jack Hood? Why, you know he's near as good as you with his gat!"

Dunbar nodded slowly. After all, the scheme was a simple one.

"Well?" whispered Riley.

"You and the devil win," said Hal. "After all, what's this Hunter amount to? Nothing. And I need the horse!"

He executed the first step of the scheme instantly. He went downstairs and found the girl still on the veranda. She began to mock him at once.

"You'll go to heaven, Hal, giving a home to the man who beats you."

He managed to smile, although the words were poison to him. He had loved her as long as he could remember, and sooner or later she would be his wife, but the period remained indefinitely in the future as the whims of the girl changed. It was for that reason, as Hal very well knew, that her father became furious when she smiled at another man. The rich marriage was his goal; and when a second man stepped onto the stage, old Jack Hood was ready to fight. Hal saw a way of stopping her gibes and proving his good intentions toward Hunter all in a breath.

"He saved my life, Mary. I lost a stirrup, and the devil of a horse threw me."

Briefly he sketched in the story of the rescue, and how Bull Hunter afterward had ridden the horse without spurs, without a bridle. Before he ended her eyes were shining.

"That's what he meant when he said he hadn't beaten Diablo. I understand now. At the time I thought he was a little simple, Hal."

"He's not exceptionally clever, Mary," said Hal, "and that's where the point comes in of what I want you to do. Hunter is apt to take a fancy that he isn't wanted here—that he's being kept out of charity because he saved my life. Nothing I can say will convince him. I want you to give him a better reason for staying around. Will you do it—as a great favor?"

She dropped her chin into her hand and studied him.

"Just what are you driving at, Hal?"

"You know what I mean well enough. I want you to waste a smile or two on him, Mary. Will you do that? Make him think you like him a good deal, that you're glad to have him around. Will you? Take him out for a walk this afternoon and get him to tell you the story of his life. You can always make a man talk and generally you turn them into fools. You've done it with me, often enough," he added gloomily.

"Flirt with that big, quiet fellow?" she said gravely. "Hal, you're criminal. Besides, you know that I don't flirt. It's just the opposite. When I like a man I'm simply frank about it."

"But you have a way of being frank so that a poor devil usually thinks you want to marry him, and then there's the devil to pay. You know it perfectly well."

"That's not true, Hal!"

"I won't argue. But will you do it?"

"Absolutely not!"

"It might be quite a game. He may not be altogether a fool. And suppose he were to wake up? Suppose he's simply half-asleep?"

He saw a gleam of excitement come in her eyes and wisely left her without another word. After things had reached a certain point Mary could be generally trusted to carry the action on.



CHAPTER 20

Jack Hood had ridden out on his rounds with a new horse that morning, and the new horse developed the gait of a plow horse. The result was that grim old Jack reached the house that night with a body racked by the labor of the day and a disposition poisoned for the entire evening. He was met at the stable by Riley, and the sight of him brought a spark for the moment into the eye of the foreman.

"You're back, then, and you got Diablo?"

"Look yonder."

Jack Hood went to the box stall and came back rubbing his hands, but his exultation was cut short by Riley's remark. "He doesn't belong to Hal. Hal was thrown and another gent rode him."

The amazement of Jack Hood took the shape of a wild torrent of profanity. He was proud of the ranch which he had controlled for so long, and still prouder of his young master. His creed included two main points—the essential beauty of his daughter and the infallibility of young Hal Dunbar; consequently his great ambition was to unite the two.

"Mary took to Hunter pretty kindly," concluded Riley, as they walked back toward the house at the conclusion of the story.

The foreman took off his hat and shook back his long, iron-gray hair.

"Trust her for that. Something new is always what she wants."

"They've got the new well pretty near sunk," said Riley. "Take a look at it?"

"All right."

But before they had gone halfway down the path onto which Riley had cunningly diverted the older man, he caught Hood's arm and stopped him with a whisper.

"Look at that. Already! This Hunter ain't such a slow worker, eh, Jack?"

They had come in view of the little terraced garden which was Mary's particular property; it was screened from the house by a rank or two of the spruce, and on a rustic bench, seated with their backs to the witnesses, were Mary and Bull Hunter. The girl was rapt in attention, and her eyes never left the face of Hunter. As for Bull, he was talking steadily, and it seemed to Jack Hood that as the big stranger talked he leaned closer and closer to the girl. The hint which Riley had already dropped was enough to inflame the imagination of the suspicious foreman; what he now saw was totally conclusive, he thought. Now, under his very eyes, he saw the big man stretch out his hand, and he saw the hand of Mary dropped into it.

It was more than Riley had dared to hope for. He caught Jack Hood by the shoulders, and whirled him around, and half dragged him back to the house.

"Not in front of your daughter, Jack," he pleaded. "I don't blame you for being mad when a skunk like that starts flirting with a girl the first day he's seen her. But if you got anything to say to him, wait till Mary is out of the way. There goes the supper bell. Hurry on in. Keep hold on yourself."

"Do I have to sit through supper and look at that hound?"

"Not at all," suggested the cunning Riley. "Have a bite in the kitchen and go up to your room. I'll say that you got some figures to run over. Afterward, you can come down and jump him!"

He watched Jack Hood disappear, grinning faintly, and then hunted for Hal Dunbar.

"It's started," he said. "I dropped a word in Jack's ear and then showed him the two of 'em sitting together. It was like a spark in the powder. The old boy exploded."

"How close were they sitting?" asked Hal suspiciously.

"Close enough." Riley grinned, for he was not averse to making even Dunbar himself writhe.

The result was that Hal maneuvered to draw Mary Hood aside when she came in with big Hunter for supper. Something in Bull Hunter's face disturbed the owner of the ranch, for the eyes of Bull were alight, and he was smiling for no apparent reason.

"How did things go?" he asked carelessly.

"You were all wrong about him," said the girl earnestly. "He's not a half-wit by any means, Hal. I had a hard time of it at first, but then I got him talking about Diablo and the trouble ended. Not a bit of sentiment in him; but just like a great big, simple, honest boy, with a man's strength. It would have done you good to hear him!"

"And he'll stay with us?" asked Hal dryly, for he was far from enthusiastic.

"Of course he'll stay. Do you know what he did? He promised to try to teach me to ride Diablo, and he even shook hands on it! Hal, I like him immensely!"

All during the meal the glances of Hal Dunbar alternated between the girl and the giant. He was more disturbed than he dared to confess even to himself. It was not so much that Bull Hunter sat with a faintly dreamy smile, staring into the future and forgetting his food, but it was the fact that Mary Hood was continually smiling across the table into that big, calm face. Dunbar began to feel that the devil was indeed behind the wit of Riley.

He began to wait nervously for the coming of the girl's father and the explosion. As soon as supper was over, following the time-honored custom which the first Dunbar established on the ranch, Mary left the room, and the men gathered in groups for cards or dice or talk, for they were not ordinary hired hands, but picked men. Many of them had grown gray in the Dunbar service. Now was the time for the coming of Jack Hood, and Hal had not long to wait.

The door at the far side of the big room was thrown open not five minutes after the disappearance of Mary Hood, and her father entered. He came with a brow as black as night, tossed a sharp word here and there in reply to the greetings, and going to the fireplace leaned against the mantel and rolled a cigarette. While he smoked, from under his shaggy brows he looked over the company.

Hal Dunbar waited, holding his breath. One brilliant picture was dawning on his mind—himself mounted on great black Diablo and swinging over the hills at a matchless gallop.

The picture vanished. Jack Hood had left the fireplace and was crossing the room with his alert, quick step. His nerves showed in that step; and it was nerve power that made him a dreaded gunfighter. His gloom seemed to have vanished now. He smiled here; he paused there for a cheery word; and so he came to where Bull Hunter sat with his long legs stretched before him and the unchanging, dreamy smile on his face.

Over those long legs Jack Hood stumbled. When he whirled on the seated man his cheer was gone and a devil was in his face.

"You damned lummox," he said, "what d'ye mean by tripping me?"

"Me?" gasped Bull, the smile gradually fading and blank amazement taking its place.

It was at this moment that a man stepped out of the shadow of the kitchen doorway, a very small withered man. No doubt he was some late arrival asking hospitality for the night; and having come after supper was over, he had been fed in the kitchen and then sent in among the other men; for no one was turned away hungry from the Dunbar house. He was so small, so light-footed, that he would hardly have been noticed at any time, and now that the roar from Jack Hood had focused all eyes on Bull Hunter, the newcomer was entirely overlooked. He seemed to make it a point to withdraw himself farther, for now he stepped into a dense shadow near the wall where he could see and remain unseen.

Jack Hood had shaken his fist under the nose of the seated giant.

"I meant it," he cried. "You tripped me, you skunk, and Jack Hood ain't old enough to take that from no man!"

Bull Hunter cast out deprecatory hands. The words of this fire-eyed fellow were bad enough, but the tigerish tenseness of his muscles was still worse. It meant battle, and the long, black, leather holster at the thigh of Hood meant battle of only one kind. It had come so suddenly on him that Bull Hunter was dazed.