“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?”
