“Sutherland inside?”
“Went over to the house a while ago,” the man told him.
Robin didn’t tarry. In two minutes he was striding up the front steps of the white cottage. Sutherland rose out of a chair behind a canvas screen. May appeared in the doorway.
“Come on inside,” Sutherland said. “What’s up?”
“How do you know anything’s up?” Robin asked when he doffed his hat in the cool room. He stole a look at May. She smiled welcome but there was a sort of shadow in her blue eyes, a something Robin had never seen there, a troubled, apprehensive expression.
“I see two of your men with Sam Connors an’ that Texican ride in just as the west-bound stopped. Connors an’ Thatcher took the train. Your two boys say they just rode in for fun. You come ridin’ a Block S horse all sweat an’ foam.”
“You notice things, don’t you,” Robin drawled. “Well, somethin’ is up. Do you happen to know if Mark Steele is in Big Sandy?”
A look flashed between father and daughter.
“I don’t spend no time keepin’ track of Mark myself,” Sutherland said dryly. “Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. Why? Sit down an’ spin your yarn.”
Robin spun it briefly.