The action swept Pete in and crushed his gun hand and arm against the body of his assailant, paralyzing his only power of attack or defense.  Reeve was carried down to the ground as if beneath the bulk of a mountain.  There was no question of sparing life now.  Pete Reeve began to fight for life.  He wrestled at his gun to tug it free, but found it anchored.  He pulled the trigger, and the gun spoke loud and clear, but the bullet plunged into empty space.  Then he felt that left arm begin to move, and the hand worked up behind his back like a great spider.

Higher it rose, and the huge, thick fingers reached up and around his throat, fumbling to get at the windpipe.  Pete Reeve made his last effort; it was like striving to free himself from a ton’s weight.  Hysteria of fear and horror seized him, and his voice gave utterance to his terror.  As he screamed, the big fingers joined around his throat.  Any further pressure would end him!

He looked up into the glaring eyes and the contorted face of the giant; the rasping, panting breathing paralyzed his senses.  There was a slight inward contraction of the grip; then it ceased.

Miraculously he felt the great hand relax and fall away.  The bulk was heaved away from him, and staggering to his own feet, he saw Bull Hunter supported against a tree, one leg useless, one arm streaming.

“I couldn’t seem to do it,” said Bull Hunter thickly.  “I couldn’t noways seem to do it, Reeve.  You see, I sort of like you, and I couldn’t kill you, Pete.”

When Pete Reeve recovered from his astonishment he said, “You can do more.  You can go home and tell that infernal hound of an uncle of yours that you had the life of Pete Reeve under your fingertips and that you didn’t take it.  It’s the second time I’ve owed my life, and both times in one day, and both times to one man.  You tell your uncle that!”

The big man sagged still more against the tree.  “I’ll never go home, Pete, unless ghosts walk; and I’ll never tell Uncle Bill anything, unless the ghosts talk.  I’m dying pretty pronto, I think, Pete.”

“Dyin’?  You ain’t hurt bad, Bull!”

“It’s the bleeding; all the senses is running out of my head—­like water—­and the moon—­is turning black—­and—­” He slumped down at the foot of the tree.

CHAPTER 10

When old Farmer Morton and his son came in their buckboard through the marshes, they heard the screaming of Pete Reeve for help.  Leaving their team, they bolted across country to the open glade.  There they found Pete still shouting for help, kneeling above the body of a man, and working desperately to arrange an effectual tourniquet.  They ran close and discovered the two men.

Old Morton knew enough rude surgery to stop the bleeding.  It was he who counted the pulse and listened to the heart.  “Low,” he said, “very low—­life is just flickerin’, stranger.”