Bull Hunter - Max Brand
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 to 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 trembling 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.
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."