At that fall the six men scampered from beneath the table to seize the downed man.  There was no need of their haste.  Sheriff Anderson was a wreck rather than a fighting man.  One arm was horribly crumpled beneath him; his ribs were shattered, there was a great gash where the rung of the chair had cut into the bone like a knife.

They stood chattering about the fallen man, straightening him out, feeling his pulse, making sure that he, who would soon hang at the will of the law, was alive.  Outside, voices were rushing toward them, doors slamming.

Bull Hunter broke through the circle, bent over the limp body, and drew a big bundle of keys from a pocket.  Then, without a word, he went back to the far end of the room, buckled on his gun belt, and in silence left the room.

The others paid no heed.  They and the newcomers who had poured into the room were fascinated by the work of the giant rather than the giant’s self.  They had a lantern, swinging dull light and grotesque shadows across the place now, and by the illumination, two of the men went to the wall and picked up the great oaken chair.  They raised it slowly between them, a battered mass of disconnected wood.  Then they looked to the far end of the long table where he who had thrown the missile had stood.  Another line had been written into the history of Bull Hunter—­the first line that was written in red.

Bull himself was on his way to the jail.  He found it unguarded.  The deputy had gone to find the cause of the commotion at the hotel.  The steel bars, moreover, were sufficient to retain the prisoner and keep out would-be rescuers.

In the dim light of his lantern, Bull saw that Pete Reeve was sitting cross-legged on his bunk, like a little, dried-up idol, smoking a cigarette.  His only greeting to the big man was a lifting of the eyebrows.  But, when the big key was fitted into the lock and the lock turned, he showed his first signs of interest.  He was standing up when Bull opened the door and strode in.

“Have you got your things?” said Bull curtly.

“What things, big fellow?”

“Why, guns and things—­and your hat, of course.”

Pete Reeve walked to the corner of the cell and took a sombrero off the wall.  “Here’s that hat,” he answered, “but they ain’t passing out guns to jailbirds—­not in these parts!”

“You ain’t a jailbird,” answered Bull, “so we’ll get that gun.  Know where it is?”

Reeve followed without a question through the open door, only stopping as he passed beyond the bars, to look back to them with a shudder.  It was the first sign of emotion he had shown since his arrest.  But his step was lighter and quicker as he followed Bull into the front room.

“In that closet, yonder,” said Reeve, pointing to a door.  “That’s where they keep the guns.”

Bull shook out his bundle of keys into the great palm of his hand.

“Not those keys—­the deputy has the key to the closet,” said Pete.  “I saw Anderson give it to him.”