If the man did not resent being thrown
off--if that were a sort of game, as it were--why should he, Diablo,
resent having the man on his back? The hand touched his nose gently;
another hand was stroking his neck.
Presently he was led to the fence and again that heavy weight slid
onto his back. He crouched again, with waves of blind panic surging up
in him, but the panic did not master his sense this time, and as his
brain cleared he began to discover that there was no urging, no will
of another imposed upon him. He could walk where he pleased, following
his own sweet will, or else he could stand still. It made no
difference; but the soft-touching hand and the deep, quiet voice were
assuring him that the man was glad to be up there on his back.
Diablo turned his head. One ear quivered and came forward tentatively;
then the other. He had accepted Bull Hunter.
Afterward Bull found Tod. The boy wrung his hand ecstatically.
"That's what I call game!" he said.
"Why, Tod," the big man smiled, "you did the same thing.
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