Bull Hunter

by Max Brand

  CHAPTER 11

  When they were together, they made a study in contrasts. By seeing oneit was possible to imagine the other. For instance, seeing the high,narrow forehead, peaked face, the gray-flecked hair of Pete Reeve, hisnervous step, his piercing and uneasy eyes--seeing this man with hisbody from which all spare flesh was wasted so that he remained onlymuscle and nerve, it was easy to conjure up the figure of Bull Hunterby thinking of opposites.

  Their very voices held a world of difference. The tone of Pete Reevewas pitched a little high, hard, and somewhat nasal, and when he wasangry his words came shrill and ringing. The mere sound of his voicewas irritating--it put one on edge with expectancy of action. Whereasthe full, deep, slow, musical voice of Bull Hunter was a veritablesleep producer. Men might fear Charlie Bull Hunter because of histremendous bulk; but children, hearing his voice, were unafraid.

  The motions of Pete Reeve were as fast and as deft as the whiplashstriking of a snake. The motions of Bull Hunter were premeditated andcautious, as befitting one whose hands might crush what they touched,and whose footfall made a flooring groan.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the wall. They hadmoved a ponderous stool into the room so that Bull might havesomething on which to sit, but long habit had made him uneasy in achair, and he kept to the floor by preference, with the great squarechin resting on his fist and his knee supporting his elbow. Thatposition pressed the forearm against the biceps and the big musclesbulged out on either side, vast as the thigh of a strong man.

  With lionlike wrinkles of attention between his eyes, he listened tothe exposition of the little man, and followed his movements withpatient submission--like a pupil to whom a great master has consentedto unfold the secrets of his brushwork; in such a manner did BullHunter drink in the words and the acts of Pete Reeve. And, indeed,where guns were the subject of conversation it would have been hard tofind a man more thoroughly equipped to pose as an expert than PeteReeve. That fleshless hand, all speed of motion as it whipped out thegun from the nerve and sinew, became an incredible ghost with theholster and the long, heavy Colt danced and flashed at his fingertipsas though it were a gilded shadow.

  As he worked he talked, and as he talked he strode constantly back andforth through the room with his light-falling, mincing steps. He grewexcited. He flushed. There came a thrill and a ring and a deepening ofthe voice. For the master was indeed talking of the secrets ofhis craft.

  A thousand men of the mountains and the cattle ranges, men who, forpersonal pride or for physical need, studied accuracy and speed ingunplay, would have paid untold prices to learn these secrets from thelips of the little man. To Bull Hunter the mysteries were revealed fornothing, freely, and drilled and drummed into him through the weeks ofhis convalescence; and still the lessons continued now that he washale and hearty once more--as the clean-swept platters from which heate three times a day gave evidence.

  "I've practiced, you admit," said Bull in his slow voice, as PeteReeve came to a pause. "But I haven't got your way with a gun, Pete.You've got a genius for it. I don't blame you for laughing at me whenI try to get out my gun fast. I can shoot straight. That's because Ihaven't any nerves, as you say, but I'll never be able to get out agun as fast as a thought--the way you do. Fact is, Pete, I don't thinkfast, you know."

  "Shut up!" exploded Pete Reeve, who had been inwardly chafing withimpatience during the whole length of this speech. "Sometimes you talklike a fool, Bull, and this is one time!"

  Bull shook his head. "My arms are too big," he said sadly. "The musclegets in my way. I can feel it bind when I try to jerk out the gunfast. Better give up the job, Pete. I sure appreciate all the painsyou've taken with me--but I'll never be a gunfighter."

  Pete Reeve shook his head with a sigh and then dropped into a chair,growing suddenly inert.

  "No use," he groaned. "All because you ain't got any confidence,Bull." He leaned forward in his sudden way. "Know something? I beenkeeping it back, but now I'll tell you the straight of it. You'refaster with a gun right now than four men out of five!"

  Bull gaped in amazement.

  "Fact!" cried Reeve. "You get it out slicker than most; and after it'sout, you shoot as straight as any man I've ever seen. Trouble is, youdon't appreciate yourself. You've had it drilled into you so long thatyou're stupid that now you believe it. All nonsense! You got more thana million have and you're fast right now on the draw. Once get hold ofhow important it is, and you'll keep trying. But you think it's only agame. You just play at it; you don't work! I wish you could have seenme when I was first practicing with a gun! I lived with it. Hoursevery day it was my companion, and right up to now, there ain't a daygoes by that I don't spend some time keeping on edge with my revolver.Bull, you'll have to do the same thing. You hear?"

  He sprang up again. It was impossible for him to remain seated a longtime.

  "You think it don't mean much. Look here!"

  The Colt flicked into his hand and lay trembling in his palm, and ashe talked, it shifted smoothly, as if of its own volition, forwardtoward his fingertips, backward, to the side, dropping out until itseemed about to fall, only to be caught with one finger through thetrigger-guard and spun up again. Always the heavy weapon was in motionas though some of the nervous spirit of Reeve had entered the heavymetal. It responded to his thoughts rather than to his muscles. BullHunter gazed enchanted. He was accustomed to forgetting himself andadmiring others.

  "Look here!" went on the little man. "Look at me. I weigh about ahundred and twenty. I'm skinny. I'm a runt. And look at you. Youweigh--heaven knows what! No fat, but all muscle from your head toyour feet. You're the strongest man that I've ever seen. Take me, I'mnot a coward; but you, Bull, you don't know what fear means. Well,there you are, without fear, and stronger than three strong men.You're pretty fast with a gun, and you shoot straight as a hawk looks.And still, if we stood face to face and went for our guns, I'd live;and you with your muscle would be dead, Bull."

  "I know," Bull nodded.

  "That's what this gun means," cried Pete. "This gun, and the fact thatI can get it out of the leather faster'n you do. Not very much faster.But by just as much quicker as it takes for an eyelid to wink. Thatain't much time, but it's enough time to mean life or death! That'sall! I'm not the only man that's faster'n you are. They's others. I'venever been beat to the draw, but they's some that's shot so close tome that it sounded like one gun going off--with a sort of a stammer.And any one of those men would of shot you dead, Bull, if you'd fought'em. Now, knowing that, tell me, are you going to keep practicing?"

  "I'll keep tryin', Pete. But I'll never get much faster. You see, myarm--it's too big, too heavy. It gets in my way, handling a littlething like a revolver!"

  Pete spun the big Colt and shoved it back into the holster soincredibly fast that the steel hissed against the leather.

  "There you go running yourself down," he muttered.

  He began to pace the room again, biting his nether lip, and now andthen shooting side glances at Bull, glances partly guilty and partlyscornful. Presently he came to a halt. He had also come to a newresolution, one that cost him so much that beads of perspirationcame out on his forehead.

  "Bull," he said gravely, "I'm going to tell you the secret."

  "You've told me a dozen already," Bull sighed. "You've taught me howto swing the muzzle up, and not too far up, and how to lean backinstead of forward, and how to harden the arm muscles just as I pullthe trigger, and how to squeeze with the whole hand and keep my wriststiff, and how--"

  "None of them things counts," said Pete gravely, almost sadly,"compared to what I'm going to tell you. Stand up!"

  It was plain that he was going to give something from the depths ofhis mind. The cost and importance of it made his eyes like steel anddrew his mouth to a thin, straight line.

  Bull Hunter arose; and as the great body unfolded and the legsstraightened, it seemed that he would never reach his full height.At length he stood, enormous, wide, towering. He was no
t a freak,but simply a perfectly proportioned man increased to a huge scale.

  Pete Reeve canted his head back and looked into the face of the giant.There was a momentary affectionate appreciation in his eye. Then hehardened his expression.

  "Let your arm hang loose."

  Bull Hunter obeyed. The hand came just above the holster that wasstrapped on his thigh. All these weeks Pete Reeve had kept him fromgoing an instant without that gun except when he slept. And even whenhe slept the gun had to be under his pillow.

  "Because it helps to have it near all the time," Pete had explained."It sort of soaks into your dreams. It's never out of your mind. Ithaunts you, like the face of the girl you love. You see!"

  Bull Hunter did not see, but he had nodded humbly, after his fashion,and obeyed. Now, with his arm fallen loose at his side he peeredstudiously into the face of his master gunman and waited for thenext order.

  "Draw!"

  The command was snapped out; Bull's gun whipped from the holster; andPete Reeve drew in the same instant, carelessly, his eyes watching themovement of Bull instead of paying heed and put his gun up again, butBull followed the example almost reluctantly.

  "Nearly beat you that time, Pete," he exclaimed happily. "But maybeyou weren't half trying?"

  "Beat me?" sneered Pete. "I wasn't half trying, but you didn't beatme. I shot you twice before you had your muzzle in line. I shot you inthe throat and through the teeth before your gun was ready."

  Bull, with a shrug of the massive shoulders, touched the mentionedplaces and looked with awe at the little man.

  "Now, listen!"

  Bull grew tense.

  "Watch my draw!"

  Pete did not put his hand near the butt of his weapon. He held his armout before him, dangling in the air. There was a convulsive moment.One could see the imaginary weapon shoot from the holster and becomelevel and rigid, pointed at its mark.

  "I've seen before--fast as my eye could go," Bull sighed.

  "Look again," said Pete, gritting his teeth with impatience. "Thistime I'm going so slow a cow could see and beat me."

  He made the same motion, but to an ordinary eye it was still as fastas light. Bull shook his head.

  "Idiot!" cried Pete, his voice jumping up the scale, flat and harshand piercing. "It's the wrist! Not the arm, but the--"

  He stopped with an expression of dismay. Even now he regrettedrevealing the mystery, it seemed. But then he went on.

  "I found out quick that I couldn't beat a good gunman if I used theold methods. Practice makes perfect; they practiced as much as I did.So I studied the methods and the great idea come to me. They all usethe whole arm. Look at you! Your shoulder bulges up when you make thedraw, and you raise the whole arm. Matter of fact, you'd ought only touse your fingers. Not stir a muscle above the wrist. Now try!"

  Bull tried--the gun did come clear of the holster.

  "No good," he said gravely. "It's magic when you do it, Pete. It justmakes a fool of me."

  "Shut up and listen!" Pete said sharply. "I'm telling you a thingthat'll save your life some day!"

  He drew a little closer. His emotion made him swell to a greaterstature, and he rose a little on tiptoe as if partly to make up forthe differences between their bulks.

  Bull obeyed.

  "Now start thinking. Start concentrating on that right hand. There'snothing else to your body. You see? You forget you got a muscle.There's three things in the world. You see? Just three things and nomore. There's your gun with a bullet in it; there's your hand that'sgoing to get the gun out; and there's your target--that doorknob, say!Keep on thinking. They ain't any more to your body. You're just a handand an eye. All your nerves are down there in that hand. They're allpiled down there. That hand is full of electricity. Don't let youreyes wander. Keep on concentrating. You're stocking the electricity inthat hand. When your hand moves, it'll be as fast as the jump of aspark! And when that hand moves, the gun is going to come out clean init. It's _got_ to come out with it! You hear? It's _got_ to! Yourfingertips catch under the butt; they flick up. They don't draw thegun; they throw it out of the holster; they pitch the muzzle up, andthe butt comes smack back against the palm of your hand. And in thesame part of a second you pull the trigger. You hear?"

  He leaned forward, trembling from head to foot. The eyes of the bigman were beginning to narrow.

  "I hear; I understand!" he said through his teeth.

  "You don't pull the gun. You _think_ it out of the leather. And thenthe bullet hits the doorknob. You don't move your arm. Your armdoesn't exist. You're just a hand and a brain--thinking! And thatthought sends a bullet at the mark!" He leaped back. "Draw!"

  There was a wink of light at the hip of Bull Hunter, and the gunroared.

  Instantly he cried out, alarmed, confused, ashamed.

  "I didn't mean to shoot, Pete. I'm a fool! I didn't mean to! It--Isort of couldn't help it. The--the trigger was just pulled without mywanting it to! Lord, what'll people think!"

  But Pete Reeve had flung his arms around the big man as far as theywould go, and he hugged him in a hysteria of joy. Then he leaped back,dancing, throwing up his hands.

  "You done it!" he cried, his voice squeaking, hysterical.

  "I made a fool of myself, all right," said Bull, bewildered by thisexhibition of joy where he had expected anger.

  "Fool nothing! Look at that knob!"

  The doorknob was a smashed wreck, driven into the thick wood of thedoor by the heavy slug of the revolver. Footsteps were running up thestairs of the hotel. Pete Reeve ran to the door and flung it open.

  "It's all right, boys," he called. "Cleaning a gun and it went off. Noharm done!"