No man can altogether escape the dominant influences of his environment. For good or evil his thought and action must be colored by the thought and action of his fellows, as his speech will be colored by the current idioms.
Robin, in spite of his resolution not to be snared in the net Mark Steele spread for his feet, found himself seething internally, found himself suffering all the agonies of shame for indignities unresented, passed over in silence. Steele did his best to make his life a misery during the few days it took the Block S to move its beef herd within sight of the Big Sandy stockyards. The man was moved by a definite policy born of cunning and craftily put into effect. At no time did he really overstep that limit which would have brought his crew up standing in expectation of an open clash. He said nothing, did nothing openly that would have been impossible for Robin to let go by. But he shaved close. Robin knew that every man in the outfit was wondering just a little, scenting some sort of hidden animosity between the two. Steele was curt, peremptory, oblique, before the outfit. But whenever he caught Robin alone he taunted him, abused him with a venom that would have been unendurable if Robin had not known it as part of a calculated plan.
He took it all, outwardly unruffled, inwardly approaching the volcanic state. He could afford to let Steele think his tactics would bear fruit—that in the language of the range he had young Tyler buffaloed. He could afford to let Steele think he was afraid. Perhaps he was. Robin was not ashamed to admit to himself that he might be afraid. He did not desire to commit suicide. To grab anybody’s gun and match himself against Shining Mark was the equivalent of self-destruction.
There was neither satisfaction nor glory in being shot by a cow thief merely because a cow thief considered that a good way to cover up his tracks. Yet short of killing Steele or being killed by him Robin could see no way out of this predicament except the unthinkable one Mark had suggested—that he quit the country. He might be afraid to tackle Steele but he was not sufficiently afraid to run. If he did not run Mark would eventually force him to burn powder. Robin could see that clearly enough. And the onus would be on him, his blood would be upon his own head, to all outward appearances. Steele was seeing cleverly to that. By every artifice in his repertoire he was putting Robin in the position of having to force the issue or feel himself in reality what Mark contemptuously said he was—a yellow dog.
So matters stood when the herd was trimmed and the cattle loaded. The outfit was to lie there on the Big Sandy flats for a day or two. Shipping was done. The pressure of getting beef to market was all but ended for that season. There were odds and ends of range work for the riders yet, but the range had been combed once, and so for a couple of days they would rest and play.
They were rid of the herd by two o’clock and back in camp releasing their tired mounts and catching fresh horses to ride into town. Tex Matthews caught a horse, as did Robin. But when the riders swung up Tex sat on the wagon tongue rolling a cigarette. Robin leaned against a wheel, silently thinking. The remuda was still in the rope corral. He had half a mind to rope out his string, pack his bed, and go home.
“Come on, cowboys,” a Block S man called to them. “The first drink’s on me.”
Matthews shook his head.
“I’m keepin’ the cook and wrangler company,” he drawled. “I’ll save money. There’s a long, hard winter comin’.”
Robin said nothing.