“Ever hear a whine like that out of a wolf?” he asked.
The huntsman himself was barely beginning to recover from his astonishment, but he rallied quickly.
“Wolf or dog,” he said, “no man has to look at him twice to see what he is - but, wolf or dog, it don’t make no difference. Every man on the range knows him. Every man knows what he’s done. He’s killed Steve Hendrick’s two best dogs, and he slaughtered the big Jordan bull. That’s one day’s work for him, and it’s about enough; but it’s only an average day’s work, I tell you. Man, the damage he’s done runs up into the thousands of dollars every season! Stand aside and let me finish him!”
Bull Hunter stepped aside - and instantly moved back into his former place, blocking the way of the hunter’s raised gun. When it was seen that he was determined on resistance, the rest of the hunters drew near with black looks. Into those gloomy faces Bull Hunter stared with eyes which had gradually cleared of doubts.
“Gents,” he said, “the way I been raised up is to look on everything that comes into my house and asks for a shelter as a guest, and a guest while he’s under my roof can’t be hurt by other folks without they put me out of the way first. If a murderer and a thief came to my house and asked me to keep him, I’d do it. The minute he was outside the door again I might try to kill him, but while he was inside I’d treat him like a brother. If I’d do that for a skunk of a man, d’you think I can turn out a dumb beast that’s come and whined at my feet?”
His voice rose a note or two and swelled out largely at them.
“Gents, I can’t do it! It ain’t in me, somehow. I’ve got a little money. I’ll pay the price of his scalp a good many times over. But while he’s inside my house, you keep hands off. I guess that’s final!”
He spoke firmly, rather threateningly, and though there were uneasy movements toward guns in the party he faced, there was no outright drawing of a weapon.
Bill Jordan, the oldest man who had ridden in the chase, came out of the rear of the group and, approaching the window, spoke for the first time. He was a withered old rancher with more money than he knew how to spend, and with a reputation for keenness that was widely respected in the mountains. He was rolling a cigarette while he spoke; his whole manner was free from provocation or hint of viciousness; the sting of what he said lay entirely in the words themselves, and not at all in the tone in which they were uttered.
“You’re Bull Hunter - Charlie Hunter, I guess?”
“That’s my name,” said the mild-voiced giant.
“I’m Bill Jordan, tolerable well known in these parts.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Jordan.”
“Thanks. I owned that bull that was killed today. I’ve owned a good many other head that The Ghost has butchered - and it’s got to be stopped. Is that plain?”
“It sounds reasonable,” said Bull almost plaintively. “But you see my position?”
“Certainly,” and Jordan nodded. Having finished rolling his smoke, he lighted it, never taking his wrinkled, thoughtful eyes from the face of the big man during this process.
“Now,” he went on, taking up a new phase of his idea, “you live up here with a man I’ve never seen, but I’ve heard him described as a smallish gent with gray hair and a nervous way with his hands. His name is Pete Reeve.”
“Pete Reeve is my partner,” said the big man with a sort of childish pride.
“Pete Reeve is a tolerable good sort of man to have for a partner,” admitted the rancher, “but if he ain’t a man’s partner he ain’t near so good to have around, I’ve heard folks say.”
“Who?” asked the giant with a ring of danger in his voice. “Who told you that?”
The other deftly turned the subject. “You said you had enough money to pay for The Ghost’s scalp several times over?”
“Yep.”
“And where’d you get that money? Out of trapping? That’s your business, isn’t it?”
Another man might have been irritated by this close volley of questions, but the giant remained perfectly calm.
“Yep. I make a good deal of money out of trapping.” He seemed to consider the questions of the rancher as implying compliments for his skill. “Maybe you’ve heard about the pile of skins I bring into town every once in a while?”
His smile of expectancy gradually faded. The wrinkling eyelids of the rancher bunched above eyes that were probing ceaselessly at the mind of the giant.
“And you get all your money that way? Out of the traps?”
“No, some of it is what Pete leaves around. Pete always has plenty of money. Come easy, go easy with Pete.” The big man went on artlessly, unaware of the gathering fire in the glance of Bill Jordan. “He always leaves money around, and what’s his is mine. So I can pay for the damage The Ghost has done.”
“And how does Pete Reeve make his money?” asked Jordan softly.
“I dunno,” replied Bull Hunter after a moment of thought. “I never ask much where he gets his money. Pete don’t encourage questions none.”
Jordan was stroking his chin. He seemed to be changing his mind about Hunter.
“Partner,” he said at length, smiling faintly, “you’re either the deepest one I ever seen, or else you’re a” He checked himself. Then he went on gravely: “We’ll drop this matter about The Ghost for a while. Sooner or later the wolf will sneak out, and then one of us will drop him at sight. But he’ll probably slaughter your horse, out yonder, before he’s through with you. That isn’t my business. It’s strictly yours. In the meantime, when Pete Reeve comes back you can tell him that some of us in these parts are a lot more curious about the way he makes his money than you are. We’re so curious that we’re apt to start inquiring after where he gets it, and when we start inquiring we may come with guns. Don’t forget. We’ve heard stories - no matter about what, and we’re interested.”
Bull made no reply. He stood expectant, waiting as if for the other to go on.
“You just tell Pete,” said Bill Jordan presently, as gravely as before. “Maybe he’ll figure out what we mean when we say that the air around here don’t agree with some gents, and they find out that they’d be a lot healthier if they moved. You just tell that to Pete and leave the rest of it to him to figure out. Come on, boys!”
He turned to the other members of the chase. They were by no means willing to give up so easily the quarry which they had run to the ground. But the sight of the burly shoulders of Hunter and the words of Jordan at length persuaded them; they finally departed with many a surly look over their shoulders at the little cabin which sheltered The Ghost from their dogs and their guns.
Chapter VI
Great Moments
With troubled eyes Bull Hunter watched them go. When the last of the horsemen had dropped over the ridge, he turned to his strange guest. As for the other problem, Pete Reeve would know how to decipher the puzzle, and Pete Reeve would tell him what they must do.
He found that The Ghost had not moved from his corner. His head was still on his paws, and he crouched in a slowly growing pool. Plainly the animal was bleeding to death.
Bull Hunter ripped a piece of old sheeting into strips for bandages and approached the great king of wolves with his hand outstretched, talking softly. But The Ghost heaved up his head and greeted his host with a terrible snarl. No dog ever whelped could have emitted that throat-tearing sound. It came with a great heave and indrawing of the ribs; the whole power of the big brute seemed to go into that warning. Bull Hunter, instinctively thrilling with horror, nevertheless made another step forward. It brought The Ghost to his feet, the injured right hind leg drawn up clear of the floor, but ample power remaining in the other three limbs. So standing, he lowered his head a little and waited for the charge.