He pushed the battered hat far back on his head and looked at the silent, attentive line of idlers who sat on the veranda.
"Excuse me, gents," he said mildly.

"But maybe one of you might know of a little gent with iron-gray hair and a thin face and quick ways of acting and little, thin hands." He illustrated his meaning by extending his own huge paws.

"His name is Pete Reeve." That name caused a sharp shifting of glances, not at Bull, but from man to man.

A tall fellow rose.

He advanced with his thumbs hooked importantly in the arm holes of his vest and braced his legs apart as he faced Bull.