Bull nodded.

“All right, sheriff,” the proprietor went on to explain.  “Our young friend yonder says that he’s got something to say to you.  He’s asked each of us to hang around and be a witness.  Are you ready?”

“Jud,” burst out the sheriff, “you’re an idiot!  This overgrown booby needs a horsewhipping, and that’s the sort of an answer I’d like to make to him.”

Having delivered this broadside he strode up and confronted Bull.  It was a very poor move.  In the first place, the sheriff had insulted one of the men who was about to act as his official judge.  In the second place, by putting himself so close to Bull, he made himself appear a trifle ludicrous.  Also, if he expected to throw Bull out of the poise with this blustering, he failed.  It was not that Bull did not feel fear, but he had seen a curious thing—­the sinewy, long neck of the sheriff—­and he was wondering what would happen if one of his hands should grip that throat for a single instant.  He grew so fascinated by this study that he forgot his fear of the sheriff’s guns.

Anderson hastened to retreat from his false position.  “Gents,” he said, “excuse me for getting edgy.  But, if you want me to listen to this fellow’s talk—­”

“Hunter is his name—­Bull Hunter,” said the proprietor.

The sheriff took his place at the far end of the long table.  Like Bull, he preferred to stand.  “Start in your talk,” he commanded.

“It looks to me,” said Bull gently, “that they’s only one gent here that’s wearing a gun.”  He had thrown his own belt on a chair; and now he fixed his eyes on the weapons of Anderson.

The sheriff glared.  “You want me to take off my guns?  Son, I’d rather go naked!”

Jud, the hotel man, had already been insulted once by the sheriff, and he had been biding his time.  This seemed an excellent opening.  “Looks to me,” he remarked, “like Mr. Hunter was right.  He’s got something pretty serious to say, and he don’t want to take no chances on your cutting him short with a bullet!”

The sheriff glared at Bull and then cast a swift glance over the faces of the others.  He read upon them only one expression—­a cold curiosity.  Plainly they agreed with Jud, and the sheriff gave way.  He took off his belt and tossed it upon a chair near him.  Then he faced Bull again, but he faced the big man with half his confidence destroyed.  As he had said, he felt worse than naked without his revolvers under his touch, but now he attempted to brave out the situation.

“Well,” he said jocularly, “what you going to accuse me of, Bull Hunter?”

“I’m just going to tell a little story that I been thinking about,” said Bull.

“Story—­nothing!” exclaimed Anderson.

“Wait a minute,” broke in Jud.  “Let him tell this his own way—­I think you’d best, sheriff!”

Bull was looking at the sheriff and through him into the distance.  After all, it was a story, as distinctly a story as if he had it in a book.  As he began to tell it, he forgot Sheriff Anderson at the farther end of the table.  He talked slowly, bringing the words out one by one, as if what he said were coming to him by inspiration—­a kind of second sight.