“Very likely,” dryly. “Still, I’d hate to even be amused by a Hartwell. Anyway, I’ve a notion to keep yuh here and let your father know that I’m holdin’ yuh. It might——”
“Amuse him,” finished Jack.
“Meanin’ what?” queried King quickly.
“Meanin’ that he thinks I’m a spy for you. They all think I am—except Molly. I forced my way through the cattlemen’s dead-line to get up here tonight. They recognized me. I had to knock one of ’em down to get through. And they’d be liable to care a whole lot if I didn’t come back, wouldn’t they?”
Eph King stared at Jack closely. He knew that Jack was telling the truth and it seemed to amuse him a little. With a flip of his wrist he threw the gun behind him on the cot, and got to his feet.
“Hartwell,” he spoke seriously, “do you want to throw in with us?”
“No.”
“Still loyal, eh?”
There was a sneer in the question.
“Mebbe not loyal, King.”