The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  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.”

  That was the reason that Tod’s eyes now were supernally bright when big Hal Dunbar approached. Diablo showed signs of excitement, but Charlie Hunter quieted him with a word and went to the bars of the corral. The hand of Dunbar was stretched out, and Bull took it with humble earnestness.

  “I’m glad you weren’t hurt bad,” he said. “For a minute or two I was scared that Diablo—”

  “I know,” cut in Dunbar, for he detested a new description of the scene of his failure. Then he made himself smile. “But I’ve come to thank you for what you did, Hunter. Between you and me, I know that I talked rather sharp to you a while back. I’m sorry for that. And now—why, man, your side must be wounded!”

  “It’s just a little scratch,” said Bull good-naturedly. “It isn’t the first time that Diablo has made me bleed but now—well, isn’t he worth a fight, Mr. Dunbar?”

  And he gestured to the magnificent, watchful head of the stallion. The heart of Hal Dunbar swelled in him. By fair means or foul, he must have that horse, and on the spot he made his proposition to Hunter. He had only to climb on the back of Diablo and ride south with him; the pay would be anything—double what he got from Bridewell, who, besides, was almost through with him, Dunbar understood.

  “But I’m not much good,” and Bull sighed reluctantly. “I can’t use a rope, and I don’t know cattle, and—”

  “I’ll find uses for you. Will you come?”

  So it was settled. But before Bull climbed into the saddle and started off after Dunbar, little Tod drew him to one side.

  “There ain’t any good in Dunbar. Watch him and—remember me, Bull.”

  CHAPTER 19

  That ride to the southern mountains seemed to Bull Hunter to mark a great point of departure between his old life and a new life.

  He had not heard Riley, fox-faced and wicked of eye, say to his master, “What this big fool needs is a little kidding. Make him think that we figure him to be a big gun.” He had not seen Hal Dunbar make a wry face before he nodded.

  All that Bull Hunter could know was that the three men—Riley, Dunbar, and Joe Castor—were all exceedingly pleasant to him on the way. Of all the men in the world, only Pete Reeve had treated him as these men were now doing, and it was sweet beyond measure to Bull Hunter to be treated with considerate respect, to have his opinion asked, to be deferred to and flattered. As for the thousand little asides with which they made a mock of him, they were far above his head. It seemed only patent to Bull Hunter that he had been accepted freely into the equal society of men.

  He drew a vague comparison between that success and his mastery of Diablo. The big stallion was like a kitten under his hand. It required much coaxing during the first half-day of riding to bring Diablo within speaking distance of the other men, but gradually he discovered that they could do him no harm so long as the gentle voice of Hunter was near him; thereafter he was entirely amenable to reason. One could see that the stallion was learning difficult lessons, but he was learning them fast. Eye and ear and scent told him that these creatures were dangerous. Old experience told him that they were dangerous, and only a blind trust in Bull Hunter enabled him to conquer the panic which surged up in his brain time and again. But he kept on trying, and the constant struggle against men which had featured his life made him astonishingly quick to pick up new facts. The first step had been the hard one, and it seemed to Bull Hunter that the close-knit, smooth-flowing muscles beneath him were carrying him onward into the esteem of all men. To Diablo he gave the praise, and after Diablo to little freckled Tod, and to Pete Reeve, th
e fighter. As for taking any credit for himself, that idea never came to him for a moment.

  The long trip took two days. They crossed the green, rolling hills; they passed the foothills, and climbing steadily they came onto a broad, high plateau—it was a natural kingdom, this ranch of the Dunbars. The fence around it was the continuous range of mountains skirting the plateau on all sides, and in every direction up to those blue summits as far as the eye carried, stretched the land which owned Hal Dunbar as master. To Bull Hunter, when they reached the crest, and the broad domain was pointed out to him, this seemed a princely stretch indeed, and Hal Dunbar was more like a king than ever. It was easy to forgive pride in such a man and a certain asperity of temper. How could so rich and powerful a man be like others?

  The ranch house was worthy of such a holding. A heavy growth of beautiful silver spruce swept up the slope of some hills, and riding through the forest, one caught the first glimpse of the building. It was spread out carelessly, the foundations laid deep to cover the irregularities of the ground. It was a heterogeneous mass, obviously not the work of any one builder. Here a one-story wing rambled far to the side, built heavily, of logs rudely squared, and there was a three-story frame section of the house; and still again there was a tall tower effect of rough stone. As for the barns and sheds which swept away down the farther and lower slopes, the meanest of them looked to Bull as though it might have made a home of more than average comfort.

  The three other riders noted the gaping astonishment of Bull and passed the wink quietly around. To Hal Dunbar it was growing more and more annoying that he had to trouble himself with such a clod of a man and use diplomacy where contemptuous force would have been so much more after his heart. But he continued to follow the scheme first laid down for his pursuit by clever Riley, and when they came to the wide-ranging stable he assigned the black stallion to a roomy box stall. Bull Hunter thanked him for the courtesy as though it had been a direct personal favor; as a matter of fact, Hal felt that he was merely taking care of a horse which was already as good as his.

  Coming back toward the house Bull walked slowly in the rear of the little party. He wanted to take plenty of time and drink in the astonishing details of what to him was a palace. And about the weather-beaten old house he felt that there was a touch of mystery of a more or less feudal romance. Climbing the steps to the porch he turned; a broad sweep of hills opened above the tops of the spruces, and the blue mountains were piled beyond.

  While he stood, a door slammed, and he heard a girl’s mellow voice calling, “Hello, Hal, what luck?”

  “What luck? No luck!” grumbled young Dunbar. “All the luck has gone the way of my…friend…here.” He brought out the last words jokingly. “This is Charlie Hunter, commonly called Bull for reasons you may guess. Bull, this is Mary Hood.”

  Bull had turned lumberingly, and he found himself staring at a girl in a more formal riding outfit than he had ever seen before, with tall boots of soft red leather, and a little round black hat set on her hair, and a coat fitted somewhat closely. The rather masculine outfit only served to make her freer, more independent, more delightfully herself, Bull Hunter thought. She looked him up and down and reserved judgment, it seemed.

  “He rode Diablo,” Dunbar was explaining.

  “And that’s why you brought him?” she asked, flashing a queer glance at Hal.

  Then she came a pace down the steps and shook hands with Bull. He took the small hand carefully, with a fear that the bones would break unless he were excessively gentle. At last she laughed so frankly that a tingle went through his big body, and he peered closely at her. As a rule the laughter of others made him hot with shame, but this laughter was different; it seemed to invite him into a pleasant secret.

  “I’m glad to meet the man who conquered Diablo,” she was saying.

  “I didn’t beat Diablo,” he hastened to explain. “We just sort of reached an understanding. He saw that I didn’t mean him any harm—so he let me ride him. That’s all there was to it!”

  He saw her eyes narrow a trifle as she looked down at him, for she had drawn back to the level of the porch. Was she despising him and condemning him merely because he had told her the truth? He flushed at the thought, and then he was called into the house by Dunbar and brought to a room. The size of it inspired him with a profound awe, and he was still gaping when Dunbar left him.

  In the hall the master of the house met Riley, and the fox-faced lieutenant drew him aside.

  “I’ve got a plan,” he said.

  “You’re full of plans,” muttered Dunbar evilly.

  All the way home he had been striving to find some way of explaining his lack of success with the stallion to Mary Hood. She had grown up on the ranch with him, for her father had been the manager of the ranch for twenty years; and she had grown up with the feeling that Hal Dunbar was infallible and invincible.

  “Did you see the big hulk look at Mary Hood?” Riley asked.

  The name came pat with the unpleasant part of Hal’s brooding, and his scowl grew blacker. “What about it?”

  “Looked at her as though she was an angel—touched her hand as though it was fire. I tell you, Hal, she knocked Hunter clean off his balance.”

  “Not the first she’s done that to,” said Hal with meaning.

  “Maybe not. Maybe not,” said Riley rather hastily. “But I been thinking. Suppose you go to Mary and tell her that you’re dead set on keeping this Hunter with you. Tell her that he’s a hard fellow to handle, that he likes her, and that the best way to make sure of him is for her to be nice to him. She can do that easy. She takes nacheral to flirting.”

  “Flirt with that thick-head? She’d laugh in my face.”

  “She’d do more than that for you, Hal.”

  “H’m,” grunted Dunbar, greatly mollified. “I ask her to make Hunter happy. What comes of it? If her father sees Hunter make eyes at her he’ll blow the head off the clodhopper.”

  “I know.” Riley nodded. “He’s always afraid she’ll take a fancy to one of the hands and run off with him, or something like that. He’s dead set agin’ her saying two words to anybody like me, say!”

  He gritted his teeth and flushed at the thought. Then he continued. “But that’s just what you want. You want to get Hunter’s head blown off, don’t you?”

  Dunbar caught the shoulder of Riley and whirled him around.

  “Are you talking murder to me, Riley?”

  “I’m talking sense,” said Riley.

  “By the Lord,” growled Dunbar, “you’re a plain bad one, Riley. You like deviltry for the sake of the deviltry itself. You want me to get—”

  “How much do you want the black hoss, chief?” Dunbar sighed.

  “You can’t touch him, after him saving your life, and I can’t touch him, because everybody knows that I’m your man. But suppose you get the girl and Hunter planted? Then when Jack Hood rides in this afternoon, I’ll take him where he can see ’em together. Leave the rest to me. Will you? I’ll have Jack Hood scared she’s going to elope before morning, and Jack will do the rest. You know his way.”

  “Suppose Hood gets killed?”

  “Killed—by that? Jack Hood? Why, you know he’s near as good as you with his gat!”

  Dunbar nodded slowly. After all, the scheme was a simple one.

  “Well?” whispered Riley.

  “You and the devil win,” said Hal. “After all, what’s this Hunter amount to? Nothing. And I need the horse!”

  He executed the first step of the scheme instantly. He went downstairs and found the girl still on the veranda. She began to mock him at once.

  “You’ll go to heaven, Hal, giving a home to the man who beats you.”

  He managed to smile, although the words were poison to him. He had loved her as long as he could remember, and sooner or later she would be his wife, but the period remained indefinitely in the future as the whims of the girl changed. It was for that reason, as Hal very well knew, that her father
became furious when she smiled at another man. The rich marriage was his goal; and when a second man stepped onto the stage, old Jack Hood was ready to fight. Hal saw a way of stopping her gibes and proving his good intentions toward Hunter all in a breath.

  “He saved my life, Mary. I lost a stirrup, and the devil of a horse threw me.”

  Briefly he sketched in the story of the rescue, and how Bull Hunter afterward had ridden the horse without spurs, without a bridle. Before he ended her eyes were shining.

  “That’s what he meant when he said he hadn’t beaten Diablo. I understand now. At the time I thought he was a little simple, Hal.”

  “He’s not exceptionally clever, Mary,” said Hal, “and that’s where the point comes in of what I want you to do. Hunter is apt to take a fancy that he isn’t wanted here—that he’s being kept out of charity because he saved my life. Nothing I can say will convince him. I want you to give him a better reason for staying around. Will you do it—as a great favor?”

  She dropped her chin into her hand and studied him.

  “Just what are you driving at, Hal?”

  “You know what I mean well enough. I want you to waste a smile or two on him, Mary. Will you do that? Make him think you like him a good deal, that you’re glad to have him around. Will you? Take him out for a walk this afternoon and get him to tell you the story of his life. You can always make a man talk and generally you turn them into fools. You’ve done it with me, often enough,” he added gloomily.

  “Flirt with that big, quiet fellow?” she said gravely. “Hal, you’re criminal. Besides, you know that I don’t flirt. It’s just the opposite. When I like a man I’m simply frank about it.”