with the shotgun, still perched on the fence and yelling louder
than ever, when I felt Wolfe’s fingers gripping my elbow
and heard his sudden sharp command:
“Stop! Don’t move!”
I stopped dead, with him beside me. I thought he had
discovered something psychological about the bird on the
^ fence, but he said without looking at me, “Stand perfectly
still. Move your head slowly, very slowly, to the right.”
For an instant I thought the nut with the gun had something
contagious and Wolfe had caught it, but I did as I
was told, and there was the second surprise. Off maybe 200
feet to the right, walking slowly toward us with his head up,
was a bull bigger than I had supposed bulls came. He was
dark red with white patches, with a big white triangle on
his face, and he was walking easy and slow, wiggling his
head a little as if he was nervous, or as if he was trying to
shake a fly off of his horns. Of a sudden he stopped and stood,
looking at us with his neck curved.
I heard Wolfe’s voice, not loud, at the back of my head,
“It would be better if that fool would quit yelling. Do you
know the technique of bulls? Did you ever see a bull fight?”
I moved my lips enough to get it out: “No, sir.”
Wolfe grunted. “Stand still. You moved your finger then,
and his neck muscles tightened. How fast can you run?”
“I can beat that bull to that fence. Don’t think I can’t. But
you can’t.”
“I know very well I can’t. Twenty years ago I was an
athlete. This almost convinces me … but that can wait.
Ah, he’s pawing. His head’s down. If he should start . . .
it’s that confounded yelling. Now . . . back off slowly, away
from me. Keep facing him. When you are 10 feet from me,
swerve toward the fence. He will begin to move when you do.
As long as he follows slowly, keep backing and facing him.
When he starts his rush, turn and run—”
I never got a chance to follow directions. I didn’t move,
and I’m sure Wolfe didn’t, so it must have been our friend
on the fence—maybe he jumped off into the pasture. Anyhow,
the bull curved his neck and started on the jump; and if it
was the other guy he was headed for, that didn’t help any,
because we were in line with him and we came first. He
started the way an avalanche ends. Possibly if we had stood
still he would have passed by, about 3 feet to my right, but
either it was asking too much of human nature to expect me to
stand there, or I’m not human. I have since maintained that
it flashed through my mind that if I moved it would attract
him to me and away from Nero Wolfe, but there’s no use
continuing that argument here. There’s no question but what
I moved, without any preliminary backing. And there’s no
question, whoever he started for originally, about his being
attracted by my movement. I could hear him behind me. I
could damn near feel him. Also I was dimly aware of shouts
and a blotch of something red above the fence near the spot
I was aimed at. There it was—the fence. I didn’t do any brak-
ing for it, but took it at full speed, doing a vault with my
hands reaching for its top, and one of my hands missed and
I tumbled, landing flat on the other side, sprawling and
rolling. I sat up and panted and heard a voice above me:
“Beautiful! I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”
I looked up and saw two girls, one in a white dress and
red jacket, the other in a yellow shirt and slacks. I snarled
at them, “Shall I do it again?” The nut with the shotgun came
loping up making loud demands, and I told him to shut up,
and scrambled to my feet. The fence was 10 yards away.
Limping to it, I took a look. The bull was slowly walking
along, a hundred feet off, wiggling his head. In the middle
of the pasture was an ornamental statue. It was Nero Wolfe,
with his arms folded, his stick hanging from a wrist, standing
motionless on the rounded peak of the boulder. It was the
first time I had ever seen him in any such position as that,
and I stood and stared because I had never fully realized what
a remarkable looking object he really was. He didn’t actually
look undignified, but there was something pathetic about it,
he stood so still, not moving at all.
I called to him, “Okay, boss?”
He called back, ‘Tell that man with the gun I want to
speak to him when I get out of here! Tell him to get someone
to pen that bull!”
I turned. The guy didn’t look like a bull penner. He looked
more scared than mad, and he looked small and skinny
in his overalls and denim shirt. His face was weathered and
his nose was cockeyed. He had followed me to the fence,
and now demanded:
“Who air you fellows? Why didn’t you go back when I
hollered at you? Where the hell—”
“Hold it, mister. Introductions can wait. Can you put
that bull in a pen?”
“No, I can’t. And I want to tell you—”
“Is there someone here who can?”
“No, they ain’t. They’ve gone off to the fair. They’ll be
back in an hour maybe. And I want to tell you—”
“Tell me later. Do you expect him to stand on that rock
with his arms folded for an hour?”
“I don’t expect nothin’. He can sit down, can’t he? But
anyhow, I want him out of there right now. I’m guarding
that bull.”
“Good for you. From what? From me?”
“From anybody. Looky, if you think you’re kidding …”
I gave him up and turned to the pasture and called: “He’s
guarding the bull! He wants you out of there right now! He
can’t pen the bull and no one else can! Somebody will be
here in an hour!”
“Archiel” Wolfe bellowed like thunder. “When once I
get-”
“No, honest to God, I’m telling you straight! I don’t like
the bull any better than you do!”
Silence. Then; “It will be an hour before anyone comes?”
“That’s what he says.”
“Then you’ll have to do it! Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Climb back into the pasture and get the bull’s
attention. When he moves, walk back in the other direction,
keeping within a few feet of the fence. Was that a woman
wearing that red thing?”
“Yes. Woman or girl.” I looked around. “She seems to
be gone.”
“Find her and borrow the red thing, and have it with
you. When the bull starts a rush go back over the fence.
Proceed along it until you’re away from him, then get back
in the pasture and repeat. Take him to the other end of
the pasture and keep him there until I am out. He won’t
leave you for me at such a distance if you keep him busy.
Let him get the idea he really has a chance of getting you.”
“Sure.”
“What?”
“I said sure!”
“All right, go ahead. Be careful. Don’t slip on the grass.”
When I had asked the girl if I should do it again, I had
thought it was pure sarcasm, but now … I looked around
for her. The one in yellow slacks was there, sitting up on the
fence, but not the other one. I opened my mouth to request
information, but the answer came before I got it
out, from another quarter. There was the sound of a car’s
engine humming in second, and I saw the car bouncing
along a lane beyond some trees, headed toward the fence
down a ways. It stopped with its nose almost touching the
fence, and the girl in the red jacket leaned out and yelled at
me:
“Come and open the gate!”
I trotted toward her, limping a little from my right knee
which I had banged on the fence, but the other guy, using
a sort of hop, skip and jump, beat me to it. When I got there
he was standing beside the car, waving the gun around and
reciting rules and statutes about gates and bulls.
The girl told him impatiently, “Don’t be silly, Dave. There’s
no sense leaving him perched on that rock.” She switched
to me. “Open the gate, and if you want to come along, get
in. Dave’ll shut it.”
I moved. Dave moved too and squeaked, “Leave that
gate alone! By gammer, I’ll shoot! My orders from Mr. Pratt
was if anybody opens a gate or climbs in that pasture, shoot!”
“Baloney,” said the girl. “You’ve already disobeyed orders.