Bull Hunter - Max Brand
"Are you going to let him go like that?" Tod was bitter with shame and
anger. "After all our work, are you going to give him up without
a fight?"
"A fight would be a gunfight, and a gunfight ends up in a death," said
Bull gently. "I don't like bloodshed, Tod!"
The boy writhed. Here was an idol smashed with a vengeance!
"I might of knowed!" he groaned. "You ain't nothing but--but a big
hulk!"
And he turned on his heel and gave the exciting news to his father.
For an event of this caliber, Bridewell called down all his men from
the building, and they started for the corral. Hal Dunbar and his two
men already were standing close to the bars, and Diablo stood
quivering, high-headed, in the center of the inclosure. But, of the
picture, the attention of Bull Hunter centered mainly on Hal Dunbar.
His dreams of the man had been true. He was a huge fellow, as tall as
Bull, or taller, and nearly as bulky. But about Bull Hunter there was
a suggestion of ponderous unwieldiness, and there was none of that
suggestion about Hal Dunbar. He was lithe and straight as a poplar,
and as supple in his movements. The poise of his head and the
alertness of his body and something of lightness in his whole posture
told of the trained athlete. Providence had given the man a marvelous
body, and he had improved it to the uttermost. To crown all, there was
a remarkably handsome face, dark eyes and coal-black hair.
Yet, more than the imposing body of this hero of the ranges, Bull was
impressed by the spirit of the man. The thing that Tod had felt, he
felt in turn. It shone from the eye, it spoke in the set of Dunbar's
mouth, something unconquerable. It was impossible, after a single
glance, to imagine this man failing. Diablo, it was true, had the same
invincible air. Indeed, they seemed meant for each other, this horse
and this man. They might have been picked from a crowd and the one
assigned to the other. Huge, lithe, fleet, powerful, and fiercely
free, surely Hal Dunbar was intended by fate to sit in the saddle and
govern Diablo according to his will.
The heart of Charlie Hunter sank. Here was the end, then, of all the
love he had put into his work, of all the feminine gentleness with
which he had petted Diablo and soothed him. And he discovered, in that
bitter moment, that he had not worked merely to gain control of the
horse. There would be no joy in making Diablo bend to his will. His
aim was, and from the first unconsciously had been, to win Diablo so
that the stallion would serve him joyously and freely out of the love
he bore him. As he thought of this, his glance rested on the long,
spoon-handled spurs of big Hal Dunbar.
Dunbar was shaking hands with Bridewell, leaning a trifle over the
little old man.
"Here's one that'll be sorry to see you ride Diablo," said Bridewell.
He pointed to Hunter. "He's been working weeks, trying to make a pet
out of the hoss."
"A pet out of him? A pet?" echoed Dunbar.
He measured Bull Hunter with a certain bright interest. The sleeves of
Bull were rolled up to the elbows and down the forearms ran the
tangling masses of muscle. But the interest of Dunbar was only
monetary. Presently his lip curled slightly, and he turned his haughty
head toward the great stallion.
"I'll do something more than pet him. Ill make something useful out of
the big brute. Saddle him, boys!"
He gestured carelessly, and his two attendants started toward the
corral, one with a heavy saddle and one with a rope. As he stood
rolling his cigarette and watching negligently, he impressed Bull as a
veritable knight of the ranges, a baron with baronial adherents. It
came partly from his splendid stature, and more from his flauntingly
rich costume. The heavy gold braid on the sombrero, the gilded spurs,
the brilliant silk shirt would have been out of place on another man,
but they fit in with Hal Dunbar. They were adjuncts to the pride of
his face. Bull's attention wavered to Tod.
"Are--are they going to rope Diablo?"
Tod flashed a half-disgusted, half-despairing glance up at his
companion.
"What d'you think they're going to do? What do you think?"
Bull turned away, sick hearted. He could not bear the thought of the
great stallion struggling helpless in the snaky coils of the rope. But
of course there was no other way. Yet his muscles tightened, and the
perspiration poured out on his forehead as he heard a shout from one
of the men, then a brief drumming of Diablo's hoofs, and finally the
heavy thud as the stallion struck full length on the ground.
That sound stunned Bull as though he had received a blow himself.
Every nerve in him was tingling, revolting against the brutality. They
were idiots, hopeless fools, to dream of conquering Diablo by brute
force. And if they succeeded, they would have a broken-spirited horse
on their hands, worse than useless, or else a treacherous man-killer
to the end of his days.
He looked again. Diablo, saddled and blindfolded was being driven out
of the corral; a man held him on either side, and his mouth, dragged
out, was already bleeding from the cruel Spanish bit. At that Bull
Hunter saw red.
When his senses returned to him, he went hurriedly to Dunbar.
"Friend," he said, earnestly pleading, "will you let me make a
suggestion?"
The insolent dark eyes ran over him mockingly.
"Oh, you're the fellow who tried to make a pet out of Diablo? Well,
what's the suggestion?"
"If you wear those spurs you'll drive him mad! Take 'em off, Mr.
Dunbar!"
Dunbar stared at him in amazement, and then looked to the others. "Did
you hear that? This wise one wants me to try to ride without spurs.
Who taught you to ride, eh?"
"I don't know much about it," confessed Bull humbly, "but I know
you're apt to cut him up badly with those big spurs."
"And what the devil difference does that make to you?" cried Dunbar
with heat. "And what do you mean by all these fool suggestions? I'm
riding the horse!"
Bull drew back, downheaded. Hal Dunbar cast one contemptuous glance
toward him and then stepped to the side of Diablo. The stallion was
quivering and crouching with fear and anger, and shaking his head from
time to time to get clear of the bandage which blinded him and made
him helpless. Now and then he reared a little and came down on
prancing forefeet, and Bull noted the spring and play of the fetlock
joints. The whole running mechanism of the horse, indeed, seemed
composed of coiled springs. Once released, what would the result be?
And the first hope entered his mind, the first hope since he had seen
the proud form of Hal Dunbar.
Now the big man set his hand on the pommel and vaulted into the saddle
with a lightness that Bull admired hugely. Under the impact of that
descending bulk the stallion crouched almost to the earth, but he came
up again with a snort and a strangled neigh of rage.
"Are you ready?" called Dunbar, gathering the reins, and giving the
string of his quirt another twist around his right hand.
One of his men had mounted his horse with a rope, the noose end of
which was around Diablo's neck. This would serve as a pivot block to
keep Diablo running in a circle. If he tried to run in a straight line
the running noose would stop him and choke him down. He would have to
gallop in a circle for his bucking, and to help keep him in that
circle, the spectators now grouped themselves loosely in a wide rim.
But Bull Hunter did not move. From where he stood he could see all
that he wished.
"All ready!" called the man with the rope.
"Let her go, then!"
The bandage was torn from the eyes of the stallion by Dunbar's second
assistant, and the fellow leaped aside as he did so. Even then he
barely escaped. Diablo had launched himself in pursuit, and his teeth
snapped a fraction of an inch from the shoulder of the fugitive as the
rope came taut and jerked him aside, and the full weight of Dunbar was
thrown back on the reins.
That mighty wrench of back and shoulder and arm would have broken the
jaw of an ordinary horse; it hardly disturbed Diablo. His head was
first tucked back until his chin was against his breast, but a moment
later he was head down, bucking as never horse bucked before. One
second earlier Hal Dunbar had seemed almost as powerful as the animal
he rode; now he suddenly became small.
For one thing Diablo wasted no time running against the rope. He
followed the line of least resistance and bolted around the wide
circle with tremendous leaps, gathering impetus as he ran--then
stopping in mid-career by the terrific process of hurling himself in
the air and coming down on four stiff legs and with his back humped so
that the rider sat at the uneasy apex of a pyramid. And this was
merely a beginning. That wild category of tricks which Bull had seen
partially unraveled the first time he visited the horse was now
brought forth again, enlarged, improved upon, made more intricate,
intensified. But well and nobly did Hal Dunbar sustain his fame as a
peerless rider. He rode straight up, and a cheer came from the
spectators when they saw that he was not touching leather in the midst
of the fiercest contortions of Diablo. It seemed that the great brute
would snap the very saddle off his back, but still the rider sat
erect, swaying as though in a storm, but still firmly glued to
the saddle.
Even the heart of Bull Hunter warmed to the battle. They were a
brutally glorious pair as they struggled. The wrenching hand of the
rider and the Spanish bit had bloodied the mouth of the stallion, the
spurs were clinging horribly at his sides, and he fought back like a
mad thing. He flung himself on the ground, Dunbar barely slipped from
the saddle in time, and whipped onto his feet again, but as he lurched
up, he carried the weight of the rider again, for Dunbar had leaped
into his seat, and as Diablo came up on all fours, it could be seen
that the big man had secured both stirrups--the difficult thing in
that feature of the fight. Dunbar urged the stallion on with a yell;
and swinging the quirt over his head, he brought it down with a
stinging cut on the silky flanks of the great horse. Bull Hunter
crouched as though the lash had cut into his own flesh. He became
savage for the moment. He wanted to have his hands on that rider!
But the cut of the quirt transformed Diablo. If he had fought hard
before, he now fell into a truly demoniacal frenzy. The long flashing
legs were springs indeed, and the moment his hoofs struck the earth he
was flung up again to a greater height. He was sunfishing now in that
most deadly manner when the horse lands on one forehoof, the rider
receiving a double jar from the down-shock and then the whiplash snap
to the side. Hal Dunbar was no longer using his quirt. It dangled idly
at his side. The joy had gone from his face. In its place, as shock
after shock benumbed his brain, there was an expression of fierce
despair. Neither was he riding straight up, but he was pulling
leather.
Otherwise, nothing human could have retained a seat in the saddle for
an instant. Diablo, squealing, snorting, and grunting with effort, was
dashing back and forth, flinging himself aloft, coming down on one
stiff leg, doubling back with jackrabbit agility.
There was no longer applause from the onlookers. Old Bridewell himself
in all of his years had never seen riding such as this, and it seemed
that Diablo at last had met his master. Never had he fought as he
fought now; never had he been stayed with as he was now. With foam and
sweat the great black was reeking, but never once were the efforts
relaxed. It was too terrible a sight to be applauded.
Then, at the end of a run, instead of hurling himself into the air as
he had usually done before, Diablo flung himself down and rolled. It
caught Dunbar by surprise, but the yell of horror from the bystanders
stimulated him to sharp action, and he was out of the saddle in the
last hair's breadth of time.
Diablo had been carried on over to his feet by the impetus of the
fall, and he was already rising when Dunbar leaped for the saddle.
Fair and true he struck the saddle and with marvelous skill his left
foot caught the stirrup and clung to it--but the right foot missed its
aim, and, before Dunbar could lodge his foot squarely, the stirrup was
dancing crazily as Diablo began a wild combination of cross-bucking
and sunfishing. The hat snapped from the head of Dunbar and his long
black hair tossed; with both hands he was clinging. All joy of battle
was gone from him. In its place was staring fear, for his right foot
was still out of the stirrup.
"Choke him down! Choke him--" he shrieked.
Before he could be obeyed by his confused henchmen, Diablo shot into
the air and at the very crest of his rise, bucked. Dunbar lurched to
one side. There was a groan from the bystanders; and the next instant
the stallion, landing on the one stiffened foreleg, had snapped his
rider from the saddle and hurled him to the ground.
He lay in a shapeless heap, and the stallion whirled to finish his
enemy.
CHAPTER 18
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."