Coming back toward the house Bull walked slowly in the rear of the little party.  He wanted to take plenty of time and drink in the astonishing details of what to him was a palace.  And about the weather-beaten old house he felt that there was a touch of mystery of a more or less feudal romance.  Climbing the steps to the porch he turned; a broad sweep of hills opened above the tops of the spruces, and the blue mountains were piled beyond.

While he stood, a door slammed, and he heard a girl’s mellow voice calling, “Hello, Hal, what luck?”

“What luck?  No luck!” grumbled young Dunbar.  “All the luck has gone the way of my ... friend ... here.”  He brought out the last words jokingly.  “This is Charlie Hunter, commonly called Bull for reasons you may guess.  Bull, this is Mary Hood.”

Bull had turned lumberingly, and he found himself staring at a girl in a more formal riding outfit than he had ever seen before, with tall boots of soft red leather, and a little round black hat set on her hair, and a coat fitted somewhat closely.  The rather masculine outfit only served to make her freer, more independent, more delightfully herself, Bull Hunter thought.  She looked him up and down and reserved judgment, it seemed.

“He rode Diablo,” Dunbar was explaining.

“And that’s why you brought him?” she asked, flashing a queer glance at Hal.

Then she came a pace down the steps and shook hands with Bull.  He took the small hand carefully, with a fear that the bones would break unless he were excessively gentle.  At last she laughed so frankly that a tingle went through his big body, and he peered closely at her.  As a rule the laughter of others made him hot with shame, but this laughter was different; it seemed to invite him into a pleasant secret.

“I’m glad to meet the man who conquered Diablo,” she was saying.

“I didn’t beat Diablo,” he hastened to explain.  “We just sort of reached an understanding.  He saw that I didn’t mean him any harm—­so he let me ride him.  That’s all there was to it!”

He saw her eyes narrow a trifle as she looked down at him, for she had drawn back to the level of the porch.  Was she despising him and condemning him merely because he had told her the truth?  He flushed at the thought, and then he was called into the house by Dunbar and brought to a room.  The size of it inspired him with a profound awe, and he was still gaping when Dunbar left him.

In the hall the master of the house met Riley, and the fox-faced lieutenant drew him aside.

“I’ve got a plan,” he said.

“You’re full of plans,” muttered Dunbar evilly.

All the way home he had been striving to find some way of explaining his lack of success with the stallion to Mary Hood.  She had grown up on the ranch with him, for her father had been the manager of the ranch for twenty years; and she had grown up with the feeling that Hal Dunbar was infallible and invincible.