May rose and withdrew, stopping behind her father’s chair to pat his head with one hand while she blew Robin a kiss off the other. When they had the porch to themselves Sutherland turned an impassive eye on Robin.
“I was sort of expectin’ you’d turn up,” said he. “How’d you get along with the spring work?”
“All right. I’m through except for a day herd we’re holdin’. The outfit’s movin’ in opposite Eagle Creek ford to-morrow,” Robin told him. “We’ve covered the range. Branded out a tally of seventeen hundred calves. Beef stock is shaping up pretty good in the Basin. Feed’s good. Looks like it might be a little overstocked, though, on a dry year. Too many sheep outfits over there.”
Sutherland nodded.
“I’ll move that J7 stuff north next year,” he remarked absently.
Robin sat silent a moment.
“Look,” he said abruptly. “I’ve got to stir up somethin’. You asked me twice why I called Mark Steele a thief. I’m goin’ to tell you why, now.”
Sutherland took the cigar out of his mouth, inspected critically the ash.
“Shoot,” he said casually. “I’m listenin’.”
Robin began at the beginning, the day he lamed Stormy, the gray horse, by Cold Spring. He spared nothing, no one, himself, Mayne, Ivy, Mark Steele. All that had grown out of Shining Mark’s depredations had burned in Robin’s breast so long it was a relief to speak freely. Sutherland sat staring at the porch floor, frowning a little, forgetting to puff at his cigar. Once or twice he shifted abruptly in his chair. Once or twice he stared at Robin with narrowed eyes. Dusk deepened into dark while Robin talked. The crickets chirped in the dry grass. Stars twinkled above.