May looked down at him with a troubled air.
“I suppose you don’t thank me for interesting myself in your affairs,” she said. “But I’d much rather see Mark Steele dead or in jail, than you.”
“So would I. A darned sight rather,” Robin’s old humor flashed once through the cloud of gloom. “I’d be tickled to death to have him on the inside looking out. Maybe you will.”
“Dad is in the store. He told me to tell you he wanted to speak to you,” May said abruptly. “Good-by—and good luck.”
“Same to you,” Robin returned. “Only you don’t need no luck wish. You got all there is.”
“Perhaps my luck doesn’t take in as much territory as you think,” May said over her shoulder as she walked away.
Robin watched her pass through the picket fence that enclosed the white cottage and its square of green and he wondered idly what she meant. Then he remembered Sutherland wanted to speak to him. About what? When Adam Sutherland expressed a desire to speak to a cow-puncher it was in the nature of a royal command. Robin was no subject of this cattle king’s, but he had sufficient respect for Sutherland to heed the request—as a matter of courtesy, if nothing more.
Sutherland still occupied his big armchair.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah. Sit down.” Sutherland indicated another chair. “I want to give you some advice.”