“What’s this ’ere,” he growled—“a picnic?”
A hoarse kind of roar, low and threatening, arose from the Three Star men. Varley held up his hand to command silence.
“You can call it a picnic if you like,” he said, and his voice was almost as soft and languid as when he was calling the game. “You know what we have come for.”
The man glared at him.
“You’re wrong!” he said, with an oath.
“That’s a lie!” said Varley. “My daughter has been stolen from our camp. She is here!”
The man began a grin, but it died away at a look that suddenly came into Varley’s face.
“Oh, the gal’s been stolen?” said the man. “Well, that’s no business of ours. You ought to be able to take care of your own gals.”
Varley’s revolver—and not only Varley’s—covered him. He drew back slightly.
“We know nothing about it,” he said, sullenly. “We didn’t take her, and she ain’t here. We’ve plenty of gals of our own; in fact, too many, and you’re welcome to some of ’em as I could name.”