It was plain that he was going to give something from the depths of his mind. The cost and importance of it made his eyes like steel and drew his mouth to a thin, straight line. Bull Hunter arose; and as the great body unfolded and the legs straightened, it seemed that he would never reach his full height. At length he stood, enormous, wide, towering. He was not a freak, but simply a perfectly proportioned man increased to a huge scale. Pete Reeve canted his head back and looked into the face of the giant. There was a momentary affectionate appreciation in his eye. Then he hardened his expression. "Let your arm hang loose." Bull Hunter obeyed. The hand came just above the holster that was strapped on his thigh. All these weeks Pete Reeve had kept him from going an instant without that gun except when he slept. And even when he slept the gun had to be under his pillow. "Because it helps to have it near all the time," Pete had explained. "It sort of soaks into your dreams. It's never out of your mind. It haunts you, like the face of the girl you love. You see!" Bull Hunter did not see, but he had nodded humbly, after his fashion, and obeyed. Now, with his arm fallen loose at his side he peered studiously into the face of his master gunman and waited for the next order. "Draw!" The command was snapped out; Bull's gun whipped from the holster; and Pete Reeve drew in the same instant, carelessly, his eyes watching the movement of Bull instead of paying heed and put his gun up again, but Bull followed the example almost reluctantly. "Nearly beat you that time, Pete," he exclaimed happily. "But maybe you weren't half trying?" "Beat me?" sneered Pete. "I wasn't half trying, but you didn't beat me. I shot you twice before you had your muzzle in line. I shot you in the throat and through the teeth before your gun was ready." Bull, with a shrug of the massive shoulders, touched the mentioned places and looked with awe at the little man. "Now, listen!" Bull grew tense. "Watch my draw!" Pete did not put his hand near the butt of his weapon. He held his arm out before him, dangling in the air. There was a convulsive moment. One could see the imaginary weapon shoot from the holster and become level and rigid, pointed at its mark. "I've seen before--fast as my eye could go," Bull sighed. "Look again," said Pete, gritting his teeth with impatience. "This time I'm going so slow a cow could see and beat me." He made the same motion, but to an ordinary eye it was still as fast as light. Bull shook his head. "Idiot!" cried Pete, his voice jumping up the scale, flat and harsh and piercing. "It's the wrist! Not the arm, but the--" He stopped with an expression of dismay. Even now he regretted revealing the mystery, it seemed. But then he went on.