“Eighteen dollars a head,” Robin announced.
“How many head you estimate the T Bar S’ll run?”
Robin could have hugged the old man for those pointed questions. If anything could galvanize Steele into word or deed that might expose his hand, that sort of thing would. Selling his own stock—no matter if they were stolen—over his head, before his own eyes.
“I can’t say very close because I don’t know how many more I’ll pick up. Right now I’ve got between three and four hundred head.”
Sutherland continued to stare at him hard.
“I might dicker with you,” he said slowly. “Can you give me a legal transfer of the T Bar S brand?”
“I don’t know why not,” Robin said. “Anyway, I can deliver the cattle.”
“I’ll give you sixteen dollars.”
Robin took a few seconds to consider this, in reality to watch its effect on Shining Mark. And the effect seemed to be nil—unless a slight twisting of his mouth meant anything more than a covert sneer.
“Split the difference,” he suggested. “Make it seventeen.”