And this was
merely a beginning. That wild category of tricks which Bull had seen
partially unraveled the first time he visited the horse was now
brought forth again, enlarged, improved upon, made more intricate,
intensified. But well and nobly did Hal Dunbar sustain his fame as a
peerless rider. He rode straight up, and a cheer came from the
spectators when they saw that he was not touching leather in the midst
of the fiercest contortions of Diablo. It seemed that the great brute
would snap the very saddle off his back, but still the rider sat
erect, swaying as though in a storm, but still firmly glued to
the saddle.
Even the heart of Bull Hunter warmed to the battle. They were a
brutally glorious pair as they struggled. The wrenching hand of the
rider and the Spanish bit had bloodied the mouth of the stallion, the
spurs were clinging horribly at his sides, and he fought back like a
mad thing. He flung himself on the ground, Dunbar barely slipped from
the saddle in time, and whipped onto his feet again, but as he lurched
up, he carried the weight of the rider again, for Dunbar had leaped
into his seat, and as Diablo came up on all fours, it could be seen
that the big man had secured both stirrups--the difficult thing in
that feature of the fight.
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