Bull considered, as though there were few other wishes
that he could express. “I haven’t
any money,” he apologized. “D’you
think maybe you could pay me a little something outside
of food and a place to sleep?”
Bridewell blinked, and then prepared himself to become
angry, when it dawned on him that this was not intended
for sarcasm. He found that Bull was searching
his face eagerly, as though he feared that he were
asking too much.
“What would do you?” suggested Bridewell
tentatively.
“I dunno,” said Bull, sighing with relief.
“Anything you think.”
It was plain that the big man was half-witted—or
nearly so. Bridewell kept the sparkle of exultation
out of his eyes.
“You leave it to me, then, and I’ll do
what’s more’n right by you. When
d’you want to start work?”
“Right now.”
When Bull left the dining room that night after supper,
Mrs. Bridewell looked across the table at her husband
with horror in her eyes.
“Did you see?” she gasped. “He
ate the whole pot of beans!”
“Sure I seen him,” and he grinned.
“But—he’ll eat us out of house
and home! Why, he’s like a wolf!”
Bridewell chuckled with superior knowledge. “He’s
ate enough for three,” he admitted, “but
he’s worked enough for six—besides,
most of his wages come in food. But work?
I never seen anything like it! He handled more
timbers than a dozen. When it come to spiking
them in place he seen me swinging that twelve-pound
sledge and near breaking my back. ‘I think
it’s easier this way,’ he says. ’Besides
you can hit a lot faster if you use just one hand.’
And he takes the hammer, and sends that big spike
in all the way to the head with one lick. And
he wondered why I didn’t work the same way!
Ain’t got any idea how strong he is.”
Mrs. Bridewell listened with wide eyes. “The
idea,” she murmured. “The idea!
Where’s he now?”
Her husband went to the back door. “He’s
sitting over by the pump talking to Tod. Sitting
talking like they was one age. I reckon he’s
sort of half-witted.”
“How come?” sharply asked Mrs. Bridewell.
“Ain’t Tod got more brains than most growed-up
men?”
“I reckon he has,” admitted the proud
father.
And if they had put the same question to Bull Hunter,
the giant would have agreed with them emphatically.
He approached the child tamer of Diablo with a diffidence
that was almost reverence. The freckle-faced
boy looked up from his whittling when the shadow of
Bull fell athwart him, with an equal admiration; also
with suspicion, for the cowpunchers, on the whole,
were apt to make game of the youngster and his grave,
grown-up ways. He was, therefore, shrewdly suspicious
of jests at his expense.
Furthermore, he had seen the big stranger heaving
the great timbers about and whirling the sledge with
one hand; he half suspected that the jokes might be
pointed with the weight of that heavy hand. His
amazement was accordingly great when he found the big
man actually sitting down beside him, cross-legged,
and he was absolutely stupefied when Bull Hunter said,
“I’ve been aiming at this chance to talk
to you, Tod, all day.”
