"My name's Charlie Hunter; though mostly folks call me just plain
Bull."
"That's queer," chuckled the other. "Well, glad to know you. I'm
Bridewell."
They shook hands, and Bridewell noted the gentleness of the giant. As a rule strong men are tempted to show their strength when they shake hands; Bridewell appreciated the modesty of Charlie Hunter.
"And you didn't come to ride Diablo?"
"No. I just stopped in to see him. And—" Bull sighed profoundly.
"I know. He gives even me a touch now and then, though I know what a devil he is!"
"Devil?" repeated Bull, astonished. "Why, he's as gentle as a kitten!"
"Because you seen Tod ride him?" Bridewell laughed. "That don't mean nothing. Tod can bully him, sure. But just let a grown man come near him—with a saddle! That'll change things pretty pronto! You'll see the finest little bit of boiled-down hell-raising that ever was! The jingle of a pair of spurs is Diablo's idea of a drum—and he makes his charge right off! Gentle? Huh!" The grunt was expressive. "And what good's a hoss if he can't be rode with a saddle?" He waved the subject of Diablo into the distance. "They ain't any hope unless Hal Dunbar can ride him. If he can't, I'll shoot the beast!"
"Shoot him?" echoed Bull Hunter. He took a pace back, and his big, boyish face clouded to a frown. "Not that, I guess!"
"Why not?" asked Bridewell, curious at the change in the big stranger.
"Why not? What good is he?"