"And now?" demanded Pete Reeve. "Now, partner?"
That word stung Bull. It had not been applied to him more than a half a dozen times in his life, together with its implications of free and equal brotherhood. To be called partner by the great man who had conquered terrible Uncle Bill Campbell!
"They's a mess in the hotel," said Bull, explaining as shortly as he could. "Seems that Sheriff Anderson was the gent that done the killing of Armstrong. It got found out and the sheriff tried to get away. Lots of noise and trouble."
"Ah," said Reeve, "it was him, then—the old hound! I might have knowed! But I kep' on figuring that they was two of 'em! Well, the sheriff was a handy boy with his gun. Did he drop anybody before they got him? I heard two guns go off like one. Them must of been the sheriff's cannons."
"They was," said Bull, "but them bullets didn't hit nothing but wood."
"Wild, eh? Shot into the wall?"
"Nope. Into a chair."
The little man was struggling and panting sometimes breaking into a trot to keep up with the immense strides of his companion. "A chair? You don't say so!"
Bull was silent.
"How come he shot at a chair? Drunk?"