“Shut up!” exploded Pete Reeve, who had been inwardly chafing with impatience during the whole length of this speech.  “Sometimes you talk like a fool, Bull, and this is one time!”

Bull shook his head.  “My arms are too big,” he said sadly.  “The muscle gets in my way.  I can feel it bind when I try to jerk out the gun fast.  Better give up the job, Pete.  I sure appreciate all the pains you’ve taken with me—­but I’ll never be a gunfighter.”

Pete Reeve shook his head with a sigh and then dropped into a chair, growing suddenly inert.

“No use,” he groaned.  “All because you ain’t got any confidence, Bull.”  He leaned forward in his sudden way.  “Know something?  I been keeping it back, but now I’ll tell you the straight of it.  You’re faster with a gun right now than four men out of five!”

Bull gaped in amazement.

“Fact!” cried Reeve.  “You get it out slicker than most; and after it’s out, you shoot as straight as any man I’ve ever seen.  Trouble is, you don’t appreciate yourself.  You’ve had it drilled into you so long that you’re stupid that now you believe it.  All nonsense!  You got more than a million have and you’re fast right now on the draw.  Once get hold of how important it is, and you’ll keep trying.  But you think it’s only a game.  You just play at it; you don’t work!  I wish you could have seen me when I was first practicing with a gun!  I lived with it.  Hours every day it was my companion, and right up to now, there ain’t a day goes by that I don’t spend some time keeping on edge with my revolver.  Bull, you’ll have to do the same thing.  You hear?”

He sprang up again.  It was impossible for him to remain seated a long time.

“You think it don’t mean much.  Look here!”

The Colt flicked into his hand and lay trembling in his palm, and as he talked, it shifted smoothly, as if of its own volition, forward toward his fingertips, backward, to the side, dropping out until it seemed about to fall, only to be caught with one finger through the trigger-guard and spun up again.  Always the heavy weapon was in motion as though some of the nervous spirit of Reeve had entered the heavy metal.  It responded to his thoughts rather than to his muscles.  Bull Hunter gazed enchanted.  He was accustomed to forgetting himself and admiring others.

“Look here!” went on the little man.  “Look at me.  I weigh about a hundred and twenty.  I’m skinny.  I’m a runt.  And look at you.  You weigh—­heaven knows what!  No fat, but all muscle from your head to your feet.  You’re the strongest man that I’ve ever seen.  Take me, I’m not a coward; but you, Bull, you don’t know what fear means.  Well, there you are, without fear, and stronger than three strong men.  You’re pretty fast with a gun, and you shoot straight as a hawk looks.  And still, if we stood face to face and went for our guns, I’d live; and you with your muscle would be dead, Bull.”

“I know,” Bull nodded.