“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.