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."
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.
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 forHal 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 evenDunbar 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 sawHunter 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.