Robin hesitated. There was no guile in him. He was loyal, with the peculiar, single-minded loyalty that speckled Western America with cow-puncher’s graves, from the Staked Plains of Texas to Milk River in the north. No feudal baron ever took the field with more devoted followers than the men who rode for the cattle kings when the range was in its full pastoral flower.
“One of ’em,” he blurted out, “the one that smoked me up, was right flashy with silver. I ain’t namin’ no names.”
Mayne stared at him. His faded blue eyes blinked rapidly.
“Great snakes!” he muttered. “I don’t blame you. That sure makes it bad.”
He scowled reflectively. “The question is——”
“The question is,” Robin finished the sentence in his own way, “is he stealin’ for the Block S or for himself.”
“If he’s stealin’ for the outfit I got about as much chance on this range as a snowball in hell,” Mayne answered moodily. “If it’s his own iron, I got a show. I wish you’d seen what brand went on them calves.”
“I was afoot, I told you. I don’t pack a gun. I ain’t a damn fool,” Robin protested.
“You’re all right, kid.” The old man put his hand on Robin’s shoulder. “You’re no gun man, but you’ll burn your share of powder if you ever have to, I guess. Keep your eyes open around the Block S. I’ll find them fresh-branded calves, if it takes me all fall. And if you’re right——”
He spat angrily into the dust and got down off the fence.