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.
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