They were stopped by a shout from the Sheriff.
“You can’t bring all them people in here. No, sir, not without a license!”
Luke, not his brother, climbed down. He beat his hat against a sore unlimbered leg. He tucked in his shirt, loosening the muscles of his arms and back, drawing up his chest, and walked the length of the wagon train to the Sheriff.
“Howdy.” The man in khaki pants, knee high boots and Stetson, never left the barroom porch.
“I don’t see how you can keep us out,” said Luke.
The Sheriff leaned back against the post and again put the knife blade to his fingernails.
“All’s I got to do is call my boys. Of course, if you scatter, it’ll take us a little longer to round you up. But I wouldn’t.” The Sheriff brushed the parings from his vest, leaned forward and pushed the blade down a patent leather boot top to scratch his calf. The uncut nails on his red hands were longer than the manicured.
“But this here is a wedding!”
“Don’t matter. I don’t care if the whole pack aims to rut. You the man?”
“No, sir. I ain’t the one. That’s sure.”