Bond nodded.
“How many cattle you reckon you got down there now?”
“I don’t know as that’s any of your affair,” Bond said disagreeably. “I ain’t exactly sure, and I can’t see why I should tell you if I was.”
“Well, you don’t have to, of course, right now anyway,” Robin grinned. “Probably I know better than you do. It struck me that ownin’ this brand ain’t makin’ you rich. I’d kinda like to buy that bunch of cattle.”
“Ain’t for sale,” the man growled.
“Cattle are always for sale if the price is right,” Robin answered equably. “You put in a hundred and fifty head. Your natural increase would be about eighty. On that basis, which is a fair percentage, you’d have about two hundred and thirty head. I’ll buy the T Bar S on that estimate, at twenty dollars a head—let’s see, that’s forty-six hundred dollars—cash down.”
“You’re wastin’ time,” Bond made a move to rise.
“Sit down,” Robin said peremptorily. “I ain’t through.”
Bond settled back in his seat. His expression was not altogether one of ease.
“Look here, Bond,” Robin didn’t like the man’s shifty eye and it was easy for him to be harsh, “you’re a saloon man. You never were anything else—not in Montana. You own a registered brand. You send a bunch of stock into the heart of a big cow-outfit’s range. You never show up there yourself. You never had a man ride for you. You don’t know how your calves get branded, nor how many. Maybe you trust in Providence. If you do Providence has been awful darn good to your stock—so darn good, that I come up here to see you about it. What’s the answer?”