Bull Hunter - Max Brand
That was the reason that Tod's eyes now were supernally bright when
big Hal Dunbar approached. Diablo showed signs of excitement, but
Charlie Hunter quieted him with a word and went to the bars of the
corral. The hand of Dunbar was stretched out, and Bull took it with
humble earnestness.
"I'm glad you weren't hurt bad," he said. "For a minute or two I was
scared that Diablo--"
"I know," cut in Dunbar, for he detested a new description of the
scene of his failure. Then he made himself smile. "But I've come to
thank you for what you did, Hunter. Between you and me, I know that I
talked rather sharp to you a while back. I'm sorry for that. And
now--why, man, your side must be wounded!"
"It's just a little scratch," said Bull good-naturedly. "It isn't the
first time that Diablo has made me bleed but now--well, isn't he worth
a fight, Mr. Dunbar?"
And he gestured to the magnificent, watchful head of the stallion. The
heart of Hal Dunbar swelled in him. By fair means or foul, he must
have that horse, and on the spot he made his proposition to Hunter. He
had only to climb on the back of Diablo and ride south with him; the
pay would be anything--double what he got from Bridewell, who,
besides, was almost through with him, Dunbar understood.
"But I'm not much good," and Bull sighed reluctantly. "I can't use a
rope, and I don't know cattle, and--"
"I'll find uses for you. Will you come?"
So it was settled. But before Bull climbed into the saddle and started
off after Dunbar, little Tod drew him to one side.
"There ain't any good in Dunbar. Watch him and--remember me, Bull."
CHAPTER 19
That ride to the southern mountains seemed to Bull Hunter to mark a
great point of departure between his old life and a new life.
He had not heard Riley, fox-faced and wicked of eye, say to his
master, "What this big fool needs is a little kidding. Make him think
that we figure him to be a big gun." He had not seen Hal Dunbar make a
wry face before he nodded.
All that Bull Hunter could know was that the three men--Riley, Dunbar,
and Joe Castor--were all exceedingly pleasant to him on the way. Of
all the men in the world, only Pete Reeve had treated him as these men
were now doing, and it was sweet beyond measure to Bull Hunter to be
treated with considerate respect, to have his opinion asked, to be
deferred to and flattered. As for the thousand little asides with
which they made a mock of him, they were far above his head. It seemed
only patent to Bull Hunter that he had been accepted freely into the
equal society of men.
He drew a vague comparison between that success and his mastery of
Diablo. The big stallion was like a kitten under his hand. It required
much coaxing during the first half-day of riding to bring Diablo
within speaking distance of the other men, but gradually he discovered
that they could do him no harm so long as the gentle voice of Hunter
was near him; thereafter he was entirely amenable to reason. One could
see that the stallion was learning difficult lessons, but he was
learning them fast. Eye and ear and scent told him that these
creatures were dangerous. Old experience told him that they were
dangerous, and only a blind trust in Bull Hunter enabled him to
conquer the panic which surged up in his brain time and again. But he
kept on trying, and the constant struggle against men which had
featured his life made him astonishingly quick to pick up new facts.
The first step had been the hard one, and it seemed to Bull Hunter
that the close-knit, smooth-flowing muscles beneath him were carrying
him onward into the esteem of all men. To Diablo he gave the praise,
and after Diablo to little freckled Tod, and to Pete Reeve, the
fighter. As for taking any credit for himself, that idea never came to
him for a moment.
The long trip took two days. They crossed the green, rolling hills;
they passed the foothills, and climbing steadily they came onto a
broad, high plateau--it was a natural kingdom, this ranch of the
Dunbars. The fence around it was the continuous range of mountains
skirting the plateau on all sides, and in every direction up to those
blue summits as far as the eye carried, stretched the land which owned
Hal Dunbar as master. To Bull Hunter, when they reached the crest,
and the broad domain was pointed out to him, this seemed a princely
stretch indeed, and Hal Dunbar was more like a king than ever. It was
easy to forgive pride in such a man and a certain asperity of temper.
How could so rich and powerful a man be like others?
The ranch house was worthy of such a holding. A heavy growth of
beautiful silver spruce swept up the slope of some hills, and riding
through the forest, one caught the first glimpse of the building. It
was spread out carelessly, the foundations laid deep to cover the
irregularities of the ground. It was a heterogeneous mass, obviously
not the work of any one builder. Here a one-story wing rambled far to
the side, built heavily, of logs rudely squared, and there was a
three-story frame section of the house; and still again there was a
tall tower effect of rough stone. As for the barns and sheds which
swept away down the farther and lower slopes, the meanest of them
looked to Bull as though it might have made a home of more than
average comfort.
The three other riders noted the gaping astonishment of Bull and
passed the wink quietly around. To Hal Dunbar it was growing more and
more annoying that he had to trouble himself with such a clod of a man
and use diplomacy where contemptuous force would have been so much
more after his heart. But he continued to follow the scheme first laid
down for his pursuit by clever Riley, and when they came to the
wide-ranging stable he assigned the black stallion to a roomy box
stall. Bull Hunter thanked him for the courtesy as though it had been
a direct personal favor; as a matter of fact, Hal felt that he was
merely taking care of a horse which was already as good as his.
Coming back toward the house Bull walked slowly in the rear of the
little party. He wanted to take plenty of time and drink in the
astonishing details of what to him was a palace. And about the
weather-beaten old house he felt that there was a touch of mystery of
a more or less feudal romance. Climbing the steps to the porch he
turned; a broad sweep of hills opened above the tops of the spruces,
and the blue mountains were piled beyond.
While he stood, a door slammed, and he heard a girl's mellow voice
calling, "Hello, Hal, what luck?"
"What luck? No luck!" grumbled young Dunbar. "All the luck has gone
the way of my ... friend ... here." He brought out the last words
jokingly. "This is Charlie Hunter, commonly called Bull for reasons
you may guess. Bull, this is Mary Hood."
Bull had turned lumberingly, and he found himself staring at a girl in
a more formal riding outfit than he had ever seen before, with tall
boots of soft red leather, and a little round black hat set on her
hair, and a coat fitted somewhat closely. The rather masculine outfit
only served to make her freer, more independent, more delightfully
herself, Bull Hunter thought. She looked him up and down and reserved
judgment, it seemed.
"He rode Diablo," Dunbar was explaining.
"And that's why you brought him?" she asked, flashing a queer glance
at Hal.
Then she came a pace down the steps and shook hands with Bull. He took
the small hand carefully, with a fear that the bones would break
unless he were excessively gentle. At last she laughed so frankly that
a tingle went through his big body, and he peered closely at her. As a
rule the laughter of others made him hot with shame, but this laughter
was different; it seemed to invite him into a pleasant secret.
"I'm glad to meet the man who conquered Diablo," she was saying.
"I didn't beat Diablo," he hastened to explain. "We just sort of
reached an understanding. He saw that I didn't mean him any harm--so
he let me ride him. That's all there was to it!"
He saw her eyes narrow a trifle as she looked down at him, for she had
drawn back to the level of the porch. Was she despising him and
condemning him merely because he had told her the truth? He flushed at
the thought, and then he was called into the house by Dunbar and
brought to a room. The size of it inspired him with a profound awe,
and he was still gaping when Dunbar left him.
In the hall the master of the house met Riley, and the fox-faced
lieutenant drew him aside.
"I've got a plan," he said.
"You're full of plans," muttered Dunbar evilly.
All the way home he had been striving to find some way of explaining
his lack of success with the stallion to Mary Hood. She had grown up
on the ranch with him, for her father had been the manager of the
ranch for twenty years; and she had grown up with the feeling that Hal
Dunbar was infallible and invincible.
"Did you see the big hulk look at Mary Hood?" Riley asked.
The name came pat with the unpleasant part of Hal's brooding, and his
scowl grew blacker. "What about it?"
"Looked at her as though she was an angel--touched her hand as though
it was fire. I tell you, Hal, she knocked Hunter clean off
his balance."
"Not the first she's done that to," said Hal with meaning.
"Maybe not. Maybe not," said Riley rather hastily. "But I been
thinking. Suppose you go to Mary and tell her that you're dead set on
keeping this Hunter with you. Tell her that he's a hard fellow to
handle, that he likes her, and that the best way to make sure of him
is for her to be nice to him. She can do that easy. She takes nacheral
to flirting."
"Flirt with that thick-head? She'd laugh in my face."
"She'd do more than that for you, Hal."
"H'm," grunted Dunbar, greatly mollified. "I ask her to make Hunter
happy. What comes of it? If her father sees Hunter make eyes at her
he'll blow the head off the clodhopper."
"I know." Riley nodded. "He's always afraid she'll take a fancy to one
of the hands and run off with him, or something like that. He's dead
set agin' her saying two words to anybody like me, say!"
He gritted his teeth and flushed at the thought. Then he continued.
"But that's just what you want. You want to get Hunter's head blown
off, don't you?"
Dunbar caught the shoulder of Riley and whirled him around.
"Are you talking murder to me, Riley?"
"I'm talking sense," said Riley.
"By the Lord," growled Dunbar, "you're a plain bad one, Riley. You
like deviltry for the sake of the deviltry itself. You want me
to get--"
"How much do you want the black hoss, chief?" Dunbar sighed.
"You can't touch him, after him saving your life, and I can't touch
him, because everybody knows that I'm your man. But suppose you get
the girl and Hunter planted? Then when Jack Hood rides in this
afternoon, I'll take him where he can see 'em together. Leave the rest
to me. Will you? I'll have Jack Hood scared she's going to elope
before morning, and Jack will do the rest. You know his way."
"Suppose Hood gets killed?"
"Killed--by that? Jack Hood? Why, you know he's near as good as you
with his gat!"
Dunbar nodded slowly. After all, the scheme was a simple one.
"Well?" whispered Riley.
"You and the devil win," said Hal. "After all, what's this Hunter
amount to? Nothing. And I need the horse!"
He executed the first step of the scheme instantly. He went downstairs
and found the girl still on the veranda. She began to mock him
at once.
"You'll go to heaven, Hal, giving a home to the man who beats you."
He managed to smile, although the words were poison to him. He had
loved her as long as he could remember, and sooner or later she would
be his wife, but the period remained indefinitely in the future as the
whims of the girl changed. It was for that reason, as Hal very well
knew, that her father became furious when she smiled at another man.
The rich marriage was his goal; and when a second man stepped onto the
stage, old Jack Hood was ready to fight. Hal saw a way of stopping her
gibes and proving his good intentions toward Hunter all in a breath.
"He saved my life, Mary. I lost a stirrup, and the devil of a horse
threw me."
Briefly he sketched in the story of the rescue, and how Bull Hunter
afterward had ridden the horse without spurs, without a bridle. Before
he ended her eyes were shining.
"That's what he meant when he said he hadn't beaten Diablo. I
understand now. At the time I thought he was a little simple, Hal."
"He's not exceptionally clever, Mary," said Hal, "and that's where the
point comes in of what I want you to do. Hunter is apt to take a fancy
that he isn't wanted here--that he's being kept out of charity because
he saved my life. Nothing I can say will convince him. I want you to
give him a better reason for staying around. Will you do it--as a
great favor?"
She dropped her chin into her hand and studied him.
"Just what are you driving at, Hal?"
"You know what I mean well enough. I want you to waste a smile or two
on him, Mary. Will you do that? Make him think you like him a good
deal, that you're glad to have him around. Will you? Take him out for
a walk this afternoon and get him to tell you the story of his life.
You can always make a man talk and generally you turn them into fools.
You've done it with me, often enough," he added gloomily.
"Flirt with that big, quiet fellow?" she said gravely. "Hal, you're
criminal. Besides, you know that I don't flirt. It's just the
opposite. When I like a man I'm simply frank about it."
"But you have a way of being frank so that a poor devil usually thinks
you want to marry him, and then there's the devil to pay. You know it
perfectly well."
"That's not true, Hal!"
"I won't argue. But will you do it?"
"Absolutely not!"
"It might be quite a game. He may not be altogether a fool. And
suppose he were to wake up? Suppose he's simply half-asleep?"
He saw a gleam of excitement come in her eyes and wisely left her
without another word. After things had reached a certain point Mary
could be generally trusted to carry the action on.
CHAPTER 20
Jack Hood had ridden out on his rounds with a new horse that morning,
and the new horse developed the gait of a plow horse. The result was
that grim old Jack reached the house that night with a body racked by
the labor of the day and a disposition poisoned for the entire
evening. He was met at the stable by Riley, and the sight of him
brought a spark for the moment into the eye of the foreman.
"You're back, then, and you got Diablo?"
"Look yonder."
Jack Hood went to the box stall and came back rubbing his hands, but
his exultation was cut short by Riley's remark. "He doesn't belong to
Hal. Hal was thrown and another gent rode him."
The amazement of Jack Hood took the shape of a wild torrent of
profanity. He was proud of the ranch which he had controlled for so
long, and still prouder of his young master. His creed included two
main points--the essential beauty of his daughter and the
infallibility of young Hal Dunbar; consequently his great ambition was
to unite the two.
"Mary took to Hunter pretty kindly," concluded Riley, as they walked
back toward the house at the conclusion of the story.
The foreman took off his hat and shook back his long, iron-gray hair.
"Trust her for that. Something new is always what she wants."
"They've got the new well pretty near sunk," said Riley. "Take a look
at it?"
"All right."
But before they had gone halfway down the path onto which Riley had
cunningly diverted the older man, he caught Hood's arm and stopped him
with a whisper.
"Look at that. _Already!_ This Hunter ain't such a slow worker, eh,
Jack?"
They had come in view of the little terraced garden which was Mary's
particular property; it was screened from the house by a rank or two
of the spruce, and on a rustic bench, seated with their backs to the
witnesses, were Mary and Bull Hunter. The girl was rapt in attention,
and her eyes never left the face of Hunter. As for Bull, he was
talking steadily, and it seemed to Jack Hood that as the big stranger
talked he leaned closer and closer to the girl. The hint which Riley
had already dropped was enough to inflame the imagination of the
suspicious foreman; what he now saw was totally conclusive, he
thought. Now, under his very eyes, he saw the big man stretch out his
hand, and he saw the hand of Mary dropped into it.
It was more than Riley had dared to hope for. He caught Jack Hood by
the shoulders, and whirled him around, and half dragged him back to
the house.
"Not in front of your daughter, Jack," he pleaded. "I don't blame you
for being mad when a skunk like that starts flirting with a girl the
first day he's seen her. But if you got anything to say to him, wait
till Mary is out of the way. There goes the supper bell. Hurry on in.
Keep hold on yourself."
"Do I have to sit through supper and look at that hound?"
"Not at all," suggested the cunning Riley. "Have a bite in the kitchen
and go up to your room. I'll say that you got some figures to run
over. Afterward, you can come down and jump him!"
He watched Jack Hood disappear, grinning faintly, and then hunted for
Hal Dunbar.
"It's started," he said. "I dropped a word in Jack's ear and then
showed him the two of 'em sitting together. It was like a spark in the
powder. The old boy exploded."
"How close were they sitting?" asked Hal suspiciously.
"Close enough." Riley grinned, for he was not averse to making even
Dunbar himself writhe.
The result was that Hal maneuvered to draw Mary Hood aside when she
came in with big Hunter for supper. Something in Bull Hunter's face
disturbed the owner of the ranch, for the eyes of Bull were alight,
and he was smiling for no apparent reason.
"How did things go?" he asked carelessly.
"You were all wrong about him," said the girl earnestly. "He's not a
half-wit by any means, Hal. I had a hard time of it at first, but then
I got him talking about Diablo and the trouble ended. Not a bit of
sentiment in him; but just like a great big, simple, honest boy, with
a man's strength. It would have done you good to hear him!"
"And he'll stay with us?" asked Hal dryly, for he was far from
enthusiastic.
"Of course he'll stay. Do you know what he did? He promised to try to
teach me to ride Diablo, and he even shook hands on it! Hal, I like
him immensely!"
All during the meal the glances of Hal Dunbar alternated between the
girl and the giant. He was more disturbed than he dared to confess
even to himself. It was not so much that Bull Hunter sat with a
faintly dreamy smile, staring into the future and forgetting his food,
but it was the fact that Mary Hood was continually smiling across the
table into that big, calm face. Dunbar began to feel that the devil
was indeed behind the wit of Riley.
He began to wait nervously for the coming of the girl's father and the
explosion. As soon as supper was over, following the time-honored
custom which the first Dunbar established on the ranch, Mary left the
room, and the men gathered in groups for cards or dice or talk, for
they were not ordinary hired hands, but picked men. Many of them had
grown gray in the Dunbar service. Now was the time for the coming of
Jack Hood, and Hal had not long to wait.
The door at the far side of the big room was thrown open not five
minutes after the disappearance of Mary Hood, and her father entered.
He came with a brow as black as night, tossed a sharp word here and
there in reply to the greetings, and going to the fireplace leaned
against the mantel and rolled a cigarette. While he smoked, from under
his shaggy brows he looked over the company.
Hal Dunbar waited, holding his breath. One brilliant picture was
dawning on his mind--himself mounted on great black Diablo and
swinging over the hills at a matchless gallop.
The picture vanished. Jack Hood had left the fireplace and was
crossing the room with his alert, quick step. His nerves showed in
that step; and it was nerve power that made him a dreaded gunfighter.
His gloom seemed to have vanished now. He smiled here; he paused there
for a cheery word; and so he came to where Bull Hunter sat with his
long legs stretched before him and the unchanging, dreamy smile on
his face.
Over those long legs Jack Hood stumbled. When he whirled on the seated
man his cheer was gone and a devil was in his face.
"You damned lummox," he said, "what d'ye mean by tripping me?"
"Me?" gasped Bull, the smile gradually fading and blank amazement
taking its place.
It was at this moment that a man stepped out of the shadow of the
kitchen doorway, a very small withered man. No doubt he was some late
arrival asking hospitality for the night; and having come after supper
was over, he had been fed in the kitchen and then sent in among the
other men; for no one was turned away hungry from the Dunbar house. He
was so small, so light-footed, that he would hardly have been noticed
at any time, and now that the roar from Jack Hood had focused all eyes
on Bull Hunter, the newcomer was entirely overlooked. He seemed to
make it a point to withdraw himself farther, for now he stepped into a
dense shadow near the wall where he could see and remain unseen.
Jack Hood had shaken his fist under the nose of the seated giant.
"I meant it," he cried. "You tripped me, you skunk, and Jack Hood
ain't old enough to take that from no man!"
Bull Hunter cast out deprecatory hands. The words of this fire-eyed
fellow were bad enough, but the tigerish tenseness of his muscles was
still worse. It meant battle, and the long, black, leather holster at
the thigh of Hood meant battle of only one kind. It had come so
suddenly on him that Bull Hunter was dazed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I sure didn't mean to trip you--but maybe my
foot might of slipped out a little and--"
"Slipped out!" sneered Hood. He stopped, panting with fury. That a
comparative stranger should have dared to speak familiarly with his
daughter was bad enough; that a blank-faced coward should have dared
flirt with her, dared take her hand, was maddening.
"You infernal sneak!" he growled. "Are you going to try to get out of
it, now that you've seen you can't bluff me down--that I won't stand
for your tricks?"
Bull Hunter rose, slowly, unfolding his great bulk until he towered
above the other; and yet the condensed activity of Hood was fully as
formidable. There were pantherlike suggestions of speed about the arm
that dangled beside his holster.
The withered little man in the shadow by the kitchen door took one
noiseless step into the light--and then shrank back as though he had
changed his mind.
"It looks to me," said Bull Hunter mildly, "that you're trying to
force a fight on me. Stranger, I can't fight a man as old as you are."
Perhaps it was a tactless speech, but Bull was too dazed to think of
grace in words. It brought a murderous snarl from the other.
"I'm old enough to be Jack Hood--maybe you've heard of me? And I'm
young enough to polish off every unlicked cub in these parts. Now,
curse you, what d'ye say to that?"
"I can only say," said Bull miserably, feeling his way, "that I don't
want to fight."
With an oath Hood exclaimed, "A coward! They're all like that--every
one of the big fellers. A yaller-hearted sneak!"
"Easy, Jack!" broke in one of the men.
"Let Jack alone," called the commanding voice of Hal Dunbar. "I saw
Hunter trip him!"
"But," pleaded Bull Hunter, "I give you my word--"
"Shut up! I've heard enough of your talk."
Bull Hunter obediently stopped his talk.
A sickening quiet drew through the room. Men bowed their heads or
turned them away, for such cowardice was not pleasant to see. The
little man in the shadow raised one hand and brushed it across
his face.
"I'll let you off one way," said Jack Hood. "Stand up here, and face
the crowd and tell 'em you're a liar, that you're sorry for what
you done!"
Bull faced the crowd. A shudder of expectancy went through them, and
then they saw that his face was working, not with shame or fear but
with a mental struggle, and then he spoke.
"Gents, it seems like I may be wrong. I may have tripped him which I
didn't mean to. But not knowing that I tripped him, I got to say that
I can't call myself a liar. I can't apologize."
They were shocked into a new attention; they saw him turn and face the
frown of Jack Hood.
"You're forcing this fight, stranger. And, if you keep on, you'll
drop, sir. I promise you that!"
The sudden change in affairs had astonished Jack Hood; now his
astonishment gave way to a sort of hungry joy.
"I never was strong on words. I got two ways of talking and here's the
one I like best!" As he uttered the last word he reached for his gun.
The little man glided out of the shadow, crouched, intense. It seemed
to him that the hand of Bull Hunter hung motionless at his side while
the gun flashed out from Hood's holster. He groaned at the thought,
but in the last second, there was a move of Hunter's hand that no eye
could follow, that singular convulsive twitch which Pete Reeve had
taught him so long before. Only one gun spoke. Jack Hood spun sidewise
and crashed to the floor, and his gun rattled far away.