“It starts in,” said Bull, “the other night when the gent come in with word that Pete Reeve was out playing cards with Armstrong and losing money.  When the sheriff heard that, he started to thinking.  He was remembering how he’d hated Armstrong for a good many years, and that made him think that maybe Armstrong would get into trouble with Reeve, because Reeve is a pretty good shot, and the sheriff hoped that, if it come to a showdown, Reeve would shoot Armstrong full of holes.  And that started him wishing pretty strong that Armstrong would get killed!”

“Do I have to stand here and listen to this fool talk?” demanded the sheriff.

“I’m just supposing,” said Bull.  “Surely they ain’t any harm in just supposing?”

“Not a bit,” decided Jud, who had taken the position of main arbiter.

“Well, the sheriff got to wishing Armstrong was dead so strong that it didn’t seem he could stand to have him living much more.  He told the folks that he was going out to see that no harm come to Armstrong from Reeve.  Then he got on his hoss and went out.  All the way he was thinking hard.  Armstrong was the gent that was sheriff before Anderson; Armstrong was the gent that might get the job and throw him out again.  Ain’t that clear?  Well, the sheriff gets close to the cabin and—­”

He paused and slowly extended his long arm toward the sheriff.  “What’d you do then?”

“Me?  I heard a shot—­”

“You left your hoss standing in the brush near the house,” interrupted Bull, “and you went along on foot.”

“Does that sound reasonable, a gent going on foot when he might ride?” demanded the sheriff.

“You didn’t want to make no noise,” said Bull, and his great voice swallowed the protest of the sheriff.

Anderson cast another glance at the listeners.  Plainly they were fascinated by this tale, and they were following it step by step with nods.

“You didn’t make no noise, either,” went on Bull Hunter.  “You slipped up to the cabin real soft, and you climbed up on the east side of the house over some rocks.”

“Why in reason should a man climb over rocks?  Why wouldn’t he go right to the door?”

“Because you didn’t want to be seen.”

“Then why not the west window, fool!”

“You tried that window first, but they was some dry brush lying in front of it, and you couldn’t come close enough to look in without making a noise stepping on the dead wood.  So then you went around to the other side and climbed over the rocks until you could look into the cabin.  Am I right?”

“I—­no, curse you, no!  Of course you ain’t right!” shouted Anderson.

“Looking right through that window,” said Bull heavily, “you seen Armstrong, the man you hated, facing you, and, with his back turned, was Pete Reeve.  You said to yourself, ’Drop Armstrong with a bullet, catch Reeve, and put the blame on him!’ Then you pulled your gun.”