Something of all that went through the mind of Diablo was understood by Bull Hunter.  It was telegraphed to him by the twitching and vibration of great muscles, by the stiff arching of the neck, and the snorting breathing.  But he was beginning to forget fear.  The stallion danced lightly forward, and as the wind struck the face of Bull Hunter he suddenly rejoiced.  This was what he had dreamed of, to be carried thus lightly, easily.  The weight that had crushed other horses was nothing to Diablo.  It made him feel buoyant.  He became tinglingly alert.  On the back of Diablo not a horse of the mountains could overtake him if he fled; and not a man of the mountains could escape him if he pursued on the back of the stallion.

That thought had hardly formed in his excited mind when Diablo sprang, cat-footed, to one side.  It made Bull Hunter sway, and he naturally sought to preserve his balance by gripping the powerful barrel of the horse with his knees.  But at the first touch of the knee Diablo went suddenly mad.  Exactly what he did Bull Hunter never knew.  Indeed, it seemed that Diablo left his feet, shot a dizzy height into the air, and at the crest of his rise did three or four things at once.  At any rate, as the stallion landed, Bull pitched from the arched back and hurtled forward and to the right side.  He landed heavily against the ground, his head striking a small rock; and he lay there a moment, stunned.

Far off he heard Tod shrilling at him, “Bull!  Are you hurt?”

He gathered himself together and arose, “I’m all right.  Stay where you are!”

“Don’t try him again.  He’ll kill you, Bull!”

“Maybe.  But I’m going to try.”

Diablo stood on the far side of the corral in the moonlight, a splendid figure with haughty tail and head.  Inwardly he was trembling, enraged.  He knew what would come.  He had thrown men before, and usually he had tried to batter them to pieces after they fell.  This man he had no desire to batter.  There had been no saddle, no bridle, no spurs, no quirt—­nevertheless, he must not be controlled by the hand of any man!  But having thrown the fellow, now other men would run on him, swinging the accursed ropes over their heads, shouting, cursing at him in strident voices.  Vitally he yearned to break through the bars of the corral and flee, but the bars were there and he must stay in the inclosure with this friendly enemy.  It was not the prostrate man he feared so much as vengeance from other men, for that had always been the way.

But no one came.  No shouts were heard except from the small, thin, familiar voice of Tod.  And presently the giant arose from the ground where he had fallen and came toward him.  Diablo flattened his ears expectantly.  At the first throat-tearing curse he would charge.  But no curse came.  The man approached, as always, with extended hand, and the voice was the smooth, gentle murmur that carries peace into the shadowy mind of a horse.