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.”