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.