He was surprised at the avidity with which his invitation was accepted. It was a long time since the hotel owner had been referred to as an "important man."

Then he went with the same talk to five others--the blacksmith, the carpenter and odd-jobber, the storekeeper, and two men whom he had marked when he first halted near the hotel veranda. To his invitation each of them gave a quick a.s.sent. There had been something mysterious in the manner in which this timid-eyed giant had descended upon the town from nowhere, and now they felt that they were about to come to the heart of the reason of his visit.

The invitation to the sheriff was delivered by the proprietor of the hotel, and he said just enough--and no more--to bring the sheriff straight to the hotel. Anderson arrived with his best pair of guns in his holsters, for the sheriff was a two-gun man of the best variety.

He came with the aggressive manner of one ready to beat down all opposition, but when he stepped into the room, his manner changed. For he found sitting about the table in the dining room, which was to be the scene of the conference, the six most influential men of the town--men strong enough to reelect him next year, or to throw him permanently out of office.

At the lower end of the table stood Bull Hunter, his arms folded, his face blank. Standing with the light from the lamp shining upon his face, the others seated, he seemed a man among pygmies.

"Shall I lock the door?" asked the proprietor, and he turned to Bull, as if the latter had the right to dictate.

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 b.o.o.by 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 bl.u.s.tering, 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.

"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."

He pushed aside the ponderous armchair which stood beside him at the head of the table.

"Say," shouted the sheriff, paler than ever now, "what are you accusing me of?"

"Murder!" thundered Bull Hunter.

The roar of Bull's voice chained every one in his place, the sheriff with staring eyes, and Jud in the act of raising his hand.

"I'll jail you for slander!" said the sheriff, fighting to a.s.surance and knowing that he was betrayed by his pallor and by the icy perspiration which he felt on his forehead.

"Anderson," said Bull, "I seen the marks of them iron heels of yours on the rock!"

That was a little thing, of course. As evidence it would not have convinced the most prejudiced jury in the world, but Sheriff Anderson was not weighing small points. Into his mind leaped one image--the whiteness of those rocks on which he had stood and the indelible mark his heels must have made against that whiteness. He was lost, he felt, and he acted on the impulse to fight for his life.

One last glance he cast at the six listeners, and in their wide-eyed interest he read his own d.a.m.nation. Then Anderson whirled and leaped for his belt with the guns.

Out of six throats came six yells of fear; there was a noise of chairs being pushed back and a wild scramble to find safety under the table.

Jud, risking a moment's delay, knocked the chimney off the lamp before he dived. The flame leaped once and went out, but the pale moonshine poured through the window and filled the room with a weird play of shadows.