From far below Boiler Bottom he rode westward on the Judith Basin side, in a region where no man lived. He passed the mouth of Armells, Arrow Creek, other small, nameless streams. He rode in still, wide-floored canyons where cattle grazed, over benches, back to the river flats again, looking, looking. He ate the last of his food. He slept like a wild animal in the lee of a bank or a brush patch, he dozed over little sagewood fires. And he came out at last near the mouth of the Judith River opposite where Birch Creek flowed in from the Bear Paws.
He was hungry and weary. The frost had touched his cheeks, for the thermometer at night dropped to twenty below. The range lay hard and wan under a bright moon, and glittered in the midday sun. But Robin was content to endure. He had found much that he desired to find. If he could only establish Mark Steele’s interest in the T Bar S brand he knew he could make good his word and put Mark Steele in the penitentiary.
Thus Robin as he looked to the homeward side of the big river. In all the jumbled area behind him no man rode in the dead of winter. The Judith Basin cow outfits had their home ranches far south in a creek and meadow country. The cattle that ranged where he had been would see no riders before the spring round-up. The PN on the Judith a few miles above was the only habitation within a hard day’s ride of where he stood—south of the river. Robin was tempted to ride to the PN to eat warm food, to sleep in a bed once more.
But there was also the urge for home. Directly across from him a little way up Birch the Block S had a line camp. Two riders held it down, as much to keep the men occupied as for aught they could do for the Sutherland interest in winter. Robin knew both riders stationed there. He could lie over an hour, get something to eat, reach home by dark. He had not eaten in twenty hours. His mouth watered at the mere thought of hot coffee.
The chance of Shining Mark turning up there was remote. Robin knew why Mark and Thatcher kept to the lower end of the Block S range. In any case, as he rode up Birch Creek, he must pass this camp. And he would never again step aside an inch for Mark Steele or any other man. Something of the hardness of the winter frosts seemed to be creeping into Robin’s soul.
An hour later he rode through sagebrush that reached to his knees and came to a cabin and a stable in one corner of a small pasture fenced with poles. Smoke wavered from a pipe. Two saddled horses stood before the door. A head thrust out as Robin drew rein.
“Hello, cowboy,” Ed Doyle greeted. “You lost, or just goin’ some place?”
“Neither,” Robin returned. “Been some place, that’s all.”
“Well, get down an’ rest your saddle,” Doyle invited.
Robin got stiffly down. Doyle’s red-headed companion took a shrewd look at Robin and his mount.