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.