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.
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