He could have planted a bullet
where the life lay, at any instant of the fight. But he fired for
another purpose. The moment Bull reached for his weapon he had lurched
forward, aiming to shoot as he ran. Pete Reeve set himself a double
goal. His first intention was to disarm the giant; the other was to
stop his rush. For, once within the grip of those big fingers, his
life would be squeezed out like the juice of an orange.
His task was doubly difficult in the moonlight. But the first shot
went home nicely, aimed as exactly as a scientist finds a spot with
his instruments. Where the moon's rays splashed across the bare right
forearm of Bull, he sent a bullet that slashed through the great
muscles. The revolver dropped from the nerveless hand of the giant,
but Bull never paused. On he came, empty-handed, but with power of
death, as the little man well knew, in the fingers of his extended
left hand. He came with a snarl, a savage intake of breath, as he felt
the hot slash of Pete's bullet.
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