It was this thought of numbers that brought the clue to a possible solution to Bull Hunter.  When it came to him he stopped short in the road, threw back his head and laughed.

“And what’s all the celebration about?” asked a voice behind him.

He turned and found Sheriff Anderson on his horse directly behind him.  The soft loam of the trail had covered the sound of the sheriffs approach.  Bull blushed with a sudden sense of shame.  Moreover, the sheriff seemed unapproachably stern and dignified.  He sat erect in the saddle, a cavalier figure with his long, well-drilled mustaches.

“I dunno,” said Bull vaguely, pushing his hat back to scratch his thatch of blond hair.  “I didn’t know I was celebrating, particular.”

The sheriff watched him with small, evil eyes.  “You been snooping around, son,” he said coldly.  “And we folks in this part, we don’t like snoopers.  Understand?”

“No,” said Bull frankly, “I don’t exactly figure what you mean.”  Then he dropped his hand to his hip.

“Git your hand off that gun!” said the sheriff, his own weapon flashing instantly in the light.

It had been a move like lightning.  Its speed stunned and baffled Bull Hunter.  Something cold formed in his throat, choking him, and he obediently drew his hand away.  He did more.  He threw both immense arms above his head and stood gaping at the sheriff.

The latter eyed him for a moment with stern amusement, and then he shoved the gun back into its holster.  “I guess they ain’t much harm in you,” he said more to himself than to Bull.  “But I hate a snooper worse than I do a rat.  You can take them arms down.”

Bull lowered them cautiously.

“You hear me talk?” asked the sheriff.

“I hear,” said Bull obediently.

“I don’t like snoopers.  Which means that I don’t like you none too well.  Besides, who in thunder are you?  A wanderin’ vagrant you look to me, and we got a law agin’ vagrants.  You amble along on your trail pretty pronto, and no harm’ll come to you.  But if you’re around town tomorrow—­well, you’ve heard me talk!”

It was very familiar talk to Bull; not the words, but the commanding and contemptuous tone in which they were spoken.  Crestfallen, he submitted.  Of one thing he must make sure:  that no harm befell him before he faced Pete Reeve and Pete Reeve’s gun.  Then he could only pray for courage to attack.  But the effect of the sheriff’s little gunplay entirely disheartened Bull at the prospect of facing Pete.

With a noncommittal rejoinder he started down the road, and the sheriff put the spurs to his horse and plunged by at a full gallop, flinging the dust back into the face of the big man.  Bull wiped it out of his eyes and went on gloomily.  He had been trodden upon in spirit once more.  But, after all, that was so old a story that it made little difference.  It convinced him, however, of one thing; he could never do anything with the sheriff man to man.  Certainly he would need the help of a crowd before he faced the tall man and his cavalier mustaches.