Harry had risen to his feet with a snarl.
“Sit down,” said Bull, letting his great
voice swell ever so little. “I’m
pretty near dead, but I’m still man enough to
wring the neck of a skunk! Sit down!”
Harry obeyed limply, and his giant cousin went on,
his voice softening again. “When you come
in I closed my eyes,” said Bull, “because
it seemed to me like you was a dream. I’d
been awake. I’d been living among men that
sort of liked me and respected me and didn’t
laugh at me. And then you come, and I saw your
dirty face, and it made me think of a bad nightmare
I’d had when you and your brother and your dad
treated me worse’n a dog. Well, Harry, I’m
through with that dream. I’ll never go
back to it. I’m going to stay awake the
rest of my life. It was your dad that put the
wish to kill Reeve into my head with his talk.
I met Reeve, and Reeve pumped some bullets with sense
into me. He let out some of my life, but he let
in a lot of knowledge. Among other things he
showed me what a friend might be. He’s stayed
here and nursed me and talked to me—like
I was his equal, almost, instead of being sort of
simple, like I really am. And I’ve made
up my mind that I’m going to cut loose from
remembering you folks in the mountains. I ain’t
your kind. I don’t want to be your kind.
I want to fight, like Pete Reeve. I don’t
want to murder like a Campbell! All the way through,
I want to be like Pete Reeve. He don’t know
it. Maybe when I’m well he’ll go
off by himself. But whether he’s near or
far, I’ve adopted him. I’m going
to pattern after him, and the happiest day of my life
will be when I earn the right to have this man, that
I tried to kill, come and take my hand and call me
‘friend’! I guess that answers you,
Harry. Now get out and take my talk back to your
dad, and don’t trouble me no more—you
spoil my sleep!”
As he spoke the door of the next room opened softly.
Peter Reeve stood at the entrance. Harry, shaking
with fear, backed toward the other door, then leaped
far out, and whirled out of sight with a slam and
clatter of feet on the stairs. Pete Reeve came
slowly to the bedside.
“I was awake, son,” he said, “and
I couldn’t help hearing.”
Bull flushed heavily.
“It’s the best thing I ever heard,”
said Pete. “The best thing that’s
ever come to my ears—partner!”
With that word their hands joined. In reality,
far more than he dreamed, Bull had been born again.
When they were together, they made a study in contrasts.
By seeing one it was possible to imagine the other.
For instance, seeing the high, narrow forehead, peaked
face, the gray-flecked hair of Pete Reeve, his nervous
step, his piercing and uneasy eyes—seeing
this man with his body from which all spare flesh
was wasted so that he remained only muscle and nerve,
it was easy to conjure up the figure of Bull Hunter
by thinking of opposites.
