No wonder that big Hal Dunbar writhed with the shame of it.
He forgot even that emotion now in wonder at what was happening.
Hunter had stepped to the side of the horse, raised his foot, and put
it in the stirrup. Did the fool intend to climb into the saddle while
that black devil was not blindfolded, without even a bridle?
That, in fact, was what he was doing. The steady murmur of the voice
of Hunter reached him as the big man soothed the horse. He saw the
head of Diablo turn, saw him sniff the shoulder of his companion, and
then Hunter lifted himself slowly into the saddle. There was a groan
of excitement from the spectators, and at the sound rather than at the
weight of his back, Diablo crouched. It was only for a moment that he
quivered, wild-eyed, irresolute. Then he straightened and threw up his
head. Bull Hunter, his face white and drawn but his mouth resolute,
had touched the shining flank of the stallion, and Diablo moved into a
soft trot, gentle as the flowing of water.
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