“The Ghost,” said Pete Reeve.
“That murdering wolf of yours!” exclaimed Dunkin, trembling with anger, and he stalked over toward the big man.
Size meant nothing in a gun fight, and Dunkin was a fighter with guns and guns only. The bulk of Bull Hunter made him only an easier target. So Dunkin was fearless. He hated the quiet honesty of the big man; he hated him because it was Bull who kept Pete Reeve from running amuck on the long trail. Now all his hatred came trembling in his voice.
“You can say good-by to that dirty wolf,” he declared, “and you can say it pronto. Where is he?”
“Cleaned out,” said Pete Reeve, watching the two in growing anxiety, for he saw Bull Hunter raise his head for the first time, and though he made no reply to Dunkin, Hunter watched the face of the man with a strange steadiness that foreboded no good. “He cleaned out, Dunkin, and it was Bull that saved the hide of your dog. He took The Ghost by the throat and banged him on the ground.”
It may have been the words of Pete; it may have been that the quiet, straight-looking eyes of Hunter cooled the ire of Dunkin, for his tone changed at once. “Took The Ghost by the throat with his bare hands - that dirty wolf?” asked Dunkin. He retreated a step, watching Bull Hunter with a new respect.
“That was what he done,” said Pete dryly. “Here’s your chuck ready; come on and eat. Besides, on account of your dog, Bull lost The Ghost, and he was sure fond of him.”
“That’s a pile different,” admitted Dunkin. “Makes me kind of sorry I busted out like I just done.” He fumbled in his pocket and then he drew out a chain and locket. “Here’s that picture I pinched. Maybe you’d like to see it. Ain’t it a hummer?”
Bull extended his hand and took the trinket. Awkwardly he snapped the locked open. It was a beautiful subject, beautifully done. A miniaturist of no mean ability, wandering through the West to regain his health, had painted it, and he had done justice to his sitter. With an exclamation of delight Bull Hunter received the trinket reverently in both his opened hands.
“Hit the flint that time and drew a spark, I reckon,” said Dunkin, stepping back. “Bull’s all wrought up, Pete.”
The little man rose and went to his big friend and looked over the shoulder of Bull at the painting. It was a beautiful, dark-eyed girl, and the play of the firelight gave a peculiar illusion of life to her smile.
“It’s her,” said Bull Hunter at last. “It’s Mary Hood, Pete.”
He closed the locket suddenly and stared at Dunkin as though he were angry that the eyes of the man had rested on even the representation of that face. “You took it off’n her father, you say?” he asked coldly.
“Sure, son.”
“You robbed him of it, maybe?” went on Bull.
Dunkin saw the new drift at once and met it willingly. “If you don’t like it because it was grabbed, give it back to me at once.”
“It’s got to go back to her,” said Bull gravely, “and your hands will never touch it again.”
Dunkin choked and then cursed explosively. “Go back to her? Not in a million years. Give that to me, Hunter. You hear me talk?”
Pete Reeve drew away and watched quietly. He seemed to be judging the two men.
“Not in a million years I won’t give it back to you,” said Bull, rising to his feet. “They ain’t a man here that’s good enough to carry her picture around. This is more’n most pictures. It’s so like her it’s almost as if there was part of her in it. Not one of us here is good enough to carry this around. It’s going back. Mind that, Dunkin.”
“Now, by” began Dunkin.
But Pete Reeve intervened decisively, walking between the two men as if they had not been on the verge of gun play. “You listen to me, Dunkin.” And he took the arm of Dunkin and turned him away.
“I’ll finish talking to you later,” said Dunkin, looking at Hunter and going off with the little man.
“Now,” said Pete Reeve softly, when they were well out of earshot. The dwindling camp fire had grown starlike behind them, even at that short distance. “I’ll tell you that you was close to a bad bust, partner.”
“Because of him?” asked Dunkin. “Say, Pete, them big ones are too slow, a lot too slow.”
“I’ve seen him fight,” said Pete with conviction, “and he can shoot. I taught him how.”
Dunkin had been prepared for protest, but the last words made him close his mouth with a slight intake of breath that was almost a gasp. The speed and accuracy of Pete Reeve with a gun were grimly known facts in the mountain desert.
“There ain’t any fear in him,” said Pete. “He’s gentle as a kid. But don’t make no mistake. He’s the worst man to tangle with that you ever seen.”
“I ain’t taking nothing from nobody,” said Dunkin with a sort of defensive ferocity.
“You don’t have to. He won’t ever mention it again if you don’t bring it up, and he won’t bother you none.”
“I don’t think he will,” said Dunkin. “Look back there! If he ain’t rolling up in his blankets!”
“That’s his way,” replied Pete Reeve. “When most of us want to do a thing we start right off, but Bull Hunter sleeps on it first, and then he starts to do it. But the point is that it always gets done. In the morning he’ll start, and he’ll get there. He loves that girl, Dunkin. He seen her and loved her, but he got in a fight with her father - the same gent you stuck up to-day. You know Jack Hood is fast with a gun, but he was like a gent in a dream compared with Bull. Bull shot him down and hurt him pretty bad. Then he got away from the whole Dunbar outfit, including big Hal Dunbar himself, with me helping a little.”
“Oh,” said Dunkin, “you were there.” He spoke as if the whole mystery were explained by Reeve’s presence.
“Of course,” went on Pete, “after shooting the girl’s father he couldn’t very well stay around and make love to the girl, could he? Besides, he doesn’t think he’s good enough to have her wipe her shoes on him. So he’s stayed away and ate his heart out, not even talking about her to me. Now here’s the point of all this. Bull won’t leave me, and he won’t let me leave him, because he’s afraid I’ll start wrong ag’in. And me going near crazy for lack of something to do. Well, in the morning he’ll try to get me to ride with him to the Dunbar ranch to see Mary Hood. But you and me will slip away before morning, and I’ll leave him a note, saying we got a plan to work out, while he’s riding up to the Dunbar ranch. Is that clear?”
“Clearest thing I ever heard,” rejoined Dunkin joyously. “Pete, you and me working together can make a million. I always thought so!”
Chapter XIV
Bull Rides Diablo
Thus it happened that Bull Hunter, waking and standing up from his blankets in the first light of the morning, found not a sign of Reeve or Dunkin or the dog. Only the great black stallion, Diablo, lifted his head from the place where he was cropping the dried grasses and whinnied a ringing good morning to his master. Aside from Diablo there was no living creature. The Ghost was gone, Dunkin was gone, and his best friend, his tried companion, Pete Reeve, had vanished like the wind. There was only Diablo and the mountains in the lonely morning light.
He found a note pinned to the bottom of his blankets:
Dear Bulclass="underline" Me and Dunkin have a little trip ahead. I know you ain’t very happy about that sort of a trip, and I figured if you knew we was leaving, you’d come along just to take care of me, even if you had business of your own on hand. But I know that you’re all set on going to the Dunbar ranch to see Mary Hood. And I sure don’t blame you. Go and see her, and look sharp. Because Hall Dunbar and Jack Hood would both give a year of life to get a shot at you. I’ll come back and find you later on. Good luck.