“I’ve figured that all out,” said Bull calmly.  “But they’s so much of me to kill that I don’t figure one bullet could do the work.  Do you?”

The eyes of the proprietor grew large.  He swallowed, and before he could answer Bull continued in the exposition of his theory.  “Before he shoots the next shot, maybe I can get my hands on him.”

“You going to fight him bare hands agin’ a gun?”

“You see,” said Bull apologetically, “I ain’t much good with a gun, but I feel sort of curious about what would happen if I got my grip on a man.”

And that was the foundation on which another section of the Bull Hunter legend was built.

CHAPTER 6

The bed on which Bull Hunter reposed his bulk that night was not the cot to which he was shown by his host.  One glance at the spindling wooden legs of the canvas-bottomed cot was enough for Bull, and having wrapped himself in the covers he lay down on the floor and was instantly asleep.

While it was still dark, he wakened out of a dream in which Pete Reeve seemed to be riding far—­far away on the rim of the world.  Ten minutes later Bull was on the trail out of Johnstown.  There was only one trail for a horseman south of Johnstown, and that trail followed the windings of the valley.  Bull planned to push across the ragged peaks of the Little Cloudy Mountains and head off the fugitive at Glenn Crossing.

Two days of stern labor went into the next burst.  He followed the cold stars by night and the easy landmarks by day, and for food he had the stock of raisins he had bought at Johnstown.  He came out of the heights and dropped down into Glenn Crossing in the gloom of the second evening.  But raisins are meager support for such a bulk as that of Bull Hunter.  It was a gaunt-faced giant who looked in at the door of the shop where the blacksmith was working late.  The mechanic looked up with a start at the deep voice of the stranger, but he managed to stammer forth his tidings.  Such a man as Pete Reeve had indeed been in Glenn Crossing, but he had gone on at the very verge of day and night.

Bull Hunter set his teeth, for there was no longer a possibility of cutting off Pete Reeve by crossing country.  The immense labors of the last three days had merely served to put him on the heels of the horseman, and now he must follow straight down country and attempt to match his long legs against the speed of a fine horse.  He drew a deep breath and plunged into the night out of Glenn Crossing, on the south trail.  At least he would make one short, stiff march before the weariness overtook him.