“You got a home here anytime you come back,” Mayne said. “You know that.”
There was no warmth in the assurance. Robin felt that when he had ridden out into the night something like relief would be the most definite sensation in the agitated breasts of these two.
“Well, you don’t need to worry,” he said at last. “I’m not goin’ to stand arrest. I don’t know as any Tyler ever did, come to think of it. Chances are if they send a deputy sheriff after me he’ll ride careful, prayin’ to God he don’t come on me. There’s a lot of territory between here an’ Texas where a man can make a fresh start.”
He walked out without waiting for an answer. Mayne followed with a lantern. Robin saddled Red Mike, led him out and dropped the reins at the bunk house door. There were a few odds and ends he wanted, clothes he would need. In twenty minutes he was ready, rifle slung under his stirrup leather, a hundred rounds of ammunition belted on, his clothes in a war bag across his saddle. He turned with his hand on the stirrup and walked back to the house. He couldn’t leave Ivy like that. He was sick inside, but he couldn’t go without a word.
“I’m gone to the wild bunch, hon,” he put his arms around her.
Ivy sobbed afresh, repeating that senseless “Oh, it’s awful,” over and over until Robin stopped her mouth with a kiss that brought no answering pressure from her cold lips.
“I’m gone,” he said briefly. “You want me to come back?”
“I don’t want you to go,” she cried, “I don’t want you to go!”
“I got to.”
“I guess so. All right,” she seemed to collect herself. “Write to me Robin, an’ tell me how you make out.”