“No, Pete, of all the fools—”
Bull waited to hear no more. He stole back to
the table on the far side of the room sick at heart
and sat down to think or try to think.
The truth came to him slowly. Pete Reeve, whom
he had taken as his ideal, was, as a matter of fact—he
dared not think what! The blow shook him to the
center. But he had been living on the charity
of Reeve. He had been draining the resources
of the generous fellow. And how would he ever
be able to pay him back?
One thing was definite. He must put an end to
any increase of the obligations. He must leave.
The moment the thought came to him he tore a flyleaf
out of the book and wrote in his big, sprawling hand:
Dear Pete:
I have to tell you that it has just
occurred to me that you have been paying all the
bills, and I’ve been paying none. That
has to stop, and the only way for me to stop it is
to go off all by myself. I hate to sneak away,
but if I stay to say good-bye I know you’ll
argue me out of it because I’m no good at
an argument. Good-bye and good luck, and remember
that I’m not forgetting anything that has
happened; that when I have enough money to pay you
back I’m coming to find you if I have to travel
all the way around the world.
Your pardner,
BULL
That done, he paused a moment, tempted to tear up
the little slip. But the original impulse prevailed.
He put the paper on the table, picked up his hat,
and stole slowly from the room.
He went out the back door of the hotel so that few
people might mark his leaving, and cut for the woods.
Once in them, he changed his direction to the east,
heading for the lower, rolling hills in that direction.
He turned back when the lights of the town had drawn
into one small, glimmering ray. Then this, too,
went out, and with it the pain of leaving Pete Reeve
became acute. He felt lost and alone, that keen
mind had guided him so long. As he stalked along
with the great swinging strides through the darkness,
the holster rubbed on his thigh and he remembered
Pete. Truly he had come into the hands of Pete
Reeve a child, and he was leaving him as a man.
The dawn found him forty miles away and still swinging
strongly down the winding road. It was better
country now. The desert sand had disappeared,
and here the soil supported a good growth of grass
that would fatten the cattle. It was a cheerful
country in more ways than the greenness of the grass,
however. There were no high mountains, but a
continual smooth rolling of hills, so that the landscape
varied with every half-mile he traveled. And
every now and then he had to jump a runlet of water
that murmured across his trail.
A pleasant country, a clear sky, and a cool wind touching
at his face. The contentment of Bull Hunter increased
with every step he took. He had diminished the
sharpness of his hunger by taking up a few links of
his belt, but he was glad when he saw smoke twisting
over a hill and came, on the other side, in view of
a crossroads village. He fingered the few pieces
of silver in his pocket. That would be enough
for breakfast, at least.
