by Bull Hunter
He placed his second shot more effectively, for this time he must stop that tremendous body, advancing upon him. He found one critical spot. Between the knee and the thigh, halfway up on the inside of the left leg, he drove that second bullet with the precision of a surgeon. The leg crumpled under Bull and sent him pitching forward on his face.
Perhaps the marsh ground was unstable, but it seemed to Pete Reeve that the very earth quaked beneath his feet as the big man fell. He swung his gun wide and leaned to see how serious was the damage he had done. Bleeding would be the greater danger.
But that fraction of a second brought him into another peril. The giant heaved up on his sound right leg and his sound left arm, and flung himself forward, two limbs dangling uselessly. With a hideously contorted face, Bull swung his left arm in a wide circle for a grip and scooped in Pete Reeve, as the latter sprang back with a cry of horror.
The action swept Pete in and crushed his gun hand and arm against the body of his assailant, paralyzing his only power of attack or defense. Reeve was carried down to the ground as if beneath the bulk of a mountain. There was no question of sparing life now. Pete Reeve began to fight for life. He wrestled at his gun to tug it free, but found it anchored. He pulled the trigger, and the gun spoke loud and clear, but the bullet plunged into empty space. Then he felt that left arm begin to 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 his throat, fumbling to get at the windpipe. Pete Reeve made his last effort; it was like striving to free himself from a ton's weight. Hysteria of fear and horror seized him, and his voice gave utterance to his terror. As he screamed, the big fingers joined around his throat. Any further pressure would end him!
He looked up into the glaring eyes and the contorted face of the giant; the rasping, panting breathing paralyzed his senses. There was a slight inward contraction of the grip; then it ceased.
Miraculously he felt the great hand relax and fall away. The bulk was heaved away from him, and staggering to his own feet, he saw Bull Hunter supported against a tree, one leg useless, one arm streaming.
"I couldn't seem to do it," said Bull Hunter thickly. "I couldn't noways seem to do it, Reeve. You see, I sort of like you, and I couldn't kill you, Pete."
When Pete Reeve recovered from his astonishment he said, "You can do more. You can go home and tell that infernal hound of an uncle of yours that you had the life of Pete Reeve under your fingertips and that you didn't take it. It's the second time I've owed my life, and both times in one day, and both times to one man. You tell your uncle 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—like water—and the moon—is turning black—and—" He slumped down at the foot of the tree.
Chapter 10
*
When old Farmer Morton and his son came in their buckboard through the marshes, they heard the screaming of Pete Reeve for help. Leaving their team, they bolted across country to the open glade. There they found Pete still shouting for help, kneeling above the body of a man, and working desperately to arrange an effectual tourniquet. They ran close and discovered the two men.
Old Morton knew enough rude surgery to stop the bleeding. It was he who counted the pulse and listened to the heart. "Low," he said, "very low—life is just flickerin', stranger."
"If they's as much light of life in him," said Pete Reeve, "as the flicker of a candle, I'll fan it up till it's as big as a forest fire. Man, he's got to live."
"H'm!" said Morton. "And how come the shooting?"
"Stop your fool questions," said Reeve. "Help me get him to town and to a bed."
It was useless to attempt to carry that great, loose-limbed body. They brought the buckboard perilously through the shrubbery and then managed, with infinite labor, to lift Bull Hunter into it. With Pete Reeve supporting the head of the wounded man and cautioning them to drive gently, they managed the journey to the town as softly as possible. At the hotel a strong-armed cortege bore Bull to a bed, and they carried him reverently. Had his senses been with him he would have wondered greatly; and had his uncle, or his uncle's sons, been there, they would surely have laughed uproariously.
In the hotel room Pete Reeve took command at once. "He's too big to die," he told the dubious doctor. "He's got to live. And the minute you say he can't, out you go and another doc comes in. Now do your work."
The doctor, haunted by the deep, fiery eyes of the gunfighter, stepped into the room to minister to his patient. He had a vague feeling that, if Bull Hunter died, Pete Reeve would blame him for lack of care. In truth, Pete seemed ready to blame everyone. He threatened to destroy the whole village if a dog was allowed to howl in the night, or if the baby next door were permitted to cry in the day.
Silence settled over the little town—silence and the fear of Pete Reeve. Pete himself never left the sickroom. Wide-eyed, silent-footed, he was ever about. He seemed never to sleep, and the doctor swore that the only reason Bull Hunter did not die was because death feared to enter the room while the awful Reeve was there.
But the long hours of unconsciousness and delirium wore away. Then came the critical period when a relapse was feared. Finally the time came when it could be confidently stated that Bull was recovering his health and his strength.
All this filled a matter of weeks. Bull was still unable to leave his bed. He was dull and listless, bony of hand, and liable to sleep many hours through the very heart of the day. At this point of his recovery the door opened one day, and, in the warmth of the afternoon, a big man came into the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Bull turned his head slowly and then blinked, for it was the unshaven face of his cousin, Harry Campbell, that he saw. With his eyes closed, Bull wondered why that face was so distinctly unpleasant. When he opened them again, Harry had drawn closer, his hat pushed on the back of his head after the manner of a baffled man, and a faint smile working at the corners of his lips. He took the limp hand of Bull in his and squeezed it cautiously. Then he laid the hand back on the sheet and grinned more confidently at Bull.
"Well, I'll be hanged, Bull, here you are as big as life, pretty near, and you don't act like you knew me!"
"Sure I do. Sit down, Harry. What brung you all this ways?"
"Why, anxious to see how you was doing."
Again Bull blinked. Such anxiety from Harry was a mystery.
"They ain't talking about much else up our way," said Harry, "but how you come across the mountains in the storm, and how big you are, and how you got the sheriff, and how you rushed Pete Reeve bare-handed. Sure is some story! All the way down I just had to say that I was Bull Hunter's cousin to get free meals!" He licked his lips and grinned again. "So I come down to see how you was."
"I'm doing tolerable fair," said Bull slowly, "and it was good of you to come this long ways to ask that question. How's things to home?"
"Dad's bunged up for life; can't do nothing but cuss, but at that he lays over anything you ever hear." Harry's eyes flicked nervously about the room. "It was him that sent me down! Where's Reeve?"
This was in a whisper. Bull gestured toward the next room.
"Asleep? Can he hear if I talk?"
"Asleep," said Bull. "Been up with me two days. I took a bad turn a while back. Pete's helping himself to a nap, and he needs one!"
"Now, listen!" said Harry. "Dad figured this out, and Dad's mostly never wrong. He says, 'Reeve shot up Bull. Now he's hanging around trying to make up by nursing Bull, according to reports, because he's afraid of what Bull'll do when he gets back on his feet. But Bull has got to know that, even when he's back on his feet, he can't beat Reeve—not while Reeve can pull a gun. Nobody can beat that devil. If he want
s to beat Reeve, just take advantage of him while Reeve ain't expecting anything—which means while Bull is sick.' Do you get what Dad means?"
"Sort of," said Bull faintly. He shut out the eager, dirty, unshaven face. "I'll just close my eyes against the light. I can hear you pretty well. Go on."
"Here's the idea. Everybody knows you hate Reeve, and Reeve fears you. Otherwise would he act like this, aside from being afraid of a lynching, in case you should die? No, he wouldn't. Well, one of these days you take this gun"—here Harry shoved one under the pillow of Bull—"and call Pete Reeve over to you, and when he leans over your bed, blow his brains out! That's easy, and it'll do what you'll want to do someday. You hear? Then you can say that Reeve started something—that you shot in self-defense. Everybody'll believe you, and you'll get one big name for killing Reeve! You foller me?"
Bull opened his eyes, but they were squinting as though he was in the severest pain. "Listen, Harry," he said at last. "I been thinking things out. I owe a lot to your dad for taking me in and keeping me. But all I owe him I can pay back in cash—someday. I don't owe him no love. Not you, neither."
Harry had risen to his feet with a snarl.
"Sit down," said Bull, letting his great voice swell ever so little. "I'm pretty near dead, but I'm still man enough to wring the neck of a skunk! Sit down!"
Harry obeyed limply, and his giant cousin went on, his voice softening again. "When you come in I closed my eyes," said Bull, "because it seemed to me like you was a dream. I'd been awake. I'd been living among men that sort of liked me and respected me and didn't laugh at me. And then you come, and I saw your dirty face, and it made me think of a bad nightmare I'd had when you and your brother and your dad treated me worse'n a dog. Well, Harry, I'm through with that dream. I'll never go back to it. I'm going to stay awake the rest of my life. It was your dad that put the wish to kill Reeve into my head with his talk. I met Reeve, and Reeve pumped some bullets with sense into me. He let out some of my life, but he let in a lot of knowledge. Among other things he showed me what a friend might be. He's stayed here and nursed me and talked to me—like I was his equal, almost, instead of being sort of simple, like I really am. And I've made up my mind that I'm going to cut loose from remembering you folks in the mountains. I ain't your kind. I don't want to be your kind. I want to fight, like Pete Reeve. I don't want to murder like a Campbell! All the way through, I want to be like Pete Reeve. He don't know it. Maybe when I'm well he'll go off by himself. But whether he's near or far, I've adopted him. I'm going to pattern after him, and the happiest day of my life will be when I earn the right to have this man, that I tried to kill, come and take my hand and call me 'friend'! I guess that answers you, Harry. Now get out and take my talk back to your dad, and don't trouble me no more—you spoil my sleep!"
As he spoke the door of the next room opened softly. Peter Reeve stood at the entrance. Harry, shaking with fear, backed toward the other door, then leaped far out, and whirled out of sight with a slam and clatter of feet on the stairs. Pete Reeve came slowly to the bedside.
"I was awake, son," he said, "and I couldn't help hearing."
Bull flushed heavily.
"It's the best thing I ever heard," said Pete. "The best thing that's ever come to my ears—partner!"
With that word their hands joined. In reality, far more than he dreamed, Bull had been born again.
Chapter 11
*
When they were together, they made a study in contrasts. By seeing one it was possible to imagine the other. For instance, seeing the high, narrow forehead, peaked face, the gray-flecked hair of Pete Reeve, his nervous step, his piercing and uneasy eyes—seeing this man with his body from which all spare flesh was wasted so that he remained only muscle and nerve, it was easy to conjure up the figure of Bull Hunter by thinking of opposites.
Their very voices held a world of difference. The tone of Pete Reeve was pitched a little high, hard, and somewhat nasal, and when he was angry his words came shrill and ringing. The mere sound of his voice was irritating—it put one on edge with expectancy of action. Whereas the full, deep, slow, musical voice of Bull Hunter was a veritable sleep producer. Men might fear Charlie Bull Hunter because of his tremendous bulk; but children, hearing his voice, were unafraid.
The motions of Pete Reeve were as fast and as deft as the whiplash striking of a snake. The motions of Bull Hunter were premeditated and cautious, 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 had moved a ponderous stool into the room so that Bull might have something on which to sit, but long habit had made him uneasy in a chair, and he kept to the floor by preference, with the great square chin resting on his fist and his knee supporting his elbow. That position pressed the forearm against the biceps and the big muscles bulged out on either side, vast as the thigh of a strong man.
With lionlike wrinkles of attention between his eyes, he listened to the exposition of the little man, and followed his movements with patient submission—like a pupil to whom a great master has consented to unfold the secrets of his brushwork; in such a manner did Bull Hunter drink in the words and the acts of Pete Reeve. And, indeed, where guns were the subject of conversation it would have been hard to find a man more thoroughly equipped to pose as an expert than Pete Reeve. That fleshless hand, all speed of motion as it whipped out the gun from the nerve and sinew, became an incredible ghost with the holster and the long, heavy Colt danced and flashed at his fingertips as though it were a gilded shadow.
As he worked he talked, and as he talked he strode constantly back and forth through the room with his light-falling, mincing steps. He grew excited. He flushed. There came a thrill and a ring and a deepening of the voice. For the master was indeed talking of the secrets of his craft.
A thousand men of the mountains and the cattle ranges, men who, for personal pride or for physical need, studied accuracy and speed in gunplay, would have paid untold prices to learn these secrets from the lips of the little man. To Bull Hunter the mysteries were revealed for nothing, freely, and drilled and drummed into him through the weeks of his convalescence; and still the lessons continued now that he was hale and hearty once more—as the clean-swept platters from which he ate three times a day gave evidence.
"I've practiced, you admit," said Bull in his slow voice, as Pete Reeve 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 when I try to get out my gun fast. I can shoot straight. That's because I haven't any nerves, as you say, but I'll never be able to get out a gun as fast as a thought—the way you do. Fact is, Pete, I don't think fast, you know."
"Shut up!" exploded Pete Reeve, who had been inwardly chafing with impatience during the whole length of this speech. "Sometimes you talk like a fool, Bull, and this is one time!"
Bull shook his head. "My arms are too big," he said sadly. "The muscle gets in my way. I can feel it bind when I try to jerk out the gun fast. Better give up the job, Pete. I sure appreciate all the pains you'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 been keeping it back, but now I'll tell you the straight of it. You're faster 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's out, you shoot as straight as any man I've ever seen. Trouble is, you don't appreciate yourself. You've had it drilled into you so long that you're stupid that now you believe it. All nonsense! You got more than a million have and you're fast right now on the draw. Once get hold of how important it is, and you'll keep trying. But you think it's only a game. You just play at it; you don't work! I wish y
ou could have seen me when I was first practicing with a gun! I lived with it. Hours every day it was my companion, and right up to now, there ain't a day goes 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 long time.
"You think it don't mean much. Look here!"
The Colt flicked into his hand and lay trembling in his palm, and as he talked, it shifted smoothly, as if of its own volition, forward toward his fingertips, backward, to the side, dropping out until it seemed about to fall, only to be caught with one finger through the trigger-guard and spun up again. Always the heavy weapon was in motion as though some of the nervous spirit of Reeve had entered the heavy metal. It responded to his thoughts rather than to his muscles. Bull Hunter gazed enchanted. He was accustomed to forgetting himself and admiring others.
"Look here!" went on the little man. "Look at me. I weigh about a hundred and twenty. I'm skinny. I'm a runt. And look at you. You weigh—heaven knows what! No fat, but all muscle from your head to your feet. You're the strongest man that I've ever seen. Take me, I'm not 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."
