Diablo took another step, quickened to a soft trot, and
stopped suddenly. That weight on his back failed to leave him. He
began to tremble violently. Bull felt the sudden thundering of the
great heart beneath the pressure of his knee.
To the stallion, this man had been a friend, a constant companion. The
touch of his hand was pleasant. Pleasanter still was the continual
deep murmur of the voice, reassuring, telling him of a superior and
guardian mind looking out for his interests. Now that hand was
stroking his sleek neck and that voice was steadily in his ear. But
the position was the most hated one. To be sure, there was no saddle,
no cutting, binding cinch, no drag of cruel Spanish curb to control
his head, no tearing spurs to threaten him. But his flanks twitched
where the spurs had dug in many a time, and he panted, remembering the
cinches. Those memories built up a panic. He became unsure. The voice
reached him less distinctly. Moreover it was a strange time of the
evening.
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