When Hal Dunbar with a
yell of despair was flung sidewise in the saddle as Diablo bucked in
mid-air, Bull Hunter knew what was coming and lurched through the line
of watchers. Straight across the open space of the circle he raced as
he had never run before, and while the others stood frozen, while the
man with the rope tugged futilely, Bull came in front of the stallion
as Diablo whirled to smash his late rider to a pulp. There was no
question of Dunbar crawling out of the way. He had rolled on his back
with arms outstretched, helplessly stunned. Even in the lightning
speed of the action Bull found time to wonder what would be the result
if the hoof of the wild horse crashed down into that upturned,
handsome face, now stained with crimson and black with dust.
He had no time to imagine further. Diablo, red-eyed with anger, had
whirled on him and reared, and swerving from those terrible, pawing
hoofs, Bull Hunter leaped in and up. His goal was not the tossing
bridle rein, but the stout strap which circled the head just above the
bit, and his big right hand jarred home on this goal.
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