“You’re through anyhow,” Mayne raved in fury. “Mark’s got you buffaloed. He’ll nail your hide to his barn door. You’re just plumb scared, that’s all. I’ve done this before to T Bar S’s, and by the Lord, I’ll go on doin’ it!”
“You’ll do it by yourself, then,” said Robin. He swung his horse about. The pack animal grazed a hundred yards distant. Robin rode straight to him. Mayne sat still a second, then followed.
“What you goin’ to do?” he demanded harshly.
“Take my blankets and some grub and hit the trail,” Robin said. “When it comes to makin’ a common thief outa myself, I quit before I begin.”
“Aw, hell, kid!” Mayne changed his tone. He began to expostulate.
In the end they rode out of that bottom together taking only Bar M Bar stock. The unbranded T Bar S calves remained with the wild bunch. Mayne grudgingly promised that he would kill no more cows. He was full of vindictive resentment against everything and everybody. But he didn’t want to lose Robin.
“You’re so damned straight you lean over backward, kid,” he said grudgingly. “I don’t feel like I was a thief. Maybe you’re right, but I sure don’t reckon it no sin to play even thataway when I think of what Mark Steele’s doin’ to me.”
That was Mayne’s last long ride. He had grown old in the saddle. He could not face the weariness and discomfort of riding and lying out in bitter weather as lightly as Robin could.
“I guess we got most of mine, anyway,” Mayne said. “You can circulate around, if you like. I can’t stand this no more.”
Robin meant to circulate, as Mayne graphically put it. There were plenty of Block S calves in places he knew. Robin meant to ride and watch. In the back of his mind was a pretty definite idea of what he would do if he ever caught Steele and Thatcher at work. His purpose was hardening. He didn’t really expect such luck. They would probably see him first. But there was always the chance.