There had been no saddle, no bridle,
no spurs, no quirt--nevertheless, he must not be controlled by the
hand of any man! But having thrown the fellow, now other men would run
on him, swinging the accursed ropes over their heads, shouting,
cursing at him in strident voices. Vitally he yearned to break through
the bars of the corral and flee, but the bars were there and he must
stay in the inclosure with this friendly enemy. It was not the
prostrate man he feared so much as vengeance from other men, for that
had always been the way.
But no one came. No shouts were heard except from the small, thin,
familiar voice of Tod. And presently the giant arose from the ground
where he had fallen and came toward him. Diablo flattened his ears
expectantly. At the first throat-tearing curse he would charge. But no
curse came. The man approached, as always, with extended hand, and the
voice was the smooth, gentle murmur that carries peace into the
shadowy mind of a horse.
Something relaxed in Diablo.
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