“Howdy, sheriff,” he said. “Bringing
on another one to look over your bear?”
The prisoner’s good humor impressed Bull immensely.
Here was a man talking commonplaces in the face of
death. A greater man than Uncle Bill, he felt
at once—a far greater man. It was impossible
to conceive of that keen, sharp eye and that clawlike
hand sending a bullet far from the center of the target.
He gave his eyes long sight of that face, and then
turned from the bars and went out with the sheriff.
“Is that your man?” asked the sheriff.
“I dunno,” said Bull, fencing for time
as they stood in front of the jail. “What’d
he do?”
“You mean why he’s in jail? I’ll
tell you that, son, but first I want to know what
you got agin’ him—and your proofs—mostly
your proofs!”
The distaste which Bull had felt for the sheriff from
the first now became overpowering. That he should
be the means of bringing that terrible and active
little man to an end seemed, as a matter of fact,
absurd. Guile must have played a part in that
capture.
Suppose he were to tell the sheriff about the shooting
of Uncle Bill? That would be enough to convince
men that Pete Reeve was capable of murder, for the
shooting of Uncle Bill had been worse than murder.
It spared the life and ruined it at the same time.
But suppose he added his evidence and allowed the
law to take its course with Pete Reeve? Where
would be his own reward for his long march south and
all the pain of travel and the crossing of the mountains
at the peril of his life? There would be nothing
but scorn from Uncle Bill when he returned, and not
that moment of praise for which he yearned. To
gain that great end he must kill Pete Reeve, but not
by the aid of the law.
“I dunno,” he said to the sheriff who
waited impatiently. “I figure that what
I know wouldn’t be no good to you.”
The sheriff snorted. “You been letting
me waste all this time on you?” he asked Bull.
“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first
place?”
Bull scratched his head in perplexity. But as
he raised the great arm and put his hand behind his
head, the sheriff winced back a little. “I’m
sorry,” said Bull.
The sheriff dismissed him with a grunt of disgust,
and strode off.
Bull started out to find information. This idea
was growing slowly in his mind. He must kill
Pete Reeve, and to accomplish that great end he must
first free him from the jail. He went back to
the hotel and went into the kitchen to find food.
The proprietor himself came back to serve him.
He was a pudgy little man with a dignified pointed
beard of which he was inordinately proud.
“It’s between times for meals,”
he declared, “but you being the biggest man
that ever come into the hotel, I’ll make an exception.”
And he began to hunt through the cupboard for cold
meat.
