“You been squabblin’ with Mark to-night?” Robin asked then. He wanted to know. If Mayne had jumped Steele, he, Robin, would be in a difficult situation, working under Steele. Somehow Mark’s attitude promised trouble.
“Naw, not about that.” Mayne understood his meaning at once. “I ain’t a damn fool altogether. But I don’t like that hombre. And I am drunk. When I’m drunk I ain’t got as much sense as I should have about some things. Ivy’s in town with me. Mark he comes ridin’ in about supper time and gets her corraled in the parlor an’ sets there talkin’ the kid black in the face. So I tell him to lay off, that I don’t want no flashy, silver-spangled wagon bosses in my family. I wanted to say cow thief instead uh wagon boss, but I didn’t. Least I don’t think I did.”
“You are a damn fool,” Robin said angrily. “Ivy’s a blamed sight abler to stand off Mark Steele than you are. I’m a darned sight more interested in who she talks to than you are, an’ I sure wouldn’t jump any man for settin’ talkin’ to her in a hotel parlor. Darn it, he comes to the ranch, and you make him welcome.”
“No more,” Mayne asserted with drunken emphasis. “’F he ever jingles his spurs on my porch again I’ll ventilate him.”
After a minute he said thickly:
“I found them dead cows below Cold Spring. I rode a week steady before I located the calves. I found ’em fresh marked. I can’t prove nothin’. But I found ’em.”
“S-sh,” Robin warned. “Not so loud. What brand’s on the calves?”
“T Bar S.”
“Huh! I’ve seen a few around.” Robin wrinkled his brows. “Little bunch was thrown in on the Block S range a year ago. Supposed to belong to some Helena man.”
“Yeah,” Mayne snorted. “I looked into that, too. Helena hell! The T Bar S is registered in Jim Bond’s name. I’ve known him a long time. He keeps a two-by-four saloon in Helena. Never owned a cow in his life. Them T Bar S’s was throwed in here last year, a hundred and fifty head mixed stock. I bet you Mark Steele put up the money. But I can’t prove it. I can’t prove nothin’—yet.”