“In five years,” Robin prophesied, “Adam Sutherland’ll own the T Bar S—or it won’t be used on cows.”
“Maybe so, maybe so,” Tex said. “I expect somebody’ll be surprised when old Adam decides to own the T Bar S, though.”
“What you gettin’ at, Tex?” Robin demanded bluntly.
“Just passin’ the time in talk,” Matthews drawled. “Say, did you never pack a six-gun.”
Robin shook his head.
“I never even owned one.”
“How come you never did? First kid I ever saw on the range that didn’t like to play with a pistol.”
“Never took much to it,” Robin told him. “My old man was killed in a gun play when I was about ten. My mother was dead set against burnin’ powder. She’d seen too much of it. She was a Terry. Seems like the Tylers and Terrys have thrown lots of lead down South where she come from. She kinda discouraged me packin’ a pistol. She used to say that if I ever needed one bad enough I could get it when it was wanted. When I started to ride I never thought much about a six-pistol. Never needed one. I carry a rifle in the winter for wolves, and I’ve hunted deer an’ antelope quite a lot. Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. You’re a good-natured, easy-goin’ jasper that laughs trouble away. But what’d you do if some bad hombre jumped you out of pure cussedness and started to make a monkey outa you?”
“I don’t know. Never had that happen.” The idea amused Robin slightly. He laughed. “I’ve been around a few bad actors. I never seen any of ’em jump a man who wasn’t armed and kinda sorta ready for trouble—not without some good reason.”