“No, that’s true, Hartwell. I wish I knew. She ain’t here.”
There was a ring of truth in King’s voice. “If she was here, I wouldn’t lie to you, Hartwell. And if she didn’t want to go back with you—well, you’d have a hard time takin’ her. Didn’t you realize that you was runnin your neck into it by comin’ up here tonight? It’s war, Hartwell. I’m leadin’ one side and your father leadin’ the other. And you came into my camp.
“It was a risky thing to do, young feller. You took a big chance of bein’ shot. Do you think I ought to let you go back? You are my son-in-law, and I don’t want to have yuh get shot.”
“I reckon I’ll go back,” said Jack coldly. “I never seen the sheepherder yet that could stop me. I ——”
Jack stopped. King had lifted his hand from the blanket and Jack looked into the muzzle of a big revolver. The big man was smiling softly, and the hand holding the gun was as steady as a rock.
“Set down,” he said softly. “Keep your hands on your knees. I’d hate to kill my son-in-law, but if you make a move toward your gun, that marriage is annulled by Mr. Colt.”
“All right,” grunted Jack. “I know that kind of language. Go ahead and shoot. It’ll save yuh future trouble.”
But Eph King only smiled and rested the muzzle of the gun on his knee.
“Futures don’t bother me, Hartwell—not that kind. You come blusterin’ up here and talk big. You kinda amuse me, so I’ve a —— good notion to keep you here. Did yuh ever read about the old-time kings? They had a jester—a fool—to amuse ’em. I’m as good as they, so why not have a jester, eh?”
“A fool,” corrected Jack bitterly.