Ignacio had figured out that his lariat was going to be of little use against the black. He had his rifle out of the scabbard and was about to pull the trigger when the black hit him, barreling into his sorrel gelding from the side, knocking Ignacio and his horse over the top of the ridge and down the other side. Ignacio fell head over heels, tumbling through scree and prickly pear, scraping off hide with every bounce until he came to rest against a spruce tree, out cold.

Farron ran to a lodgepole pine and scrambled up into its sparse branches as the black whirled after him, screaming like a banshee. He pulled himself up about ten feet above the ground and managed to wedge his butt in between two branches, praying that they’d hold and that he wouldn’t pass out from the pain and fall where the black could get at him. The horse was at the foot of the tree, slinging his head in fury and pawing at the bark. He might have waited all day, but the commotion had frightened his mares. They took off to the southeast, trailed at a respectful distance by a band of scrub stallions. Most of the scrubs bore scars where they had been whipped by the black, but they were still hopeful. If the cowpokes kept the black busy long enough, maybe they could cut a few mares out of his herd. The black screamed again, showing his bloody teeth, and whirled to go after the mares.

When Ignacio came to, he saw Farron squatting on the ground, ripping up his shirt and trying to stanch the blood that flowed from the wounds on his ribs and thigh. Ignacio got him cleaned up and bandaged. By the time they reached the hospital in Sheridan two days later, Farron Blue was half dead and burning up with fever, raving about Ilah Pattee and an animal he called the Devil Horse.

When it was clear that Farron was out of danger, Doc Miller asked Ignacio whether the animal that had done all this damage might be in truth a devil horse.

“No sir,” Ignacio said. “He is not a devil. He just acts like one.”