The action swept Pete in and crushed his gun hand
and arm against the body of his assailant, paralyzing
his only power of attack or defense. Reeve was
carried down to the ground as if beneath the bulk of
a mountain. There was no question of sparing
life now. Pete Reeve began to fight for life.
He wrestled at his gun to tug it free, but found it
anchored. He pulled the trigger, and the gun spoke
loud and clear, but the bullet plunged into empty
space. Then he felt that left arm begin to move,
and the hand worked up behind his back like a great
spider.
Higher it rose, and the huge, thick fingers reached
up and around his throat, fumbling to get at the windpipe.
Pete Reeve made his last effort; it was like striving
to free himself from a ton’s weight. Hysteria
of fear and horror seized him, and his voice gave utterance
to his terror. As he screamed, the big fingers
joined around his throat. Any further pressure
would end him!
He looked up into the glaring eyes and the contorted
face of the giant; the rasping, panting breathing
paralyzed his senses. There was a slight inward
contraction of the grip; then it ceased.
Miraculously he felt the great hand relax and fall
away. The bulk was heaved away from him, and
staggering to his own feet, he saw Bull Hunter supported
against a tree, one leg useless, one arm streaming.
“I couldn’t seem to do it,” said
Bull Hunter thickly. “I couldn’t
noways seem to do it, Reeve. You see, I sort of
like you, and I couldn’t kill you, Pete.”
When Pete Reeve recovered from his astonishment he
said, “You can do more. You can go home
and tell that infernal hound of an uncle of yours
that you had the life of Pete Reeve under your fingertips
and that you didn’t take it. It’s
the second time I’ve owed my life, and both
times in one day, and both times to one man. You
tell your uncle that!”
The big man sagged still more against the tree.
“I’ll never go home, Pete, unless ghosts
walk; and I’ll never tell Uncle Bill anything,
unless the ghosts talk. I’m dying pretty
pronto, I think, Pete.”
“Dyin’? You ain’t hurt bad,
Bull!”
“It’s the bleeding; all the senses is
running out of my head—like water—and
the moon—is turning black—and—”
He slumped down at the foot of the tree.
When old Farmer Morton and his son came in their buckboard
through the marshes, they heard the screaming of Pete
Reeve for help. Leaving their team, they bolted
across country to the open glade. There they
found Pete still shouting for help, kneeling above
the body of a man, and working desperately to arrange
an effectual tourniquet. They ran close and discovered
the two men.
Old Morton knew enough rude surgery to stop the bleeding.
It was he who counted the pulse and listened to the
heart. “Low,” he said, “very
low—life is just flickerin’, stranger.”
