“H’m,” grunted Tod noncommittally, and examined the other with a cautious side glance.

But the face of Bull Hunter was unutterably free from guile.  Tod instantly began to adjust himself.  The men he most worshiped were the lean, swift, profanely formidable cowpunchers.  But there was something in him that responded with a thrill to this accepted equality with such a man as Bull Hunter.  Even his father he had seen stricken to an awed silence at the sight of Bull’s prowess.

“You see,” explained Bull frankly, “I been wondering how you managed to handle Diablo the way you do.”

Tod chuckled.  “It’s just a trick.  You watch me a while with him, you’ll soon catch on.”

But Bull shook his head as he answered, “Maybe a mighty bright man might figure it out, but I’m not good at figuring things out, Tod.”

The boy blinked.  He was accustomed to the studied understatement of the cowpunchers and he was accustomed, also, to their real vanity which underlay the surface shyness.  But it was patent that Bull Hunter, in spite of his size, was truly humble.  This conception was new to Tod and slowly grew in his brain.  His active eyes ran over the bulk beside him; he almost pitied the giant.

“Besides,” pondered Bull heavily, “I guess there’s a whole lot of bright men that have seen you handle Diablo, but they couldn’t make out what you did.  They tried to ride Diablo and got their necks nearly broken.  They were good riders, but I’m not.  You see, Diablo’s the first horse I’ve ever seen that could really carry me.”  He added apologetically, “I’m so heavy.”

No vanity, certainly.  He gestured toward himself as though he were ashamed of his brawn, and the heart of Tod warmed and expanded.  He himself would never be large, and his heart had ached because of his smallness many a time.

“Yep,” he said judiciously, “you’re pretty heavy.  About the heaviest I ever seen, I guess.  Maybe Hal Dunbar is as big, but I never seen Hal.”

“I’ve heard a good deal about Hal, but—­”

He stopped short and stiffened.  Tod saw that the eyes of the big man had fixed on the corral in which stood Diablo.  A puff of wind had come, and the great black had thrown up his head into it, an imposing picture with mane and tail blown sidewise.  Not until the stallion turned away from the unseen thing which he had scented in the wind, did Bull turn to his small companion with a sigh.

Tod nodded, his eyes glinting.  “I know,” he said.  “I used to feel that way—­before I learned how to handle Diablo.”  He interpreted, “You feel like it’d be pretty fine to get onto Diablo’s back and have him gallop under you.”

“About the finest thing in the world,” sighed Bull Hunter.  He cast out his great hands before him as he tried to explain the mysterious emotions which the horse had excited in him.  “You see, Tod, I’m pretty big and I’m pretty slow.  Most folks have horses, and they get about pretty lively on ’em, but I’ve always had to walk.”