Robin stirred up the fire, ate like a famished wolf. He was weary to the innermost core. For five days he had only taken off his boots to warm his feet for an hour or so by the fire. His bones ached from sleeping on frozen ground. With a full stomach he drew up to the stove, rested his stockinged feet on the hearth, sat there smoking, debating whether he should stay or ride on.
The warmth of the room wrapped him like a comfortable garment. His eyelids drooped. His chin sank on his breast.
He came out of that doze with a start, with a sensation of having been disturbed, with a strange intuition of a presence in the room besides himself. He became aware of his pistol scabbard empty on his hip. For a breath he tried to recall if he had laid the gun aside. Then, his head turning slowly to verify that warning intuition of personal nearness to something, he saw Mark Steele and Thatcher standing between him and the door.
Steele had Robin’s Colt in his hand. He was smiling, with a faint curl of his upper lip. Thatcher grinned with a satisfaction that sent a ripple along Robin’s back.
He didn’t speak. He looked at them silently. His tongue was not numbed, nor his brain. But there was nothing to say. They had him cornered, disarmed. What would they do? He canvassed the possibilities in a detached, impersonal fashion.
Steele broke the silence at last. He backed up a step, seated himself on the edge of the table, dangled one foot so that the silver spur tinkled. His eyes never left Robin. They were cold and gray, unlighted by any feeling—except it might be a touch of calculation. He laid Robin’s six-shooter beside him.
“Well, Mr. Tyler of the Bar M Bar,” said he, “the last time we talked you said you were goin’ to put me in the pen. How about it? You got out a warrant for my arrest yet?”
Robin did not answer.
“Too scared to talk?” Steele taunted.
Robin’s answer was a shrug of his shoulders. A shadow flitted across Steele’s dark face.