"I see," he said, and swallowed
with difficulty. "But, in the name of reason, Bull, have sense! Lemme
talk! I'll tell you what that uncle of yours was--"
"Don't talk!" exclaimed Bull Hunter. "I sort of like you, partner, and
it sort of breaks me down to hear you talk. Don't talk, but listen.
The next time that frog croaks we go for our guns, eh? That frog off
in the marsh!"
He had hardly spoken before the ominous sound was heard, and Bull
reached for his gun. For all his bulk of hand and unwieldy arms, the
gun came smoothly, swiftly into his hand. He would have had an
ordinary man covered, long before the latter had his gun muzzle-clear
of the leather. But Pete Reeve was no ordinary man. His arm jerked
down; his fingers flickered down and up. They went down empty; they
came up with the burden of a long revolver, shining in the moonlight,
and he fired before Bull's gun came to the level for a shot.
Only Pete Reeve knew the marvel of his own shooting this day. He had
sworn a solemn and silent oath that he would not kill this faithful,
courageous fellow from the mountains.
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