Bull Hunter - Max Brand
Often this stupid pondering over a book would madden the two brothers.
It irritated them till they would move the lantern away from him. But
he always followed the light with a sigh and uncomplainingly settled
down again. Sometimes they even snatched the book out of his hands. In
that case he sat looking down at his empty fingers, dreaming over his
own thoughts as contentedly as though the living page were in his
vision. There was small satisfaction in tormenting him in these ways.
Tonight they dared not bother him. The stained hands were still in
their minds, and the tremendous, joyous laughter as he whirled the
stump over his head still rang in their ears. But they watched him
with a sullen envy of his immobility. Just as a man without an
overcoat envies the woolly coat of a dog on a windy December day.
Only one sound roused the reader. It was a sudden loud snorting from
the shed behind the house and a dull trampling that came to him
through the noise of the rising wind. It brought Bull lurching to his
feet, and the stove jingled as his weight struck the yielding center
boards of the floor. Out into the blackness he strode. The wind shut
around him at once and plastered his clothes against his body as if he
had been drenched to the skin in water. Then he closed the door.
"What brung him to life?" asked Harry.
"Nothin', He just heard ol' Maggie snort. Always bothers him when
Maggie gets scared of something--the old fool!"
Maggie was an ancient, broken-down draft horse. Strange vicissitudes
had brought her up into the mountains via the logging camp. She was
kept, not because there was any real hauling to be done for Bill
Campbell, but because, having got her for nothing, she reminded him of
the bargain she had been. And Bull, apparently understanding the
sluggish nature of the old mare by sympathy of kind, use to work her
to the single plow among the rocks of their clearing. Here, every
autumn, they planted seed that never grew to mature grain. But that
was Bill Campbell's idea of making a home.
Presently Bull came back and settled with a slump into his old place.
"Going to snow?" asked Harry.
"Yep."
"Feel it in the wind?"
It was an old joke among them, for Bull often declared with ridiculous
solemnity that he could foretell snow by the change in the air.
"Yep," answered Bull, "I felt the wind."
He looked up at them, abashed, but they were too hungry to waste
breath with laughter. They merely sneered at him as he settled back
into his book. And, just as his head bowed, a far shouting swept down
at them as the wind veered to a new point.
"Uncle Bill!" said Bull and rose again to open the door.
The others wedged in behind his bulk and stared into the blackness.
CHAPTER 3
They stood with the wind taking them with its teeth and pressing them
heavily back. They could hear the fire flare and flutter in the stove;
then the wind screamed again, and the wail came down to them.
"Uncle Bill!" repeated Bull and, lowering his head, strode into the
storm.
The others exchanged frightened glances and then followed, but not
outside of the shaft of light from the door. In the first place it was
probably not their father. Who could imagine Bill shouting for help?
Such a thing had never been dreamed of by his worst enemies, and they
knew that their father's were legion. Besides it was cold, and this
was a wild-goose chase which meant a chilled hide and no gain.
But, presently, through the darkness they made out the form of a
horseman and the great bulk of Bull coming back beside him. Then they
ran out into the night.
They recognized the hatless, squat figure of their father at once,
even in the dark, with the wind twitching his beard sideways. When
they called to him he did not speak. Then they saw that Bull was
leading the horse.
Plainly something was wrong, and presently they discovered that Bill
Campbell was actually tied upon his horse. He gave no orders, and they
cut the ropes in silence. Still he did not dismount.
"Bull," he commanded, "lift me off the hoss!"
The giant plucked him out of the saddle and placed him on the ground,
but his legs buckled under him, and he fell forward on his face. Any
of the three could have saved him, but the spectacle of the terrible
old man's helplessness benumbed their senses and their muscles.
"Carry me in!" said Bill at last.
Bull lifted him and bore him gingerly through the door and placed him
on the bunk. The light revealed a grisly spectacle. Crimson stains and
dirt literally covered him; his left leg was bandaged below the knee;
his right shoulder was roughly splinted with small twigs and
swathed in cloth.
The long ride, with his legs tied in place, had apparently paralyzed
his nerves below the hips. He remained crushed against the wall, his
legs falling in the odd position in which they were put down by Bull.
It was illustrative of his character that, even in this crisis, not
one of the three dared venture an expression of sympathy, a question,
a suggestion.
Crumpled against the wall, his head bowed forward and cramped, the
stern old man still controlled them with the upward glance of his eyes
through the shag of eyebrows.
"Gimme my pipe," he commanded.
Three hands reached for it--pipe, tobacco, matches were proffered to
him. Before he accepted the articles he swept their faces with a
glance of satisfaction. Without attempting to change the position
which must have been torturing him, he filled the pipe bowl, his
fingers moving as if he had partially lost control of them. He filled
it raggedly, shreds of tobacco hanging down around the bowl. He bent
his head to meet the left hand which he raised with difficulty, then
he tried to light a match. But he seemed incapable of moving the
sulphur head fast enough to bring it to a light with friction. Match
after match crumbled as he continued his efforts.
"Here, lemme light a match for you, Dad!"
Harry's offer was received with a silent curling of the lips and a
glint of the yellow teeth beneath that made him step back. The old man
continued his work. There were a dozen wrecked matches before the
blood began to stir in his numbed arm and he was able to light the
match and the pipe. He drew several breaths of the smoke deep into his
lungs. For the moment the savage, hungry satisfaction changed his
face; they could tell by that alteration what agonies he had been
suffering before.
Presently he frowned and set about changing his position with infinite
labor. The left leg was helpless, and so was the right arm. Yet, after
much labor, he managed to stuff a roll of the blankets into the corner
and then shift himself until his back rested against this support. But
his strength deserted him again. His pipe was dropped down in the left
hand, his head sagged back.
Still they dared not approach him. His two sons stood about, shifting
from one foot to another, as if they expected a blow to descend upon
them at any moment, as if each labored movement of terrible old Bill
Campbell caused them the agony which he must be suffering.
As for Bull Hunter, he sat again on the floor, his chin dropped upon
his great fist, and wondered for a time at his uncle. It was the
second great event to him, all in one day. First he had discovered
that by fighting a thing, one can actually conquer. Second, he
discovered that great fighter, his uncle, had been beaten. The
impossible had happened twice between one sunrise and sunset.
But men and the affairs of men could not hold his eye overlong.
Presently he dropped his head again and was deep in the pages of his
book. At length Bill Campbell heaved up his head. It was to glare into
the scared faces of his sons.
"How long are you goin' to keep me waiting for food?"
The order snapped them into action. They sprang here and there, and
presently the thick slices of bacon were hissing on the pan, and the
clouds of bacon smoke wafted through the cabin. When they reached Bill
Campbell he blinked. Pain had given him a maddening appetite, yet he
puffed steadily on his pipe and said nothing.
The tin plate of potatoes and bacon was shoved before him, and the big
tin cup of coffee. The three younger men sat in silence and devoured
their own meal; the two sons swiftly, but Bull Hunter fell into
musings, and part of his food remained uneaten. Then his glance
wandered to his uncle and saw a thing to wonder at--a horrible thing
in its own way.
The nerveless left hand of the mountaineer, which had barely possessed
steadiness to light a match, was far too inaccurate to handle a fork;
and Bull saw his uncle stuffing his mouth with his fingers and daring
the others to watch him.
Something like pity came to Bull. It was so rare an emotion to connect
with human beings that he hardly recognized it, for men and women, as
he knew them, were brilliant, clever creatures, perfectly at home in
the midst of difficulties that appalled him. But, as he watched the
old man feed himself like an animal, the emotion that rose in Bull was
the sadness he felt when he watched old Maggie stumbling among the
rocks. There was something wrong with the forelegs of Maggie, and she
was only half a horse when it came to going downhill on broken ground.
He had always thought of the great strength that once must have been
hers, and he pitied her for the change. He found himself pitying Uncle
Bill Campbell in much the same way.
When Bill raised his tin cup he spilled scalding coffee on his breast.
The old man merely set his teeth and continued to glare his challenge
at the three. But not one of the three dared speak a word, dared make
an offer of assistance.
What baffled the slow mind of Bull Hunter was the effort to imagine a
force so great that battle with it had reduced the invincible Campbell
to this shaken wreck of his old self. Mere bullets could tear wounds
in flesh and break bones; but mere bullets could not wreck the nerves
of a man so that his hand trembled as if he were drunk or hysterical
with weariness.
He tried to work out this problem. He conceived a man of gigantic
size, vast muscles, inexhaustible strength. The power of a bear and
the swift cunning of a wild cat--such must have been the man who
struck down Uncle Bill and sent him home a shattered remnant of
his old self.
There was another mystery. Why did the destroyer not finish his task?
Why did he take pity on Uncle Bill Campbell and bind up the wounds he
had himself made? Here the mind of Bull Hunter paused. He could not
pass the mysterious idea of another than himself pitying Uncle Bill.
It was pitying a hawk in the sky.
Harry was taking away the dishes and throwing them in the little tub
of lukewarm water where the grease would be carelessly soused
off them.
"Did you get up that stump?" asked Uncle Bill suddenly.
There was a familiar ring in his voice. Woe to them if they had not
carried out his orders! All three of the young men quaked, and Bull
laid aside his book.
"We done it," answered Joe in a quavering voice.
"You done it?" asked Bill.
"We--we dug her pretty well clear, then Bull pulled her up."
Some of the wrath ebbed out of the face of Bill as he glanced at the
huge form of Bull. "Stand up!" he ordered.
Bull arose.
The keen eye of the old man went over him from head to foot slowly.
"Someday," he said slowly, speaking entirely to himself.
"Someday--maybe!"
What he expected from Bull "someday" remained unknown. The dishwashing
was swiftly finished. Then Uncle Bill made a feeble effort to get off
his boots, but his strength had been ebbing for some time. His sons
dared not interfere as the old man leaned slowly over and strove to
tug the boot from his wounded leg; but Bull remembered, all in a flood
of tenderness, some half-dozen small, kind things that his uncle had
said to him.
That was long, long ago, when the orphan came into the Campbell
family. In those days his stupidity had been attributed largely to the
speed with which he had grown, and he was expected to become normally
bright later on; and in those days Bill Campbell occasionally let fall
some gentle word to the great boy with his big, frightened eyes. And
the half-dozen instances came back to Bull in this moment.
He stepped between his cousins and laid his hand on the foot of his
uncle. It brought a snarl from the old man, a snarl that made Bull
straighten and step back, but he came again and put aside the shaking
hand of Uncle Bill. His cousins stood at one side, literally quaking.
It was the first time that they had actually seen their father defied.
They saw the huge hand of Bull settle around the leg of their father,
well below the wound and then the grip closed to avoid the danger of
opening the wound when the boot was worked off. After this he pulled
the tight riding boot slowly from the swollen foot.
Uncle Bill was no longer silent. The moment the big hand of his nephew
closed over his leg he launched a stream of curses that chilled the
blood and drove his own sons farther back into the shadow of the
corner. He demanded that they stand forth and tear Bull limb from
limb. He disinherited them for cowardice. He threatened Bull with a
vengeance compared with which the thunderbolt would be a feeble flare
of light. He swore that he was entirely capable of taking care of
himself, that he would step down into his grave sooner than be nursed
and petted by any living human being.
All the while, the great Bull leaned impassively over the wounded man
and finally worked the boot free. That was not all. Uncle Bill had
slipped over until he could reach a billet of wood beside his bunk. He
struck at Bull's head with it, but the stick was brushed out of his
palsied fingers with a single gesture, and, while Uncle Bill groaned
with fury and impotence, Bull continued the task of preparing him for
bed. He straightened the old body of the terrible Campbell; he heated
water in the tub and washed away stains and dirt; he took off the
stained bandages and replaced them with clean ones.
His cousins helped in the latter part of this work. Weakness had
reduced Uncle Bill to speechlessness. Finally the head of Bill
Campbell was laid on a double fold of blanket in lieu of a pillow. A
pipe had been tamped full and lighted by Bull and--crowning
insult--set between Bill's teeth. When all this was accomplished Bull
retired to his corner, picked up his book, and was instantly absorbed.
In the hushed atmosphere it seemed that a terrible blow had fallen,
and that another was about to fall. Harry and Joe were as men stunned,
but they looked upon their father with a gathering complacency. They
had found it demonstrated that it was possible to disobey their father
without being instantly destroyed. They were taking the lesson to
heart. And indeed old Bill Campbell himself seemed to be slowly
admitting that he was beaten.
The illusion of absolute self-sufficiency, which he had built up
through the years for the sake of imposing upon his sons and Bull
Hunter, was now destroyed. At a single stroke he had been exposed as
an old man, already beaten in battle by a foeman and now requiring as
much care as a sick woman. The shame of it burned in him; but the
comfort of the smoothed bunk and the filled pipe between his teeth was
a blessing. He found to his own surprise that he was not hating Bull
with a tithe of his usual vigor. He began to realize that he had come
to the end of his period of command. When he left that sickbed he
could only advise.
As a king about to die he looked at his heirs and found them strong
and sufficient and pleasing to the eye. Nowhere in the mountains were
there two boys as tall, as straight, as deadly with rifle and
revolver, as fierce, as relentless, as these two boys of his. He had
sharpened their tempers, and he rejoiced in the sullen ferocity with
which they looked at him now, unloving, cunning, biding their time and
finding that it had almost come. But he was not yet done. His body was
wrecked; there remained his mind, and they would find it a great
power. But he did not talk until the lights had been put out and the
three youths were in their separate bunks. Then, without the light to
show them his helpless body, in the darkness, which would give his
mind a freer play, he began to tell his story.
It was a long narrative. Far back in the years he had prospected with
a youth named Pete Reeve. They had located a claim and they had gone
to town together to celebrate. In the celebration he had drunk with
Reeve till the boy stupefied. Then he had induced Reeve to gamble for
his share of the claim and had won it. Afterward Pete swore to be even
with him. But the years had gone by without another meeting of
the men.
Only today, riding through the mountains, he had come on a dried-up
wisp of a man with long, iron-gray hair, a sharp, withered face, and
hands like the claws of a bird. He rode a fine bay gelding, and had
stopped Bill to ask some questions about the region above the
timberline because he was drifting south and intended to cross the
summits. Bill had described the way, and suddenly, out of their talk,
came the revelation of their identities--the one was Bill Campbell,
the other was Pete Reeve.
At this point in the story Bull heaved himself slowly, softly up on
one arm to listen. He was beginning to get the full sense of the words
for the first time. This narrative was like a book done in a
commoner language.
CHAPTER 4
The tale halted. To be defeated is one thing; to be forced to confess
defeat is another. Uncle Bill determined on the bitterer alternative.
"He made a clean fight," declared Uncle Bill. "First he cussed me out
proper. Then he went for his gat and he beat me to the draw. They
ain't no disgrace to that. You'll learn pretty soon that anybody might
get beaten sooner or later--if he fights enough men. And my gun hung
in the leather. Before I got it on him he'd shot me clean through the
right shoulder--a placed shot, boys. He wanted to land me there. It
tumbled me off my hoss. I rolled away and tried to get to my gun that
had fallen on the ground. He shot me ag'in through the leg and
stopped me.
"Then he got off his hoss and fixed up the wounds. He done a good job,
as you seen. 'Bill' says he, 'you ain't dead; you're worse'n dead.
That right arm of yours is going to be stiff the rest of your days.
You're a one-armed man from now on, and that one arm is the worst
you got.'
"That was why he sent me home alive. To make me live and keep hating
him, the same's he'd lived and hated me. But he made a mistake. Pete
Reeve is a wise fox, but he made one mistake. He forgot that I might
have somebody to send on his trail. He didn't know that I had two boys
I'd raised so's they was each better with a gun nor me. He didn't
dream of that, curse him! But when you, Harry, or you, Joe, pump the
lead into him, shoot him so's he'll live long enough to know who
killed him and why!"
As he spoke, there was a quality in his voice that seemed to find the
boys in the darkness and point each of them out. "Which of you takes
the trail?"
A little silence followed. Bull wondered at it.
"He's gone by way of Johnstown," continued the wounded man. "If one of
you cuts across the summit toward Shantung he's pretty sure to cut in
across Pete's trail. Which is goin' to start? Well, you can match for
the chance! Because him that comes back with Pete Reeve marked off the
slate is a man!"
That chilly little silence made Bull's heart beat. To be called a man,
to be praised by stern Bill Campbell--surely these were things to make
anyone risk death!
"Is that the Pete Reeve," said Harry's voice, "that shot up Mike
Rivers over the hill to the Tompkins place, about four year back?"
"That's him. Why?"
Again the silence. Then Bull heard the old man cursing
softly--meditatively, one might almost have said.
"Cut across for Johnstown," said Joe softly, "in a storm like this?
They won't be no trails left to find above the timberline. It'd be
sure death. Listen!"
There was a lull in the wind, and in the breeze that was left, they
could hear the whisper of the snow crushing steadily against
the window.
"It's heavy fall, right enough," declared Harry.
"And this Pete Reeve--why, he's a gunfighter, Dad."
"And what are you?" asked the old man. "Ain't I labored and slaved all
my life to make you handy with guns? What for d'you think I wasted all
them hours showin' you how to pull a trigger and where to shoot and
how to get a gun out of the leather?"
"To kill for meat," suggested Harry.
"Meat, nothing! The kind of meat I mean walks on two feet and fights
back."
"Maybe, if we started together--" ventured Joe.
His father broke in, "Boy, I ain't going to send out a pack of men to
run down Pete Reeve. He met me single and he fought me clean, and he's
going to be pulled down by no pack of yaller dogs! Go one of you alone
or else both of you stay here."
He waited, but there was no response. "Is this the way my blood is
showin' up in my sons? Is this the result of all my trainin'?"
After that there was no more talk. The long silence was not broken by
even the sound of breathing until someone began to snore. Then Bull
knew that the sleep of the night had settled down.
He lay with his hands folded behind his head, thinking. They were
willing enough to go together to do this difficult thing. But had they
not lifted together at the stump and failed to do the thing which he
had done single-handed? That thought stuck in his memory and would not
out. And suppose he, Bull, were to accomplish this great feat and
return to the shack? Would not Bill Campbell feel doubly repaid for
the living he had furnished for his nephew? More than once the grim
old man had cursed the luck that saddled him with a stupid incubus.
But the curses would turn to compliments if Bull left this little man,
this catlike and dangerous fighter, this Pete Reeve, dead on
the trail.
Not that all this was clear in the mind of Bull, but he felt something
like a command pushing him on that difficult south trail, through the
storm and the snow that would now be piling above the timberline. He
waited until there was no noise but the snoring of the sleepers and
the rush and roar of the wind which continually set something stirring
in the room. These sounds served to cover effectually any noises he
made as he felt about and made up his small pack. His old canvas coat,
his most treasured article of apparel, he took down from the hook
where it accumulated dust from month to month. His ancient, secondhand
cartridge belt with the antiquated revolver he removed from another
hook--he had never been given enough ammunition to become a shot of
any quality--and he pushed quickly into the night.
The moment he was through the door, the storm caught him in the face a
stinging blow, and the rush of snow chilled his skin. That stinging
blow steadied to a blast. It was a tremendous, heavy fall. The wind
had scoured the drifts from the clearing and was already banking them
around the little house. In the morning, as like as not, the boys
would have to dig their way out.
He went straight to the horse shed for his snowshoes that hung on the
wall there. Ordinary snowshoes would not endure his ponderous weight,
and Uncle Bill Campbell had fashioned these himself, heavy and
uncomfortable articles, but capable of enduring the strain.
Fumbling his way down behind the stalls, Bill's roan lashed out at him
with savage heels; but Maggie, the old draft horse, whinnied softly,
greeting that familiar heavy step. He tied the snowshoes on his back
and then stopped for a last word to Maggie. She raised her head and
dropped it clumsily on his shoulder. She was among the little, agile
mountain ponies what he was among men, and their bulk had rendered
each of them more or less helpless. There seemed to be a mute
understanding between them, and it was never more apparent than when
Maggie whinnied gently in his ear. He stroked her big, bony head, a
lump forming in his throat. If the bullets of little Pete Reeve
dropped him in some far-off trail, the old-broken-down horse would be
the only living creature that would mourn for him.
Outside, the night and the storm swallowed him at once. Before he had
gone fifty feet the house was out of sight. Then, entering the forest
of balsam firs, the force of the wind was lessened, and he made good
time up the first part of the grade. There would probably be no use
for the snowshoes in this region of broken shrubbery before he came to
the timberline.
He swept on with a lengthening stride. He knew this part of the
country like a book, of course, and he seldom stumbled, save when he
came out into a clearing and the wind smote at him from an unexpected
angle. In one of these clearings he stopped and took stock of his
position. Far away to the west and the south, the head of Scalped
Mountain was lost in dim, rushing clouds. He must make for that goal.
Progress became less easy almost at once. The trees that grew in this
elevated region were not tall enough to act as wind breaks; they were
hardly more than shrubs a great deal of the time, and merely served to
force him into detours around dense hedges. Sometimes, in a clearing,
he found himself staggering to the knees in a compacted drift of snow;
sometimes an immense sheet of snow was picked up by the wind and flung
in his face like a blanket.