“I’ve figured that all out,” said
Bull calmly. “But they’s so much of
me to kill that I don’t figure one bullet could
do the work. Do you?”
The eyes of the proprietor grew large. He swallowed,
and before he could answer Bull continued in the exposition
of his theory. “Before he shoots the next
shot, maybe I can get my hands on him.”
“You going to fight him bare hands agin’
a gun?”
“You see,” said Bull apologetically, “I
ain’t much good with a gun, but I feel sort
of curious about what would happen if I got my grip
on a man.”
And that was the foundation on which another section
of the Bull Hunter legend was built.
The bed on which Bull Hunter reposed his bulk that
night was not the cot to which he was shown by his
host. One glance at the spindling wooden legs
of the canvas-bottomed cot was enough for Bull, and
having wrapped himself in the covers he lay down on
the floor and was instantly asleep.
While it was still dark, he wakened out of a dream
in which Pete Reeve seemed to be riding far—far
away on the rim of the world. Ten minutes later
Bull was on the trail out of Johnstown. There
was only one trail for a horseman south of Johnstown,
and that trail followed the windings of the valley.
Bull planned to push across the ragged peaks of the
Little Cloudy Mountains and head off the fugitive at
Glenn Crossing.
Two days of stern labor went into the next burst.
He followed the cold stars by night and the easy landmarks
by day, and for food he had the stock of raisins he
had bought at Johnstown. He came out of the heights
and dropped down into Glenn Crossing in the gloom of
the second evening. But raisins are meager support
for such a bulk as that of Bull Hunter. It was
a gaunt-faced giant who looked in at the door of the
shop where the blacksmith was working late. The
mechanic looked up with a start at the deep voice
of the stranger, but he managed to stammer forth his
tidings. Such a man as Pete Reeve had indeed been
in Glenn Crossing, but he had gone on at the very
verge of day and night.
Bull Hunter set his teeth, for there was no longer
a possibility of cutting off Pete Reeve by crossing
country. The immense labors of the last three
days had merely served to put him on the heels of the
horseman, and now he must follow straight down country
and attempt to match his long legs against the speed
of a fine horse. He drew a deep breath and plunged
into the night out of Glenn Crossing, on the south
trail. At least he would make one short, stiff
march before the weariness overtook him.
