The Max Brand Megapack

by Max Brand

  Bull himself was on his way to the jail. He found it unguarded. The deputy had gone to find the cause of the commotion at the hotel. The steel bars, moreover, were sufficient to retain the prisoner and keep out would-be rescuers.

  In the dim light of his lantern, Bull saw that Pete Reeve was sitting cross-legged on his bunk, like a little, dried-up idol, smoking a cigarette. His only greeting to the big man was a lifting of the eyebrows. But, when the big key was fitted into the lock and the lock turned, he showed his first signs of interest. He was standing up when Bull 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 off the wall. “Here’s that hat,” he answered, “but they ain’t passing out guns to jailbirds—not in these parts!”

  “You ain’t a jailbird,” answered Bull, “so we’ll get that gun. Know where it is?”

  Reeve followed without a question through the open door, only stopping as he passed beyond the bars, to look back to them with a shudder. It was the first sign of emotion he had shown since his arrest. But his step was lighter and quicker as he followed Bull into the front room.

  “In that closet, yonder,” said Reeve, pointing to a door. “That’s where 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. “I saw Anderson give it to him.”

  Bull sighed. “I ain’t got much time, partner,” he said. Approaching the door, he examined it wistfully. “But, maybe, they’s another way.” He drew back a little, raised his right leg, and smashed the heavy cowhide boot against the door. The wood split from top to bottom, and Bull’s leg was driven on through the aperture. He paused to wrench the fragments of the door from lock and hinges and then beckoned to Pete Reeve. “Look for your gun in here, Reeve.”

  The little man cast one twinkling glance at his companion and then was instantly among the litter of the closet floor. He emerged strapping a belt about him, the holster tugging far down, so that the muzzle of the gun was almost at his knee. Bull appreciated the diminutive size of the man for the first time, seeing him in conjunction with the big gun on his thigh.

  There was an odd change in the little man also, the moment his gun was in place. He tugged his broad-brimmed hat a little lower across his eyes and poised himself, as if on tiptoe; his glance was a constant flicker about the room until it came to rest on Bull. “Suppose you lemme in on the meaning of all this. Who are you and where do you figure 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 noiseless steps and paused a moment at the threshold of the jail. Plainly he was ready for fight or flight, and his right hand was toying constantly with 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 way straight across the street. There was no danger of being seen. All the life of the town was drawn to a center about the hotel. Lights were flashing behind its windows, men were constantly pounding across the veranda, running in and out. Bull led the way past the building and cut for the cottonwoods.

  “And now?” demanded Pete Reeve. “Now, partner?”

  That word stung Bull. It had not been applied to him more than a half a dozen times in his life, together with its implications of free and equal brotherhood. To be called partner by the great man who had conquered terrible Uncle Bill Campbell!

  “They’s a mess in the hotel,” said Bull, explaining as shortly as he could. “Seems that Sheriff Anderson was the gent that done the killing of Armstrong. It got found out and the sheriff tried to get away. Lots of noise and trouble.”

  “Ah,” said Reeve, “it was him, then—the old hound! I might have knowed! But I kep’ on figuring that they was two of ’em! Well, the sheriff was a handy boy with his gun. Did he drop anybody before they got him? I heard two guns go off like one. Them must of been the sheriff’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 a trot 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 the sheriff got rattled and shot at it instead of dodging? Well, I’ve seen a pile of funnier things than that happen in gun play, off and on. Who threw the chair?”

  “I did.”

  “You?” He squinted up at the lofty form of Bull Hunter. “What name did you 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 the sheriff 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 then I 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 long breath. “But what reason did you have, son? I got to ask you that before I thank you the way I want to thank you. But, before you kick out, you’ll find that Pete Reeve is a friend.”

  “My reason was,” said Bull, “that I had business to do with you that couldn’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 was falling so softly and brightly.

  Bull paused and looked around him. “I guess this’ll have to do,” he declared.

  “All right, son. You can be as mysterious as you want. Now what you got me here for?”

  “To kill you,” said Bull gently.

  Pete Reeve flinched back. Then he tapped his holster, made sure of the gun, became more easy. “That’s interesting,” he announced. “You couldn’t wait for the law to hang me, eh?”

  Bull began explaining laboriously. He pushed back his hat and began to count off his points into the palm of one hand. “You shot up Uncle Bill 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 a home all these years. I thought it would sort of pay him back if I run you 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 peering earnestly into the face of his companion, now
puckered with the earnest 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 him think that I was a man. You see, Reeve, I ain’t quick thinking, and I ain’t bright. I ain’t got a quick tongue and sharp eyes, and they been treating me like I was a kid all my life. So I got to do something. I got to! I ain’t got anything agin’ you, but you just happen to be the one that I got to fight. Stand over yonder by that stump. I’ll stand here, and we’ll fight fair and square.”

  Pete Reeve obeyed, his movements slow, as if they were the result of hypnotism. “Bull,” he said rather faintly, looking at the towering bulk of his opponent, “I dunno. Maybe I’m going nutty. But I figure that you come down here to kill me for the sake of getting your uncle to pat you on the back once or twice. And you find you can’t get at me because 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. Maybe you ain’t bright, but you’re mighty different!”

  He paused and rubbed his forehead. “Son, I’ve seen pretty good men in my 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 taking yours, now?”

  “You ain’t going to, maybe,” said Bull calmly. “Maybe I’ll get to you.”

  “Son,” answered the other almost sadly, shaking his head, “when I’m right, with a good, steady nerve, they ain’t any man in the world that can sling a gun with me. And tonight I’m right. If it comes to a showdown—but are you pretty good with a gun yourself, Bull?”

  “No,” answered Bull frankly. “I ain’t any good compared to an expert like 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, and if I get to you before I’m dead, well—all I ask is to lay my hands on you, you see?”

  The little man shuddered and blinked. “I see,” he said, and swallowed with difficulty. “But, in the name of reason, Bull, have sense! Lemme talk! I’ll tell you what that uncle of yours was—”

  “Don’t talk!” exclaimed Bull Hunter. “I sort of like you, partner, and it 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 off in the marsh!”

  He had hardly spoken before the ominous sound was heard, and Bull reached for his gun. For all his bulk of hand and unwieldy arms, the gun came smoothly, swiftly into his hand. He would have had an ordinary man covered, long before the latter had his gun muzzle-clear of the leather. But Pete Reeve was no ordinary man. His arm jerked down; his fingers flickered down and up. They went down empty; they came 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 had sworn a solemn and silent oath that he would not kill this faithful, courageous fellow from the mountains. He could have planted a bullet where the life lay, at any instant of the fight. But he fired for another purpose. The moment Bull reached for his weapon he had lurched forward, aiming to shoot as he ran. Pete Reeve set himself a double goal. His first intention was to disarm the giant; the other was to stop his rush. For, once within the grip of those big fingers, his life would be squeezed out like the juice of an orange.

  His task was doubly difficult in the moonlight. But the first shot went home nicely, aimed as exactly as a scientist finds a spot with his instruments. Where the moon’s rays splashed across the bare right forearm of Bull, he sent a bullet that slashed through the great muscles. The revolver dropped from the nerveless hand of the giant, but Bull never paused. On he came, empty-handed, but with power of death, as the little man well knew, in the fingers of his extended left hand. He came with a snarl, a savage intake of breath, as he felt the hot slash of Pete’s bullet. But Reeve, standing erect like some duelist of old, his left hand tucked into the hollow of his back, took the great gambling chance and refused to shoot to kill.

  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.