It was related that before the killing of Dusenberry, two cowboys had roped Thunderbolt, and that he had pulled both men, saddles and all, over their horses’ heads. Thunderbolt had faded away with the saddles. The missing gear had at last been found in a dry wash—with the ropes neatly coiled and lying over the saddle horns!
Such wonder tales, aroused by the remarkable prowess of Thunderbolt, filled every rider of the range with something akin to panic.
Cowboys no longer hunted the maverick by ones or in couples—they rather avoided him, or the haunts where he was supposed to be, unless they traveled in parties of three or more.
For two years Red Thunderbolt kept up the battle, spreading terror wherever he went and growing wise in the ways of the cowboy hunters. He was a veteran.
One day, he was feeding in the Whiplash Hills that bordered the Brazos. He was close to a trail, and the wind was in the wrong direction for him to scent the approach of a man on foot, who came suddenly into view around the base of an uplift.
Thunderbolt was less than a hundred feet from the man. The latter, recognizing the steer, gave a wild yell, and jerked a revolver from his belt.
There was nothing the man could climb and get out of the longhorn’s way, nothing he could get behind.
The maverick, seeing the glimmering thing rise in the man’s hand, realized that there was danger. Thunderbolt had learned that the safest way out of danger was by charging, not running.
So his head dropped, he gave a wild bellow, and started for the man like a red streak.
Crack!