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.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I sure didn’t mean to trip you — but maybe my foot might of slipped out a little and — ”

“Slipped out!” sneered Hood.  He stopped, panting with fury.  That a comparative stranger should have dared to speak familiarly with his daughter was bad enough; that a blank-faced coward should have dared flirt with her, dared take her hand, was maddening.

“You infernal sneak!” he growled.  “Are you going to try to get out of it, now that you’ve seen you can’t bluff me down — that I won’t stand for your tricks?”

Bull Hunter rose, slowly, unfolding his great bulk until he towered above the other; and yet the condensed activity of Hood was fully as formidable.  There were pantherlike suggestions of speed about the arm that dangled beside his holster.

The withered little man in the shadow by the kitchen door took one noiseless step into the light — and then shrank back as though he had changed his mind.

“It looks to me,” said Bull Hunter mildly, “that you’re trying to force a fight on me.  Stranger, I can’t fight a man as old as you are.”

Perhaps it was a tactless speech, but Bull was too dazed to think of grace in words.  It brought a murderous snarl from the other.

“I’m old enough to be Jack Hood — maybe you’ve heard of me?  And I’m young enough to polish off every unlicked cub in these parts.  Now, curse you, what d’ye say to that?”

“I can only say,” said Bull miserably, feeling his way, “that I don’t want to fight.”

With an oath Hood exclaimed, “A coward!  They’re all like that — every one of the big fellers.  A yaller-hearted sneak!”

“Easy, Jack!” broke in one of the men.

“Let Jack alone,” called the commanding voice of Hal Dunbar.  “I saw Hunter trip him!”

“But,” pleaded Bull Hunter, “I give you my word — ”

“Shut up!  I’ve heard enough of your talk.”

Bull Hunter obediently stopped his talk.

A sickening quiet drew through the room.  Men bowed their heads or turned them away, for such cowardice was not pleasant to see.  The little man in the shadow raised one hand and brushed it across his face.

“I’ll let you off one way,” said Jack Hood.  “Stand up here, and face the crowd and tell ’em you’re a liar, that you’re sorry for what you done!”

Bull faced the crowd.  A shudder of expectancy went through them, and then they saw that his face was working, not with shame or fear but with a mental struggle, and then he spoke.

“Gents, it seems like I may be wrong.  I may have tripped him which I didn’t mean to.  But not knowing that I tripped him, I got to say that I can’t call myself a liar.  I can’t apologize.”

They were shocked into a new attention; they saw him turn and face the frown of Jack Hood.

“You’re forcing this fight, stranger.  And, if you keep on, you’ll drop, sir.  I promise you that!”

The sudden change in affairs had astonished Jack Hood; now his astonishment gave way to a sort of hungry joy.

“I never was strong on words.  I got two ways of talking and here’s the one I like best!” As he uttered the last word he reached for his gun.

The little man glided out of the shadow, crouched, intense.  It seemed to him that the hand of Bull Hunter hung motionless at his side while the gun flashed out from Hood’s holster.  He groaned at the thought, but in the last second, there was a move of Hunter’s hand that no eye could follow, that singular convulsive twitch which Pete Reeve had taught him so long before.  Only one gun spoke.  Jack Hood spun sidewise and crashed to the floor, and his gun rattled far away.

By the time the first man had rushed to the fallen figure, the gun was back in Bull’s holster.

The little man in the shadow heard him saying, “Pardners, he’s not dead.  He’s shot through the right shoulder, low, beneath the joint.  That bullet won’t kill him, but get him bandaged quick!”

A calm, clear voice, it rang through the room.  The little man slipped back into his shadow, and straightened against the wall.

“He’s right,” said Hal Dunbar, stepping back from the cluster.  “Riley and Jerry, get him up to his room and bandage him, quick!  The rest of you stay here.  We got a job.  Hood’s gun hung in the holster, and this fellow shot him down.  A murdering, cowardly thing to do.  You hear?  A murdering, cowardly thing to do!”

Obviously he was wrong, and obviously not one of his henchmen would tell him so.  For some reason the boss intended to take up the lost battle of Jack Hood.  Why, was not theirs to reason, though plainly the fight had been fair, and Hood had been in the wrong from the first.  They shifted swiftly, a man to each door, the others along the wall with their hands on their weapons.  There was a change in Bull Hunter.  One long leap backward carried him into a corner of the room.  He stood erect, and they could see his eyes gleaming in the shadow.

“I think you got me here to trap me, Dunbar,” he called in such a voice that the little man in the shadow thrilled at the sound of it, “but you’ll find that you’re trapped first, my friend.  Touch that gun of yours, and you’re a dead man, Dunbar.  Curse you, I dare you to go for it!”

Could this be Bull Hunter speaking?  The little man in the shadow thrilled with joyous amazement.

Hal Dunbar evidently was going to fight the thing through.  He stood swaying a little from side to side.  “No guns out, boys, as yet.  Wait till I take my crack at him, and then — ”

The little man in the shadow stepped out into the light and walked calmly toward the center of the room.

“Just a little wee minute, Dunbar,” he was saying.  “Just a little wee minute, Mr. Man-trapper Dunbar!  I got a word to say.”

“Who the devil are you?” cried Hal Dunbar, turning on this puny stranger.

A joyous shout from Bull Hunter drowned the answer of the other.

“Pete!  Pete Reeve!”

The little man waved his hand carelessly to the giant in the corner.

“You give me a hard trail, Bull, old boy.  But you didn’t think you could slip me, did you?  Not much.  And here I am, pretty pronto on the dot, I figure.”  He took in with a glance the men along the walls.  “You know me, boys, and I’m here to see fair play.  They ain’t going to be fair play in this room with you boys lined up waiting to drop Bull in case he plugs Dunbar.  Dunbar, I know you.  And between you and me, I don’t know no good of you.  You’re young, but you’re going to show later on.  If you want to talk business to Bull Hunter some other time, you’re welcome to come finding him, and he won’t be hard to find.  Bull, come along with me.  Just back up, if you don’t mind, Bull.  Because they’s murder in our friend Dunbar’s face.  And here we are!”

Side by side they drew back to the outer door with big Hal Dunbar watching them from under a scowl, with never a word, and so through the door and into the night.

Two minutes later Diablo was rocking across the hills with his mighty stride, and the cow pony of Pete Reeve was pattering beside him.

As they drove through the great spruces the moon rose.  Bull Hunter greeted it with a thundering song and threw up his hands to it.

Pete Reeve swore softly in amazement and drew his horse to a walk.

“By the Lord,” cried Bull, “and I haven’t thanked you yet for pulling me out of that mess.  I’d be crow’s food by this time if it hadn’t been for you, Pete!”

“That only wipes out one score.  Let’s talk about you, Bull.  Since I last seen you, you’ve got to be a man.  Was it dropping Hood that made you buck up like this?”

“That old man?”

“That old man,” snorted Pete, “is Jack Hood, one of the best of ’em with a gun.  But if it wasn’t the fight that made you feel your oats, was it breaking Diablo?”

“No breaking to it.  We just got acquainted.”

“But what’s happened?  What’s wakened you, Bull?”

“I dunno,” said Bull and became thoughtful.

“Pete,” he said, after a long time, “have you ever noticed a sort of chill that gets inside you when the right sort of a girl smiles and — ”

“The devil,” murmured Pete Reeve, “it’s the girl that’s happened to you, eh?  You forget her, Bull.  I’m going to take you on the trail with me and keep you from thinking.  It’s a new trail for me, Bull.  It’s a trail where I’m going straight, I can’t take you with me while I’m playing against the law.  So I’m going to stay inside the law — with you.”

“Maybe,” and Bull Hunter sighed.  “But no matter how far the trail leads, I’m thinking that some day I’ll ride in a circle and come back to this place where we started out together.”

He turned in the saddle.

The outline of the Dunbar house was fading into the night.