Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “Too big to be any good.”

  “Bull’s got the size of a hoss, and as a hoss he’d do pretty well, but he ain’t no account as a man.”

  His life had been paved with such burning remarks as these. Many an evening had been long agony to him as the three sat about and baited him. He hurried down the street, the pulverized sand squirting up about his heavy boots and drifting in a mist behind him. When he was gone an old man came out and measured those great strides with his eye and then stretched his legs vainly to cover the same marks. But this, of course, Bull did not see, and he would not have understood it, had he seen, except as a mockery.

  He paused in front of the hotel veranda, an awful figure to behold. His canvas coat was rolled and tied behind his sweating shoulders; his too-short sleeves had bothered him and they were now cut off at the elbow and exposed the sun-blackened forearms; his overalls streamed in rags over his scarred boots. He pushed the battered hat far back on his head and looked at the silent, attentive line of idlers who sat on the veranda.

  “Excuse me, gents,” he said mildly. “But maybe one of you might know of a little gent with iron-gray hair and a thin face and quick ways of acting and little, thin hands.” He illustrated his meaning by extending his own huge paws. “His name is Pete Reeve.”

  That name caused a sharp shifting of glances, not at Bull, but from man to man. A tall fellow rose. He advanced with his thumbs hooked importantly in the arm holes of his vest and braced his legs apart as he faced Bull. The elevation of the veranda floor raised him so that he was actually some inches above the head of his interlocutor, and the tall man was deeply grateful for that advantage. He was, in truth, a little vain of his own height, and to have to look up to anyone irritated him beyond words. Having established his own superior position, he looked the giant over from head to foot. He kept one eye steadily on Bull, as though afraid that the big man might dodge out of sight and elude him.

  “And what might you have to do with Pete Reeve?” he asked. “Mightn’t you be a partner of Pete’s? Kind of looks like you was following him sort of eager, friend.”

  While this question was being asked, Bull saw that the line of idlers settled forward in their chairs to hear the answer. It puzzled him. For some mysterious reason these men disapproved of any one who was intimately acquainted with Pete Reeve, it seemed. He looked blandly upon the tall man.

  “I never seen Pete Reeve,” said Bull apologetically.

  “Ah? Yet you’re follerin’ him hotfoot?”

  “I was aiming to see him, you know,” answered Bull.

  The tall man regarded him with eyes that began to twinkle beneath his frown. Then he jerked his head aside and cast at his audience a prodigious wink. The cloudy eyes of Bull had assured him that he had to do with a simpleton, and he was inviting the others in on the game.

  “You never seen him?” he asked gruffly, turning back to Bull. “You expect me to believe talk like that? Young man, d’you know who I am?”

  “I dunno,” murmured Bull, overawed and drawing back a pace.

  The action drew a chuckle from the crowd. Some of the idlers even rose and sauntered to the edge of the veranda, the better to see the baiting of the giant. His prodigious size made his timidity the more amusing.

  “You dunno, eh?” asked the other. “Well, son, I’m Sheriff Bill Anderson!” He waited to see the effect of this portentous announcement.

  “I never heard tell of any Sheriff Bill Anderson,” said Bull in the same mild voice.

  The sheriff gasped. The idlers hastily veiled their mouths with much coughing and clearing of the throat. It seemed that the tables had been subtly turned upon the sheriff.

  “You!” exclaimed the sheriff, extending a bony arm. “I got to tell you, partner, that I’m a pile suspicious. I’m suspicious of anybody that’s a friend of Pete Reeve. How long have you knowed him?”

  Bull was very anxious to pacify the tall man. He shifted his weight to the other foot. “Something less’n nothing,” he hastened to explain. “I ain’t never seen him.”

  “And why d’you want to see him? What d’you know about him?”

  It flashed through the mind of Bull that it would be useless to tell what he knew of Pete. Obviously nobody would believe what he could tell of how Reeve had met and shot down Uncle Bill Campbell. For Bill Campbell was a historic figure as a fighter in the mountain regions, and surely his face must be bright even at this distance from his home. That he could have walked beyond the sphere of Campbell’s fame in five days never occurred to Bull Hunter.

  “I dunno nothing good,” he confessed.

  There was a change in the sheriff. He descended from the floor of the veranda with a stiff-legged hop and took Bull by the arm, leading him down the street.

  “Son,” he said earnestly, walking down the street with Bull, “d’you know anything agin’ this Pete Reeve? I want to know because I got Pete behind the bars for murder!”

  “Murder?” asked Bull.

  “Murder — regular murder — something he’ll hang for. And if you got any inside information that I can use agin’ him, why I’ll use it and I’ll be mighty grateful for it! You see everybody knows Pete Reeve. Everybody knows that, for all these years, he’s been going around killing and maiming men, and nobody has been able to bring him up for anything worse’n self-defense. But now I think I got him to rights, and I want to hang him for it, stranger, partly because it’d be a feather in my cap, and partly because it’d be doing a favor for every good, law-abiding citizen in these parts. So do what you can to help me, stranger, and I’ll see that your time ain’t wasted.”

  There was something very wheedling and insinuating about all this talk. It troubled Bull. His strangely obscure life had left him a child in many important respects, and he had a child’s instinctive knowledge of the mental processes of others. In this case he felt a profound distrust. There was something wrong about this sheriff, his instincts told him — something gravely wrong. He disliked the man who had started to ridicule him before many men and was now so confidential, asking his help.

  “Sheriff Anderson,” he said, “may I see this Reeve?”

  “Come right along with me, son. I ain’t pressing you for what you know. But it may be a thing that’ll help me to hang Reeve. And if it is, I’ll need to know it. Understand? Public benefit — that’s what I’m after. Come along with me and you can see if Reeve’s the man you’re after.”

  They crossed the street through a little maelstrom of fine dust which a wind circle had picked up, and the sheriff led Bull into the jail. They crossed the tawdry little outer room with its warped floor creaking under the tread of Bull Hunter. Next they came face to face with a cage of steel bars, and behind it was a little gray man on a bunk. He sat up and peered at them from beneath bushy brows, a thin-faced man, extremely agile. Even in sitting up, one caught many possibilities of catlike speed of action.

  Bull knew at once that this was the man he sought. He stood close to the bars, grasping one in each great hand, and with his face pressed against the steel, he peered at Pete Reeve. The other was very calm.

  “Howdy, sheriff,” he said. “Bringing on another one to look over your bear?”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE PRISONER’S GOOD humor impressed Bull immensely. Here was a man talking commonplaces in the face of death. A greater man than Uncle Bill, he felt at once — a far greater man. It was impossible to conceive of that keen, sharp eye and that clawlike hand sending a bullet far from the center of the target.

  He gave his eyes long sight of that face, and then turned from the bars and went out with the sheriff.

  “Is that your man?” asked the sheriff.

  “I dunno,” said Bull, fencing for time as they stood in front of the jail. “What’d he do?”

  “You mean why he’s in jail? I’ll tell you that, son, but first I want to know what you got agin’ him — and your proofs — mostly your proofs!”

  The distaste which Bull had felt for t
he sheriff from the first now became overpowering. That he should be the means of bringing that terrible and active little man to an end seemed, as a matter of fact, absurd. Guile must have played a part in that capture.

  Suppose he were to tell the sheriff about the shooting of Uncle Bill? That would be enough to convince men that Pete Reeve was capable of murder, for the shooting of Uncle Bill had been worse than murder. It spared the life and ruined it at the same time. But suppose he added his evidence and allowed the law to take its course with Pete Reeve? Where would be his own reward for his long march south and all the pain of travel and the crossing of the mountains at the peril of his life? There would be nothing but scorn from Uncle Bill when he returned, and not that moment of praise for which he yearned. To gain that great end he must kill Pete Reeve, but not by the aid of the law.

  “I dunno,” he said to the sheriff who waited impatiently. “I figure that what I know wouldn’t be no good to you.”

  The sheriff snorted. “You been letting me waste all this time on you?” he asked Bull. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

  Bull scratched his head in perplexity. But as he raised the great arm and put his hand behind his head, the sheriff winced back a little. “I’m sorry,” said Bull.

  The sheriff dismissed him with a grunt of disgust, and strode off.

  Bull started out to find information. This idea was growing slowly in his mind. He must kill Pete Reeve, and to accomplish that great end he must first free him from the jail. He went back to the hotel and went into the kitchen to find food. The proprietor himself came back to serve him. He was a pudgy little man with a dignified pointed beard of which he was inordinately proud.

  “It’s between times for meals,” he declared, “but you being the biggest man that ever come into the hotel, I’ll make an exception.” And he began to hunt through the cupboard for cold meat.

  “I seen Pete Reeve,” began Bull bluntly. “How come he’s in jail?”

  “Him?” asked the other. “Ain’t you heard?”

  “No.”

  The little man sighed with pleasure; he had given up hope of finding a new listener for that oft-told tale. “It happened last night,” he confided. “Along late in the afternoon in rides Johnny Strange. He tells us he was out to Dan Armstrong’s place when, about noon, a little gray-headed man that give the name of Pete Reeve came in and asked for chow. Of course Johnny Strange pricks up his ears when he hears the name. We all heard about Pete Reeve, off and on, as about the slickest gunman that the ranges ever turned out. So he looks Pete over and wonders at finding such a little man.”

  The proprietor drew himself up to his full height. “He didn’t know that size don’t make the man! Well, Armstrong trotted out some chuck for Reeve, and after Pete had eaten, Johnny Strange suggested a game. They sat in at three-handed stud poker.

  “Things went along pretty good for Johnny. He made a considerable winning. Then it come late in the afternoon, and he seen he’d have to be getting back home. He offered to bet everything he’d won, or double or nothing, and when the boys didn’t want to do that, it give him a clean hand to stand up and get out. He got up and said good-bye and hung around a while to see how the next hands went. So far as he could make out, Pete Reeve was losing pretty steady. Then he come on in.

  “Well, when Johnny Strange told about Pete being out there, Sheriff

  Anderson was in the room and he rises up.

  “‘Don’t look good to me,’ he says. ‘If a gunfighter is losing money, most like he’ll fight to win it back. Maybe I’ll go out and look that game over.’

  “And saying that he slopes out of the room.

  “Well, none of us took much stock in the sheriff going out to take care of Armstrong. You see Armstrong was the old sheriff, and he give Anderson a pretty stiff run for his money last election. They both been spending most of their time and energy the last few years hating each other. When one of ’em is in office the other goes around saying that the gent that has the plum is a crook; and then Anderson goes out, and Armstrong comes in, and Anderson says the same thing about Armstrong. Take ’em general and they always had the boys worried when they was together, for fear of a gunfight and bullets flying. And so, when Anderson stands up and says he’s going out to see that Reeve don’t do no harm to Armstrong, we all sat back and kind of laughed.

  “But we laughed at the wrong thing. Long about an hour or so after dark we hear two men come walking up on the veranda, and one of ’em we knowed by the sound was the sheriff.”

  “How could you tell by the sound?” asked Bull innocently.

  “Well, you see the sheriff always wears steel rims on his heels like he was a horse. He’s kind of close with his money is old Anderson, I’ll tell a man! We hear the ring of them heels on the porch, and pretty soon in comes the sheriff, herding a gent in ahead of him. And who d’you think that gent was? It was Reeve! Yes, sir, the old sheriff had stepped out and grabbed his man. He wasn’t there quick enough to stop the killing of Armstrong, but he got there fast enough to nab Reeve. Seems that when he was riding up to the house he heard a shot fired, and then he seen a man run out of the house and jump on his hoss, and the sheriff didn’t stop to ask no questions. He just out with his gat and drills the gent’s hoss. And while Reeve was struggling on the ground, with the hoss flopping around and dying, the sheriff runs up and sticks the irons on Reeve. Then he goes into the house and finds Armstrong lying shot through the heart. Clear as day! Reeve loses a lot of money, and when it comes to a pinch he hates to see that money gone when he could get it back for the price of one slug. So he outs with his gun and shoots Armstrong. And the worst part of it was that Armstrong didn’t have no gun on at the time. The sheriff found Armstrong’s gun hanging on the wall along with his cartridge belt. Yep, it was plain murder, and Pete Reeve’ll hang as high as the sky — and a good thing, too!”

  This story was a shock to Bull for a reason that would not have affected most men. That a man who had had the courage to stand up and face Uncle Bill in a fair duel should have been so cowardly, so venomous as to take a mean advantage of a gambling companion seemed to Bull altogether too strange to be reasonable. Certainly, if he had had a difference with this fellow, thought Bull, Pete Reeve was the man to let the other use his own weapons before he fought. But to shoot him down across a table, unwarned — this was too much to believe! And yet it was the truth, and Pete Reeve was to hang for it.

  The big man sat shaking his head. “And they found the money on Pete

  Reeve?” he asked gloomily. “They found the money he took off this

  Armstrong?”

  “There’s the funny part of the yarn,” said the proprietor glibly. “Pete had the nerve to shoot the gent down in cold blood, but when he seen him fall he lost his nerve. He didn’t wait to grab the money, but ran out and jumped on his hoss and tried to get away. So there you are. But it pretty often happens that way! Take the oldest gunfighter in the world, and, if his stomach ain’t resting just right, it sort of upsets him to see a crimson stain. I seen it happen that way with the worst of ’em, and in the old days they used to be a rough crowd in my barroom. They don’t turn out that style of gent no more!” He sighed as his mind flickered back into the heroic past.

  “And Reeve — he admits he done the killing?” Bull asked hopelessly.

  “Him? Nope, he’s too foxy for that. But the only story he told was so foolish that we laughed at him, and he ain’t had the nerve to try to bluff us ever since. He says that he was sitting peaceable with Armstrong when all at once without no warning they was a shot from the window — the east window, I remember he was particular to say — and Armstrong dropped forward on the table, shot through the heart.

  “Reeve says that he didn’t wait to ask no questions. He blew the candle out, and having got the darkness on his side, he made a jump through the door and got onto his hoss. He says that he wanted to break away to the trees and try to get a shot at the murderer from cover, bu
t the minute he got onto his hoss, he had his hoss shot from under him.”

  “Was they any shots fired then?”

  “Yep. Reeve says that he fired a couple of times when he fell. But the sheriff says that Reeve only fired once, as his hoss was falling, and that the other shot that was found fired out of Reeve’s gun was fired into the heart of Armstrong. Oh, they ain’t any doubt about it. All Reeve has got is a cock-and-bull yarn that would make a fool laugh!”

  Although Bull had been many times assured by his uncle and his cousins that he was a fool of the first magnitude, he was in no mood for laughter. Somewhere in the tale there was something wrong, for his mind refused to conjure up the picture of Reeve pulling his gun and shooting across the table into the breast of a helpless, unwarned man. That would not be the method of a man who could stand up to Uncle Bill. That would not be the method of the man who had sat up on his bunk and looked so calmly into the face of the sheriff.

  Bull stood up and dragged his hat firmly over his eyes. “I’d kind of like to see the place where that shooting was done,” he declared.

  “You got lots of time before night,” said the proprietor. “Ain’t more’n a mile and a half out the north trail. Take that path right out there, and you can ride out inside of five minutes.”

  There was no horse for Bull Hunter to ride. But, having thanked his host, he stepped out into the cooler sunshine of the late afternoon.

  The trail led through scattering groves of cottonwood most of the way, for it was bottom land, partially flooded in the winter season of rain, and, even in the driest and hottest part of the summer, marshy in places. He followed the twisting little trail through spots of shadow and stretches of open sky until he reached the shack which was obviously that of the dead Armstrong.