“It happens I’m not drinkin’ to-day, not with anybody,” thus Robin announced to all and sundry that he was not refusing the olive branch merely because it came from Thatcher—although he would have died thirsty rather than drink with a man he felt sure had sped one of the bullets that snuffed out Tex Matthews’ life. “Thanks, just the same.”
Probably no one but himself detected the sardonic note in that phrase of declination.
He walked on up toward the store. He didn’t know Mark Steele’s whereabouts and he cared less. He wanted to see Adam Sutherland. The old man was in town. If in seeking the owner of the Block S he ran across Shining Mark that was as it happened.
He didn’t have to ask a clerk if Sutherland was about. Back by the bookkeeper’s desk Sutherland occupied his favorite roost deep in an armchair. The cattleman’s face, round and red about a walrus-like mustache didn’t alter its normal placidity as Robin approached.
“Hello, kid,” he greeted. “I haven’t seen you for quite a spell.”
“No, and you maybe won’t see me for quite a spell again,” Robin answered, “if I can do some business with you.”
“Well, shoot,” Sutherland encouraged.
“It’s nothin’ much,” Robin said, “except that I’ve been away for quite a while. Since I’ve been back and looked the ground over I reckon I’ll move on again. Nobody loves me and I’m out of a job,” he finished with a whimsical twist. It was true, but a truth so stated that it contained for Robin the germ of humor. “I thought maybe I’d sell you that hundred and sixty I homesteaded on the creek above Mayne’s.”
“Oh, did you? You reckon I’m in the real estate business?” Sutherland rumbled. “You got your deed to it?”
Robin nodded.