“Quit fooling, Jepson! You know who I am!”
“Seem to know your voice now,” said the other, leaning farther out. “Why, it’s Curtis!” He laid down the rifle and laughed. “You were near getting plugged. Figured you were one of those blamed rustlers—the country’s full of them—Barton back at the muskeg lost a steer last week. What I want to know is—why the police don’t get after them? Guess it would be considerably more useful than walking round the stations with a quirt under your arm.”
The man was not talkative as a rule, and Curtis surmised that he wished to delay him.
“Come down!” he said sternly.
“I’ll be along quick as I can,” the other answered, and shut the window.
While he waited, Curtis listened with strained attention. He was inclined to think that Glover had already left the house, which must nevertheless be searched, but he could hear nothing except the dreary wail of wind in the neighboring bluff. His fingers were so numbed that he could scarcely hold his carbine, his horse stood wearily with drooping head, and when a minute or two had passed Curtis struck the door violently. It opened, and Jepson stood in the entrance, holding a lamp.
“All alone?” he remarked good-humoredly. “Where’s your partner? But come in; it’s fierce to-night.”
“Then stand out of my way. I’ve come for Glover.”
Jepson laughed.
“Looked as if you were after somebody. He isn’t here, but you had better see for yourself. Walk right in; you’re welcome to find him.”