It was out of his way to swing over to the Block S camp. He had no qualms about bearding the wolf (Robin couldn’t think of Mark Steele as a lion; a lion in his mind had a certain majesty) but he saw no reason for seeking the wolf in his own lair. Town would do as well. He had no desire to avoid Shining Mark. In fact he had a certain curiosity about what Mark would do or say when they met. To Thatcher he gave scarcely a second thought. He stabled his horses. By the hitching rack before the Silver Dollar a row of cow ponies drooped their heads in equine patience. Robin walked into the saloon. His gun was belted on his hip, the first time he had ever carried a six-shooter openly in Big Sandy. Steele was not there. Block S men, Jack Boyd among them, greeted him hilariously. Thatcher alone neither spoke nor smiled. Robin looked him in the eye. “Well,” he said casually, “if there’s anything on your mind I’m listenin’.” “Nothin’ much besides my hat,” Thatcher made a feeble effort at grinning. “I’m not lookin’ for trouble--unless you are.” That was fair enough in all outward seeming, and Robin felt that Thatcher, for whatever reason, spoke the truth. Most decidedly Tommy Thatcher was not keen for trouble. He showed that plainly enough. It didn’t occur to Robin that his own attitude was aggressive, that he was taking a wild bull by the horns with a confidence that made the bull give ground. Thatcher’s words and bearing simply gave him an opportunity publicly to close that incident in so far as it could be closed. “I never went lookin’ for trouble in my life,” Robin said quietly. “I side-step it if I can. If I can’t----” He shrugged his shoulders. “Come on, have a drink an’ let her slide,” Thatcher proffered the peace symbol of the range. Men with bad blood between them didn’t drink together. “It happens I’m not drinkin’ to-day, not with anybody,” thus Robin announced to all and sundry that he was not refusing the olive branch merely because it came from Thatcher--although he would have died thirsty rather than drink with a man he felt sure had sped one of the bullets that snuffed out Tex Matthews’ life. “Thanks, just the same.” Probably no one but himself detected the sardonic note in that phrase of declination. He walked on up toward the store. He didn’t know Mark Steele’s whereabouts and he cared less. He wanted to see Adam Sutherland. The old man was in town. If in seeking the owner of the Block S he ran across Shining Mark that was as it happened. He didn’t have to ask a clerk if Sutherland was about. Back by the bookkeeper’s desk Sutherland occupied his favorite roost deep in an armchair. The cattleman’s face, round and red about a walrus-like mustache didn’t alter its normal placidity as Robin approached. “Hello, kid,” he greeted. “I haven’t seen you for quite a spell.” “No, and you maybe won’t see me for quite a spell again,” Robin answered, “if I can do some business with you.” “Well, shoot,” Sutherland encouraged.