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!_ The lead went wide. Another moment and the man was lifted clear of the ground and thrown a dozen feet, alighting on the earth with cruel force. Red Thunderbolt, from the impetus of his first charge, passed on around the base of the hill. It was his intention to turn and repeat the charge, trampling and horning the man on the ground as long as he showed any signs of life. But, when the trail beyond the hill’s base opened before Thunderbolt’s eyes, he saw a sight that gave him pause. Two mounted men were coming toward him at speed--and they were not the sort of men with whom the maverick was familiar. Their horses were larger than the usual cow pony, larger and stronger. And the men who backed them were clad differently than the human enemies whom Thunderbolt had heretofore encountered. Furthermore, they were thundering toward him, ropes in their hands, fiercely determined. “Waugh!” howled one of the horsemen. “I’m er Piegan, Buffler, ef et ain’t thet thar Thunderbolt critter, ther demon o’ ther range, ther big medicine steer thet kain’t be captered er killed. Wisht we had er rifle!” “That was a man’s shout we heard, Nick!” answered Buffalo Bill. “We’ll keep Thunderbolt busy while the man gets away, anyhow. Let’s see what we can do with our ropes.” Again Thunderbolt made up his mind to throw himself headlong into the threatening danger, escaping the coil by either killing or crippling his foes. “He’s chargin’!” whooped the old trapper. “Look out fer yerself, pard!” The king of scouts needed no urging. He had already measured his peril.