The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  The sheriff had gone for many a year hating Armstrong. The truth rushed over the brain of the big man. What a chance for a crafty mind! To kill his enemy and place the blame on the shoulders of one already known to be a man-killer! Bull Hunter leaped from the rocks and started back for the town with long, ground-devouring strides.

  CHAPTER 8

  There were two reasons for the happiness which lightened the step of Bull Hunter as he strode back for the town. In the first place he saw a hope of liberating Reeve from jail and accomplishing his own mission of killing the man. In the second place he felt a peculiar joy at the thought 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 the white, friable stone, marks that the first small shower of rain would wash away, marks that the first keen sandstorm would rub off—this was his only proof. And with this to free one man from danger of the rope and place the head of another under the noose—it was a task to try the resources of a cleverer man than Bull.

  Indeed, the high spirits of Bull in some measure left him as he drew nearer and nearer to the village. How could he convict the sheriff? How, with his clumsy wits and his clumsy tongue, could he bring the truth to light? Had he possessed the keen eyes of his uncle he felt that a single glance would have made the guilt stand up in the face of Anderson. 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 the danger of the law in order that he might take a life into his own hands. But the contrast did not strike home to Bull. To him everything that he did was as clear as day. But how to go to work? If the man were like himself it would be an easy matter. More than once he remembered how his cousins had shifted the blame for their own boyish pranks upon him. In the presence of their father they would accuse Bull with a well-planned lie, and the very fact that he had been accused made Bull blush and hang his head. Before he could be heard in his own behalf the cruel eye of his uncle had grown stern, and Bull was 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 his cousins. They set a certain value upon him for his use in this respect. Ah, if only he had that keen, embarrassing eye of Bill Campbell with which to pierce to the guilty heart of the sheriff and make him speak! The eye of his uncle was like the eye of a crowd. It was an audience in itself and condemned or praised with the strength of numbers.

  It was this thought of numbers that brought the clue to a possible solution to Bull Hunter. When it came to him he stopped short in the road, 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 sheriffs approach. Bull blushed with a sudden sense of shame. Moreover, the sheriff seemed unapproachably stern and dignified. He sat erect in the saddle, a cavalier figure with his long, well-drilled mustaches.

  “I dunno,” said Bull vaguely, pushing his hat back to scratch his thatch of blond hair. “I didn’t know I was celebrating, particular.”

  The sheriff watched him with small, evil eyes. “You been snooping around, son,” he said coldly. “And we folks in this part, we don’t like snoopers. Understand?”

  “No,” said Bull frankly, “I don’t exactly figure what you mean.” Then he dropped his hand to his hip.

  “Git your hand off that gun!” said the sheriff, his own weapon flashing instantly in the light.

  It had been a move like lightning. Its speed stunned and baffled Bull Hunter. Something cold formed in his throat, choking him, and he obediently drew his hand away. He did more. He threw both immense arms above his head and stood gaping at the sheriff.

  The latter eyed him for a moment with stern amusement, and then he shoved the gun back into its holster. “I guess they ain’t much harm in you,” he said more to himself than to Bull. “But I hate a snooper worse 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 too well. Besides, who in thunder are you? A wanderin’ vagrant you look to me, and we got a law agin’ vagrants. You amble along on your trail pretty pronto, and no harm’ll come to you. But if you’re around town tomorrow—well, you’ve heard me talk!”

  It was very familiar talk to Bull; not the words, but the commanding and contemptuous tone in which they were spoken. Crestfallen, he submitted. Of one thing he must make sure: that no harm befell him before he faced Pete Reeve and Pete Reeve’s gun. Then he could only pray for courage to attack. But the effect of the sheriff’s little gunplay entirely disheartened Bull at the prospect of facing Pete.

  With a noncommittal rejoinder he started down the road, and the sheriff 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 out of his eyes and went on gloomily. He had been trodden upon in spirit once more. But, after all, that was so old a story that it made little difference. It convinced him, however, of one thing; he could never do anything with the sheriff man to man. Certainly he would need the help of a crowd before he faced the tall man and his cavalier mustaches.

  He waited until after the supper at the hotel. It was a miserable meal for Bull; he had already eaten, and he could not find a way of refusing the invitation of the proprietor to sit down again. Seated at the end of the long table he looked miserably up and down it. Nobody had a look for him except one of contempt. The sheriff, it seemed, had spread a story around about his lack of spirit, and if Bull remained long in the village, he would be treated with little more respect than he had been in the house of his uncle. Even now they held him in contempt. They could not understand, for instance, why he sat so far forward. He was resting most of his weight on his legs, for fear of the weakness of the chair under his full bulk. But that very bulk made them whisper their jokes and insults to one another.

  When the long nightmare of that meal was ended, Bull began making his rounds. He had chosen his men. Every man he picked was sharp-eyed like Uncle Bill Campbell. They were the men whose inlooking eyes would baffle the sheriff; they were the men capable of suspicions, and such men Bull needed—not dull-glancing people like himself.

  He went first to the proprietor of the hotel. “I got something to say to the sheriff,” he declared. “And I want to have a few important gents around town to be there to listen and hear what I got to say. I wonder, could you be handy?”

  He was surprised at the avidity with which his invitation was accepted. It was a long time since the hotel owner had been referred to as an “important man.”

  Then he went with the same talk to five others—the blacksmith, the carpenter and odd-jobber, the storekeeper, and two men whom he had marked when he first halted near the hotel veranda. To his invitation each of them gave a quick assent. There had been something mysterious in the manner in which this timid-eyed giant had descended upon the town from nowhere, and now they felt that they were about to come to the heart of the reason of his visit.

  The invitation to the sheriff was delivered by the proprietor of the hotel, and he said just enough—and no more—to bring the sheriff straight to the hotel. Anderson arrived with his best pair of guns in his 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 all opposition, but when he stepped into the room, his manner changed. For he found sitting about the table in the dining room, which was to be the scene of the conference, the six most influential men of the town—men strong enough to reelect him next year, or t
o throw him permanently out of office.

  At the lower end of the table stood Bull Hunter, his arms folded, his face blank. Standing with the light from the lamp shining upon his face, 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 young friend yonder says that he’s got something to say to you. He’s asked each of us to hang around and be a witness. Are you ready?”

  “Jud,” burst out the sheriff, “you’re an idiot! This overgrown booby needs a horsewhipping, and that’s the sort of an answer I’d like to make to him.”

  Having delivered this broadside he strode up and confronted Bull. It was a very poor move. In the first place, the sheriff had insulted one of the men who was about to act as his official judge. In the second place, by putting himself so close to Bull, he made himself appear a trifle ludicrous. Also, if he expected to throw Bull out of the poise with this blustering, he failed. It was not that Bull did not feel fear, but he had seen a curious thing—the sinewy, long neck of the sheriff—and he was wondering what would happen if one of his hands should grip that throat for a single instant. He grew so fascinated by this study that he forgot his fear of the sheriff’s guns.

  Anderson hastened to retreat from his false position. “Gents,” he said, “excuse me for getting edgy. But, if you want me to listen to this 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. Like Bull, he preferred to stand. “Start in your talk,” he commanded.

  “It looks to me,” said Bull gently, “that they’s only one gent here that’s wearing a gun.” He had thrown his own belt on a chair; and now he fixed his eyes on the weapons of Anderson.

  The sheriff glared. “You want me to take off my guns? Son, I’d rather go naked!”

  Jud, the hotel man, had already been insulted once by the sheriff, and he had been biding his time. This seemed an excellent opening. “Looks to me,” he remarked, “like Mr. Hunter was right. He’s got something pretty serious to say, and he don’t want to take no chances on your cutting him short with a bullet!”

  The sheriff glared at Bull and then cast a swift glance over the faces of the others. He read upon them only one expression—a cold curiosity. Plainly they agreed with Jud, and the sheriff gave way. He took off his belt and tossed it upon a chair near him. Then he faced Bull again, but he faced the big man with half his confidence destroyed. As he had said, he felt worse than naked without his revolvers under his touch, but now he attempted to brave out the situation.

  “Well,” he said jocularly, “what you going to accuse me of, Bull Hunter?”

  “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 think you’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 a book. As he began to tell it, he forgot Sheriff Anderson at the farther end of the table. He talked slowly, bringing the words out one by one, as if what he said were coming to him by inspiration—a kind of second sight.

  “It starts in,” said Bull, “the other night when the gent come in with word that Pete Reeve was out playing cards with Armstrong and losing money. When the sheriff heard that, he started to thinking. He was remembering how he’d hated Armstrong for a good many years, and that made him think that maybe Armstrong would get into trouble with Reeve, because Reeve is a pretty good shot, and the sheriff hoped that, if it come to a showdown, Reeve would shoot Armstrong full of holes. And that started him wishing pretty strong that Armstrong would get killed!”

  “Do I have to stand here and listen to this fool talk?” demanded the sheriff.

  “I’m just supposing,” said Bull. “Surely they ain’t any harm in just supposing?”

  “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 it didn’t seem he could stand to have him living much more. He told the folks that he was going out to see that no harm come to Armstrong from Reeve. Then he got on his hoss and went out. All the way he was thinking hard. Armstrong was the gent that was sheriff before Anderson; Armstrong was the gent that might get the job and throw him out again. Ain’t that clear? Well, the sheriff gets close to the cabin and—”

  He paused and slowly extended his long arm toward the sheriff. “What’d you do then?”

  “Me? I heard a shot—”

  “You left your hoss standing in the brush near the house,” interrupted Bull, “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 voice swallowed the protest of the sheriff.

  Anderson cast another glance at the listeners. Plainly they were fascinated by this tale, and they were following it step by step with nods.

  “You didn’t make no noise, either,” went on Bull Hunter. “You slipped up to the cabin real soft, and you climbed up on the east side of the house over some rocks.”

  “Why in reason should a man climb over rocks? Why wouldn’t he go right to 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 in front of it, and you couldn’t come close enough to look in without making a noise stepping on the dead wood. So then you went around to the other side and climbed over the rocks until you could look into the 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 seen Armstrong, 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 the head of the table.

  “Say,” shouted the sheriff, paler than ever now, “what are you accusing me of?”

  “Murder!” thundered Bull Hunter.

  The roar of Bull’s voice chained every one in his place, the sheriff with staring eyes, and Jud in the act of raising his hand.

  “I’ll jail you for slander!” said the sheriff, fighting to assurance and knowing that he was betrayed by his pallor and by the icy perspiration which he felt on his forehead.

  “Anderson,” said Bull, “I seen the marks of them iron heels of yours on the rock!”

  That was a little thing, of course. As evidence it would not have convinced the most prejudiced jury in the world, but Sheriff Anderson was not weighing small points. Into his mind leaped one image—the whiteness of those rocks on which he had stood and the indelible mark his 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-eyed interest he read his own damnation. Then Anderson whirled and leaped for his belt with the guns.

  Out of six throats came six yells of fear; there was a noise of chairs being pushed back and a wild scramble to find safety under the table. Jud, risking a moment’s delay, knocked the chimney off the lamp before he dived. The flame leaped once and went out, but the pale moonshine poured through the window and filled the room with a weird play of shadows.

  What Bull Hunter saw was not the escape of the sheriff, but a sudden blind rage against everything and everybody. It was a passion that set him tremb
ling through all of his great body. One touch of trust, one word of encouragement had been enough to make him a giant to tear up the stump in the presence of Jessie and his cousins; how far more mighty 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 were uncongenial toys to his great hands. Instead, he reached down and caught up that massive chair of oak, built to resist time, built to bear even such a bulk as that of Bull Hunter with ease. Yet he caught it up in one hand, weighed it behind his head at the full limit of his extended arm, and then, bending forward, he catapulted the great missile down the length of the table. It hit the lamp on the way and splintered it to small bits, its momentum unimpeded. Hurtling on across the table it shot at the sheriff as he whirled with his guns in his hands.

  Fast as the chair shot forward, the hand of the sheriff was faster still. Bull saw the big guns twitch up, silver in the moonshine. They exploded in one voice, as if the flying mass of wood were an animate object. Then the sheriff was struck and hurled crashing along the floor.

  CHAPTER 9

  At that fall the six men scampered from beneath the table to seize the downed man. There was no need of their haste. Sheriff Anderson was a wreck rather than a fighting man. One arm was horribly crumpled beneath him; his ribs were shattered, there was a great gash where the rung 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 the will of the law, was alive. Outside, voices were rushing toward them, doors slamming.

  Bull Hunter broke through the circle, bent over the limp body, and drew a big bundle of keys from a pocket. Then, without a word, he went back to the far end of the room, buckled on his gun belt, and in silence left the room.

  The others paid no heed. They and the newcomers who had poured into the room were fascinated by the work of the giant rather than the giant’s self. They had a lantern, swinging dull light and grotesque shadows across the place now, and by the illumination, two of the men went to the wall and picked up the great oaken chair. They raised it slowly between them, a battered mass of disconnected wood. Then they looked to the far end of the long table where he who had thrown the missile had stood. Another line had been written into the history of Bull Hunter—the first line that was written in red.