by Max Brand
CHAPTER 9
At that fall the six men scampered from beneath the table to seize thedowned man. There was no need of their haste. Sheriff Anderson was awreck rather than a fighting man. One arm was horribly crumpledbeneath him; his ribs were shattered, there was a great gash where therung of the chair had cut into the bone like a knife.
They stood chattering about the fallen man, straightening him out,feeling his pulse, making sure that he, who would soon hang at thewill of the law, was alive. Outside, voices were rushing toward them,doors slamming.
Bull Hunter broke through the circle, bent over the limp body, anddrew a big bundle of keys from a pocket. Then, without a word, he wentback to the far end of the room, buckled on his gun belt, and insilence left the room.
The others paid no heed. They and the newcomers who had poured intothe room were fascinated by the work of the giant rather than thegiant's self. They had a lantern, swinging dull light and grotesqueshadows across the place now, and by the illumination, two of the menwent to the wall and picked up the great oaken chair. They raised itslowly between them, a battered mass of disconnected wood. Then theylooked to the far end of the long table where he who had thrown themissile had stood. Another line had been written into the history ofBull Hunter--the first line that was written in red.
Bull himself was on his way to the jail. He found it unguarded. Thedeputy had gone to find the cause of the commotion at the hotel. Thesteel bars, moreover, were sufficient to retain the prisoner and keepout would-be rescuers.
In the dim light of his lantern, Bull saw that Pete Reeve was sittingcross-legged on his bunk, like a little, dried-up idol, smoking acigarette. His only greeting to the big man was a lifting of theeyebrows. But, when the big key was fitted into the lock and the lockturned, he showed his first signs of interest. He was standing up whenBull opened the door and strode in.
"Have you got your things?" said Bull curtly.
"What things, big fellow?"
"Why, guns and things--and your hat, of course."
Pete Reeve walked to the corner of the cell and took a sombrero offthe wall. "Here's that hat," he answered, "but they ain't passing outguns to jailbirds--not in these parts!"
"You ain't a jailbird," answered Bull, "so we'll get that gun. Knowwhere it is?"
Reeve followed without a question through the open door, only stoppingas he passed beyond the bars, to look back to them with a shudder. Itwas the first sign of emotion he had shown since his arrest. But hisstep was lighter and quicker as he followed Bull into the front room.
"In that closet, yonder," said Reeve, pointing to a door. "That'swhere they keep the guns."
Bull shook out his bundle of keys into the great palm of his hand.
"Not those keys--the deputy has the key to the closet," said Pete. "Isaw Anderson give it to him."
Bull sighed. "I ain't got much time, partner," he said. Approachingthe door, he examined it wistfully. "But, maybe, they's another way."He drew back a little, raised his right leg, and smashed the heavycowhide boot against the door. The wood split from top to bottom, andBull's leg was driven on through the aperture. He paused to wrench thefragments of the door from lock and hinges and then beckoned to PeteReeve. "Look for your gun in here, Reeve."
The little man cast one twinkling glance at his companion and then wasinstantly among the litter of the closet floor. He emerged strapping abelt about him, the holster tugging far down, so that the muzzle ofthe gun was almost at his knee. Bull appreciated the diminutive sizeof the man for the first time, seeing him in conjunction with the biggun on his thigh.
There was an odd change in the little man also, the moment his gun wasin place. He tugged his broad-brimmed hat a little lower across hiseyes and poised himself, as if on tiptoe; his glance was a constantflicker about the room until it came to rest on Bull. "Suppose youlemme in on the meaning of all this. Who are you and where do youfigure on letting me loose? What in thunder is it all about?"
"We'll talk later. Now you got to get started."
Bull waved to the door. Pete Reeve darted past him with noiselesssteps and paused a moment at the threshold of the jail. Plainly he wasready for fight or flight, and his right hand was toying constantlywith the holstered butt of his gun. Bull followed to the outside.
"Hosses?" asked the little man curtly.
"On foot," answered Bull with equal brevity, and he led the waystraight across the street. There was no danger of being seen. All thelife of the town was drawn to a center about the hotel. Lights wereflashing behind its windows, men were constantly pounding across theveranda, running in and out. Bull led the way past the building andcut for the cottonwoods.
"And now?" demanded Pete Reeve. "Now, partner?"
That word stung Bull. It had not been applied to him more than a halfa dozen times in his life, together with its implications of free andequal brotherhood. To be called partner by the great man who hadconquered terrible Uncle Bill Campbell!
"They's a mess in the hotel," said Bull, explaining as shortly as hecould. "Seems that Sheriff Anderson was the gent that done the killingof Armstrong. It got found out and the sheriff tried to get away. Lotsof noise and trouble."
"Ah," said Reeve, "it was him, then--the old hound! I might haveknowed! But I kep' on figuring that they was two of 'em! Well, thesheriff was a handy boy with his gun. Did he drop anybody before theygot him? I heard two guns go off like one. Them must of been thesheriff's cannons."
"They was," said Bull, "but them bullets didn't hit nothing but wood."
"Wild, eh? Shot into the wall?"
"Nope. Into a chair."
The little man was struggling and panting sometimes breaking into atrot to keep up with the immense strides of his companion. "A chair?You don't say so!"
Bull was silent.
"How come he shot at a chair? Drunk?"
"The chair was sailing through the air at him."
"H'm!" returned Pete Reeve. "Somebody throwed a chair at him, and thesheriff got rattled and shot at it instead of dodging? Well, I've seena pile of funnier things than that happen in gun play, off and on. Whothrew the chair?"
"I did."
"You?" He squinted up at the lofty form of Bull Hunter. "What name didyou say?" he asked gently.
"Hunter is my name. Mostly they call me Bull."
"You got the size for that name, partner. So you cleaned up thesheriff with a chair?" he sighed. "I wish I'd been there to see it.But who got the inside on the sheriff?"
"I dunno what you mean?"
Pete Reeve looked closely at his companion. Plainly he was bewildered,somewhere between a smile and a frown.
"I mean who found out that the sheriff done it?"
"He told it himself," said Bull.
"Drunk, en?"
"Nope. Not drunk. He was asked if he didn't do the murder."
"Great guns! Who asked him?"
"I done it," said Bull as simply as ever.
Reeve bit his lip. He had just put Bull down as a simple-minded hulk.He was forced to revise his opinion.
"You done that? You follered him up, eh?"
"I just done a little thinking. So I asked him."
Reeve shook his head. "Maybe you hypnotized him," he suggested.
"Nope. I just asked him. I got a lot of folks sitting around, and thenI began telling the sheriff how he done the shooting."
"And he admitted it?"
"Nope. He jumped for a gun."
"And then you heaved a chair at him." Pete Reeve drew in a longbreath. "But what reason did you have, son? I got to ask you thatbefore I thank you the way I want to thank you. But, before you kickout, you'll find that Pete Reeve is a friend."
"My reason was," said Bull, "that I had business to do with you thatcouldn't be done in a jail. So I had to get you out."
"And now where're we headed?"
"Where we can do that business."
They had reached a broad break in the cottonwoods; the moonlight wasfalling so softly and brightly.
> Bull paused and looked around him. "I guess this'll have to do," hedeclared.
"All right, son. You can be as mysterious as you want. Now what yougot me here for?"
"To kill you," said Bull gently.
Pete Reeve flinched back. Then he tapped his holster, made sure of thegun, became more easy. "That's interesting," he announced. "Youcouldn't wait for the law to hang me, eh?"
Bull began explaining laboriously. He pushed back his hat and began tocount off his points into the palm of one hand. "You shot up UncleBill Campbell," he explained. "It ain't that I got any grudge agin'you for that, but you see, Uncle Bill took me in young and give me ahome all these years. I thought it would sort of pay him back if I runyou down. So I walked across the mountains and come after you."
"Wait!" exclaimed Pete Reeve. "You walked?"
"Yep," he went on, heedless of the fact that Pete Reeve was peeringearnestly into the face of his companion, now puckered with theearnest frown of thought. "I come down hoping to get you and kill you.Besides, that wouldn't only pay back Uncle Bill. It would make himthink that I was a man. You see, Reeve, I ain't quick thinking, and Iain't bright. I ain't got a quick tongue and sharp eyes, and they beentreating me like I was a kid all my life. So I got to do something. Igot to! I ain't got anything agin' you, but you just happen to be theone that I got to fight. Stand over yonder by that stump. I'll standhere, and we'll fight fair and square."
Pete Reeve obeyed, his movements slow, as if they were the result ofhypnotism. "Bull," he said rather faintly, looking at the toweringbulk of his opponent, "I dunno. Maybe I'm going nutty. But I figurethat you come down here to kill me for the sake of getting your uncleto pat you on the back once or twice. And you find you can't get at mebecause I'm in jail, so you work out a murder mystery to get me out,and then you tackle me. You say you ain't very bright. I dunno. Maybeyou ain't bright, but you're mighty different!"
He paused and rubbed his forehead. "Son, I've seen pretty good men inmy day, but I ain't never seen one that I cotton to like I do to you.You've saved my life. How can you figure on me going out and takingyours, now?"
"You ain't going to, maybe," said Bull calmly. "Maybe I'll get toyou."
"Son," answered the other almost sadly, shaking his head, "when I'mright, with a good, steady nerve, they ain't any man in the world thatcan sling a gun with me. And tonight I'm right. If it comes to ashowdown--but are you pretty good with a gun yourself, Bull?"
"No," answered Bull frankly. "I ain't any good compared to an expertlike you. But I'm good enough to take a chance."
"Them sort of chances ain't taken twice, Bull!"
"You see," said Bull, "I'm going to make a rush as I pull the gun, andif I get to you before I'm dead, well--all I ask is to lay my hands onyou, you see?"
The little man shuddered and blinked. "I see," he said, and swallowedwith difficulty. "But, in the name of reason, Bull, have sense! Lemmetalk! I'll tell you what that uncle of yours was--"
"Don't talk!" exclaimed Bull Hunter. "I sort of like you, partner, andit sort of breaks me down to hear you talk. Don't talk, but listen.The next time that frog croaks we go for our guns, eh? That frog offin the marsh!"
He had hardly spoken before the ominous sound was heard, and Bullreached for his gun. For all his bulk of hand and unwieldy arms, thegun came smoothly, swiftly into his hand. He would have had anordinary man covered, long before the latter had his gun muzzle-clearof the leather. But Pete Reeve was no ordinary man. His arm jerkeddown; his fingers flickered down and up. They went down empty; theycame up with the burden of a long revolver, shining in the moonlight,and he fired before Bull's gun came to the level for a shot.
Only Pete Reeve knew the marvel of his own shooting this day. He hadsworn a solemn and silent oath that he would not kill this faithful,courageous fellow from the mountains. He could have planted a bulletwhere the life lay, at any instant of the fight. But he fired foranother purpose. The moment Bull reached for his weapon he had lurchedforward, aiming to shoot as he ran. Pete Reeve set himself a doublegoal. His first intention was to disarm the giant; the other was tostop his rush. For, once within the grip of those big fingers, hislife would be squeezed out like the juice of an orange.
His task was doubly difficult in the moonlight. But the first shotwent home nicely, aimed as exactly as a scientist finds a spot withhis instruments. Where the moon's rays splashed across the bare rightforearm of Bull, he sent a bullet that slashed through the greatmuscles. The revolver dropped from the nerveless hand of the giant,but Bull never paused. On he came, empty-handed, but with power ofdeath, as the little man well knew, in the fingers of his extendedleft hand. He came with a snarl, a savage intake of breath, as he feltthe hot slash of Pete's bullet. But Reeve, standing erect like someduelist of old, his left hand tucked into the hollow of his back, tookthe great gambling chance and refused to shoot to kill.
He placed his second shot more effectively, for this time he must stopthat tremendous body, advancing upon him. He found one critical spot.Between the knee and the thigh, halfway up on the inside of the leftleg, he drove that second bullet with the precision of a surgeon. Theleg crumpled under Bull and sent him pitching forward on his face.
Perhaps the marsh ground was unstable, but it seemed to Pete Reevethat the very earth quaked beneath his feet as the big man fell. Heswung his gun wide and leaned to see how serious was the damage he haddone. Bleeding would be the greater danger.
But that fraction of a second brought him into another peril. Thegiant heaved up on his sound right leg and his sound left arm, andflung himself forward, two limbs dangling uselessly. With a hideouslycontorted face, Bull swung his left arm in a wide circle for a gripand scooped in Pete Reeve, as the latter sprang back with a cryof horror.
The action swept Pete in and crushed his gun hand and arm against thebody of his assailant, paralyzing his only power of attack or defense.Reeve was carried down to the ground as if beneath the bulk of amountain. There was no question of sparing life now. Pete Reeve beganto fight for life. He wrestled at his gun to tug it free, but found itanchored. He pulled the trigger, and the gun spoke loud and clear, butthe bullet plunged into empty space. Then he felt that left arm beginto move, and the hand worked up behind his back like a great spider.
Higher it rose, and the huge, thick fingers reached up and around histhroat, fumbling to get at the windpipe. Pete Reeve made his lasteffort; it was like striving to free himself from a ton's weight.Hysteria of fear and horror seized him, and his voice gave utteranceto his terror. As he screamed, the big fingers joined around histhroat. Any further pressure would end him!
He looked up into the glaring eyes and the contorted face of thegiant; the rasping, panting breathing paralyzed his senses. There wasa slight inward contraction of the grip; then it ceased.
Miraculously he felt the great hand relax and fall away. The bulk washeaved away from him, and staggering to his own feet, he saw BullHunter supported against a tree, one leg useless, one arm streaming.
"I couldn't seem to do it," said Bull Hunter thickly. "I couldn'tnoways seem to do it, Reeve. You see, I sort of like you, and Icouldn't kill you, Pete."
When Pete Reeve recovered from his astonishment he said, "You can domore. You can go home and tell that infernal hound of an uncle ofyours that you had the life of Pete Reeve under your fingertips andthat you didn't take it. It's the second time I've owed my life, andboth times in one day, and both times to one man. You tell youruncle that!"
The big man sagged still more against the tree. "I'll never go home,Pete, unless ghosts walk; and I'll never tell Uncle Bill anything,unless the ghosts talk. I'm dying pretty pronto, I think, Pete."
"Dyin'? You ain't hurt bad, Bull!"
"It's the bleeding; all the senses is running out of my head--likewater--and the moon--is turning black--and--" He slumped down at thefoot of the tree.