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!”