by Max Brand
CHAPTER 8
There were two reasons for the happiness which lightened the step ofBull Hunter as he strode back for the town. In the first place he sawa hope of liberating Reeve from jail and accomplishing his own missionof killing the man. In the second place he felt a peculiar joy at thethought of freeing such a man from the imputation of a cowardly murder.
Yet he had small grounds for his hopes. Two little dark marks on thewhite, friable stone, marks that the first small shower of rain wouldwash away, marks that the first keen sandstorm would rub off--this washis only proof. And with this to free one man from danger of the ropeand place the head of another under the noose--it was a task to trythe resources of a cleverer man than Bull.
Indeed, the high spirits of Bull in some measure left him as he drewnearer and nearer to the village. How could he convict the sheriff?How, with his clumsy wits and his clumsy tongue, could he bring thetruth to light? Had he possessed the keen eyes of his uncle he feltthat a single glance would have made the guilt stand up in the face ofAnderson. But his own eyes, alas, were dull and clouded.
Thoughtfully, with bowed head, he held his course. A strange picture,surely, this man who so devoutly wished to free another from thedanger of the law in order that he might take a life into his ownhands. But the contrast did not strike home to Bull. To him everythingthat he did was as clear as day. But how to go to work? If the manwere like himself it would be an easy matter. More than once heremembered how his cousins had shifted the blame for their own boyishpranks upon him. In the presence of their father they would accuseBull with a well-planned lie, and the very fact that he had beenaccused made Bull blush and hang his head. Before he could be heard inhis own behalf the cruel eye of his uncle had grown stern, and Bullwas condemned as a culprit.
"The only time you show any sense," his uncle had said more than once,"is when you want to do something you hadn't ought to do!"
Steadily through the years he had served as a scapegoat for hiscousins. They set a certain value upon him for his use in thisrespect. Ah, if only he had that keen, embarrassing eye of BillCampbell with which to pierce to the guilty heart of the sheriff andmake him speak! The eye of his uncle was like the eye of a crowd. Itwas an audience in itself and condemned or praised with the strengthof numbers.
It was this thought of numbers that brought the clue to a possiblesolution to Bull Hunter. When it came to him he stopped short in theroad, threw back his head and laughed.
"And what's all the celebration about?" asked a voice behind him.
He turned and found Sheriff Anderson on his horse directly behind him.The soft loam of the trail had covered the sound of the sheriffsapproach. Bull blushed with a sudden sense of shame. Moreover, thesheriff seemed unapproachably stern and dignified. He sat erect in thesaddle, a cavalier figure with his long, well-drilled mustaches.
"I dunno," said Bull vaguely, pushing his hat back to scratch histhatch of blond hair. "I didn't know I was celebrating, particular."
The sheriff watched him with small, evil eyes. "You been snoopingaround, son," he said coldly. "And we folks in this part, we don'tlike snoopers. Understand?"
"No," said Bull frankly, "I don't exactly figure what you mean." Thenhe dropped his hand to his hip.
"Git your hand off that gun!" said the sheriff, his own weaponflashing instantly in the light.
It had been a move like lightning. Its speed stunned and baffled BullHunter. Something cold formed in his throat, choking him, and heobediently drew his hand away. He did more. He threw both immense armsabove his head and stood gaping at the sheriff.
The latter eyed him for a moment with stern amusement, and then heshoved the gun back into its holster. "I guess they ain't much harm inyou," he said more to himself than to Bull. "But I hate a snooperworse than I do a rat. You can take them arms down."
Bull lowered them cautiously.
"You hear me talk?" asked the sheriff.
"I hear," said Bull obediently.
"I don't like snoopers. Which means that I don't like you none toowell. Besides, who in thunder are you? A wanderin' vagrant you lookto me, and we got a law agin' vagrants. You amble along on your trailpretty pronto, and no harm'll come to you. But if you're around towntomorrow--well, you've heard me talk!"
It was very familiar talk to Bull; not the words, but the commandingand contemptuous tone in which they were spoken. Crestfallen, hesubmitted. Of one thing he must make sure: that no harm befell himbefore he faced Pete Reeve and Pete Reeve's gun. Then he could onlypray for courage to attack. But the effect of the sheriff's littlegunplay entirely disheartened Bull at the prospect of facing Pete.
With a noncommittal rejoinder he started down the road, and thesheriff put the spurs to his horse and plunged by at a full gallop,flinging the dust back into the face of the big man. Bull wiped it outof his eyes and went on gloomily. He had been trodden upon in spiritonce more. But, after all, that was so old a story that it made littledifference. It convinced him, however, of one thing; he could never doanything with the sheriff man to man. Certainly he would need the helpof a crowd before he faced the tall man and his cavalier mustaches.
He waited until after the supper at the hotel. It was a miserablemeal for Bull; he had already eaten, and he could not find a way ofrefusing the invitation of the proprietor to sit down again. Seated atthe end of the long table he looked miserably up and down it. Nobodyhad a look for him except one of contempt. The sheriff, it seemed, hadspread a story around about his lack of spirit, and if Bull remainedlong in the village, he would be treated with little more respect thanhe had been in the house of his uncle. Even now they held him incontempt. They could not understand, for instance, why he sat so farforward. He was resting most of his weight on his legs, for fear ofthe weakness of the chair under his full bulk. But that very bulk madethem whisper their jokes and insults to one another.
When the long nightmare of that meal was ended, Bull began making hisrounds. He had chosen his men. Every man he picked was sharp-eyed likeUncle Bill Campbell. They were the men whose inlooking eyes wouldbaffle the sheriff; they were the men capable of suspicions, and suchmen Bull needed--not dull-glancing people like himself.
He went first to the proprietor of the hotel. "I got something to sayto the sheriff," he declared. "And I want to have a few importantgents around town to be there to listen and hear what I got to say. Iwonder, could you be handy?"
He was surprised at the avidity with which his invitation wasaccepted. It was a long time since the hotel owner had been referredto as an "important man."
Then he went with the same talk to five others--the blacksmith, thecarpenter and odd-jobber, the storekeeper, and two men whom he hadmarked when he first halted near the hotel veranda. To his invitationeach of them gave a quick assent. There had been something mysteriousin the manner in which this timid-eyed giant had descended upon thetown from nowhere, and now they felt that they were about to come tothe heart of the reason of his visit.
The invitation to the sheriff was delivered by the proprietor of thehotel, and he said just enough--and no more--to bring the sheriffstraight to the hotel. Anderson arrived with his best pair of guns inhis holsters, for the sheriff was a two-gun man of the best variety.He came with the aggressive manner of one ready to beat down allopposition, but when he stepped into the room, his manner changed. Forhe found sitting about the table in the dining room, which was to bethe scene of the conference, the six most influential men of thetown--men strong enough to reelect him next year, or to throw himpermanently out of office.
At the lower end of the table stood Bull Hunter, his arms folded, hisface blank. Standing with the light from the lamp shining upon hisface, the others seated, he seemed a man among pygmies.
"Shall I lock the door?" asked the proprietor, and he turned to Bull,as if the latter had the right to dictate.
Bull nodded.
"All right, sheriff," the proprietor went on to explain. "Our youngfriend yonder says that he's got something to say to you. He's a
skedeach of us to hang around and be a witness. Are you ready?"
"Jud," burst out the sheriff, "you're an idiot! This overgrown boobyneeds a horsewhipping, and that's the sort of an answer I'd like tomake to him."
Having delivered this broadside he strode up and confronted Bull. Itwas a very poor move. In the first place, the sheriff had insulted oneof the men who was about to act as his official judge. In the secondplace, by putting himself so close to Bull, he made himself appear atrifle ludicrous. Also, if he expected to throw Bull out of the poisewith this blustering, he failed. It was not that Bull did not feelfear, but he had seen a curious thing--the sinewy, long neck of thesheriff--and he was wondering what would happen if one of his handsshould grip that throat for a single instant. He grew so fascinated bythis study that he forgot his fear of the sheriff's guns.
Anderson hastened to retreat from his false position. "Gents," hesaid, "excuse me for getting edgy. But, if you want me to listen tothis fellow's talk--"
"Hunter is his name--Bull Hunter," said the proprietor.
The sheriff took his place at the far end of the long table. LikeBull, he preferred to stand. "Start in your talk," he commanded.
"It looks to me," said Bull gently, "that they's only one gent herethat's wearing a gun." He had thrown his own belt on a chair; and nowhe fixed his eyes on the weapons of Anderson.
The sheriff glared. "You want me to take off my guns? Son, I'd rathergo naked!"
Jud, the hotel man, had already been insulted once by the sheriff, andhe had been biding his time. This seemed an excellent opening. "Looksto me," he remarked, "like Mr. Hunter was right. He's got somethingpretty serious to say, and he don't want to take no chances on yourcutting him short with a bullet!"
The sheriff glared at Bull and then cast a swift glance over the facesof the others. He read upon them only one expression--a coldcuriosity. Plainly they agreed with Jud, and the sheriff gave way. Hetook off his belt and tossed it upon a chair near him. Then he facedBull again, but he faced the big man with half his confidencedestroyed. As he had said, he felt worse than naked without hisrevolvers under his touch, but now he attempted to brave out thesituation.
"Well," he said jocularly, "what you going to accuse me of, BullHunter?"
"I'm just going to tell a little story that I been thinking about,"said Bull.
"Story--nothing!" exclaimed Anderson.
"Wait a minute," broke in Jud. "Let him tell this his own way--I thinkyou'd best, sheriff!"
Bull was looking at the sheriff and through him into the distance.After all, it was a story, as distinctly a story as if he had it in abook. As he began to tell it, he forgot Sheriff Anderson at thefarther end of the table. He talked slowly, bringing the words out oneby one, as if what he said were coming to him by inspiration--a kindof second sight.
"It starts in," said Bull, "the other night when the gent come in withword that Pete Reeve was out playing cards with Armstrong and losingmoney. When the sheriff heard that, he started to thinking. He wasremembering how he'd hated Armstrong for a good many years, and thatmade him think that maybe Armstrong would get into trouble with Reeve,because Reeve is a pretty good shot, and the sheriff hoped that, if itcome to a showdown, Reeve would shoot Armstrong full of holes. Andthat started him wishing pretty strong that Armstrong wouldget killed!"
"Do I have to stand here and listen to this fool talk?" demanded thesheriff.
"I'm just supposing," said Bull. "Surely they ain't any harm in justsupposing?"
"Not a bit," decided Jud, who had taken the position of main arbiter.
"Well, the sheriff got to wishing Armstrong was dead so strong that itdidn't seem he could stand to have him living much more. He told thefolks that he was going out to see that no harm come to Armstrong fromReeve. Then he got on his hoss and went out. All the way he wasthinking hard. Armstrong was the gent that was sheriff beforeAnderson; Armstrong was the gent that might get the job and throw himout again. Ain't that clear? Well, the sheriff gets close to thecabin and--"
He paused and slowly extended his long arm toward the sheriff. "What'dyou do then?"
"Me? I heard a shot--"
"You left your hoss standing in the brush near the house," interruptedBull, "and you went along on foot."
"Does that sound reasonable, a gent going on foot when he might ride?"demanded the sheriff.
"You didn't want to make no noise," said Bull, and his great voiceswallowed the protest of the sheriff.
Anderson cast another glance at the listeners. Plainly they werefascinated by this tale, and they were following it step by stepwith nods.
"You didn't make no noise, either," went on Bull Hunter. "You slippedup to the cabin real soft, and you climbed up on the east side of thehouse over some rocks."
"Why in reason should a man climb over rocks? Why wouldn't he go rightto the door?"
"Because you didn't want to be seen."
"Then why not the west window, fool!"
"You tried that window first, but they was some dry brush lying infront of it, and you couldn't come close enough to look in withoutmaking a noise stepping on the dead wood. So then you went around tothe other side and climbed over the rocks until you could look intothe cabin. Am I right?"
"I--no, curse you, no! Of course you ain't right!" shouted Anderson.
"Looking right through that window," said Bull heavily, "you seenArmstrong, the man you hated, facing you, and, with his back turned,was Pete Reeve. You said to yourself, 'Drop Armstrong with a bullet,catch Reeve, and put the blame on him!' Then you pulled your gun."
He pushed aside the ponderous armchair which stood beside him at thehead of the table.
"Say," shouted the sheriff, paler than ever now, "what are youaccusing me of?"
"Murder!" thundered Bull Hunter.
The roar of Bull's voice chained every one in his place, the sheriffwith staring eyes, and Jud in the act of raising his hand.
"I'll jail you for slander!" said the sheriff, fighting to assuranceand knowing that he was betrayed by his pallor and by the icyperspiration which he felt on his forehead.
"Anderson," said Bull, "I seen the marks of them iron heels of yourson the rock!"
That was a little thing, of course. As evidence it would not haveconvinced the most prejudiced jury in the world, but Sheriff Andersonwas not weighing small points. Into his mind leaped one image--thewhiteness of those rocks on which he had stood and the indelible markhis heels must have made against that whiteness. He was lost, he felt,and he acted on the impulse to fight for his life.
One last glance he cast at the six listeners, and in their wide-eyedinterest he read his own damnation. Then Anderson whirled and leapedfor his belt with the guns.
Out of six throats came six yells of fear; there was a noise of chairsbeing pushed back and a wild scramble to find safety under the table.Jud, risking a moment's delay, knocked the chimney off the lamp beforehe dived. The flame leaped once and went out, but the pale moonshinepoured through the window and filled the room with a weird playof shadows.
What Bull Hunter saw was not the escape of the sheriff, but a suddenblind rage against everything and everybody. It was a passion that sethim trembling through all of his great body. One touch of trust, oneword of encouragement had been enough to make him a giant to tear upthe stump in the presence of Jessie and his cousins; how far moremighty he was in the grip of this new emotion, this rage.
His own gun was far away, but guns were not what he wanted. They wereuncongenial toys to his great hands. Instead, he reached down andcaught up that massive chair of oak, built to resist time, built tobear even such a bulk as that of Bull Hunter with ease. Yet he caughtit up in one hand, weighed it behind his head at the full limit of hisextended arm, and then, bending forward, he catapulted the greatmissile down the length of the table. It hit the lamp on the way andsplintered it to small bits, its momentum unimpeded. Hurtling onacross the table it shot at the sheriff as he whirled with his guns inhis hands.
Fast as the chair
shot forward, the hand of the sheriff was fasterstill. Bull saw the big guns twitch up, silver in the moonshine. Theyexploded in one voice, as if the flying mass of wood were an animateobject. Then the sheriff was struck and hurled crashing alongthe floor.