But the maverick did not come off scatheless in his various encounters with mounted men. He broke more ropes than ever went wrong on that range before; and he broke more saddle cinches and injured more good saddle leather than natural wear and tear would have accomplished in half a dozen years.
Also, he killed a cowboy.
When goaded into frenzy by the pestering horsemen with their ropes and guns, Red Thunderbolt pitted his life against the lives of his enemies. He was playing the game, and the unfortunate cowboy had yielded to the fortunes of war.
From that time on, the nature of the campaign against Thunderbolt underwent a change. No further attempts were made to rope the unmanageable maverick, but all cowboys were armed with rifles and ordered to shoot him on sight, and to shoot to kill.
Again and again the longhorn was wounded. His red hide was scarred with bullet wounds. Nevertheless, he continued to live and to defy his enemies, and it seemed that he bore a charmed life.
Wild tales of what Red Thunderbolt had done and was capable of doing were noised up and down the Brazos.
It was gravely declared that he was seen at Portala’s, on the upper river, at noon of a certain day; and, at two o’clock in the afternoon of that day, he was also discovered racing across the range a hundred and fifty miles to the south of Portala’s.
From this it was argued that Thunderbolt, whenever he chose to “let himself out,” had the speed of a lightning express train.
The maverick, from accounts, was able to appear in two widely separated places at the same time.
His strength was talked of in awed whispers, and took on an aspect as incredible as his speed.