“Darn it,” he said quite casually. “When it comes to Shinin’ Mark Steele you got somethin’ up your sleeve. You won’t tell me what it is. Well, I got somethin’ up my sleeve, an’ I won’t tell you what it is. But I tell you kid, as I told you in town, that I ain’t lived to be sixty, I ain’t made my way in the cow business by goin’ through the world deaf, dumb an’ blind. The reason I send you instead of Mark Steele into the Judith Basin is because I think you’re better qualified for that particular job. Will you go?”
“Yes,” Robin said. “Sure, I’ll go.”
“While you’re workin’ that south country,” Sutherland continued, “I reckon you better hold anything that belongs to this side of the river an’ throw ’em across when you’re through.”
Robin looked at old Adam placidly rolling a cigar between his lips. For a second he had the impulse to show his hand, to tell Sutherland wherein the feud between himself and Mark Steele originated. Somehow, with Steele coming back to run the Block S he couldn’t quite. He had called Steele a thief to his face. He might have occasion to do so again. But accusation wasn’t proof. Robin hated empty words. There was proof in plenty across the Missouri. Consciously or unconsciously Sutherland was placing him in a position to accumulate that proof in substantial form, in the shape of T Bar S yearlings and two-year-olds beyond what the brand could possibly yield.
“You’ll go back to town with me this afternoon,” Sutherland said. “Mark’s on his way out, an’ I’d as soon you two didn’t get together, though he promised he wouldn’t start no fuss. I didn’t want no gun play. Will you keep your mouth shut an’ your hands in your pockets if you should see him?”
“If he keeps away from me, yes,” Robin agreed. “You seem darned anxious to keep peace between us two.”
“Dead wagon bosses ain’t much good to me,” Sutherland drawled. “Dead wagon bosses an’ dead cows ain’t much good to anybody. You keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER XX
SOUTH OF THE RIVER
Robin crossed the Big Muddy on a steel bridge at Fort Benton to take his first look at the J7. He found the camp on a river flat, introduced himself to a lean, dark-faced youth in charge, counted his saddle stock and began to reorganize. Being short-handed his first task was to engage more riders. Luck came his way. In a week the J7 was cap-a-pie—fourteen cow-punchers, two horse wranglers, a capable cook, wagons stocked with grub. Then the J7 round-up vanished into the heart of the Arrow Creek country and Robin flung his men on circle as he moved from creek to creek.
He rode out of Fort Benton on May the tenth. By the middle of June he was combing the Bad Lands opposite the mouth of Cow Creek. Two days before the Fourth of July dawned he was lying on a bench across from Birch. For all practical purposes the spring round-up of the J7 was over. He had covered the range.