“You got my letters, didn’t you?” Robin asked. “I wrote twice. I told you I’d gone to run a round-up south of the river. I didn’t have much chance to send mail. I’ve been in the Judith Basin and the Bad Lands all spring.” “You write dear letters,” she smiled. “But you don’t give much information about what you’re doing--only about how you feel.” “Well, isn’t that what you mostly want to know?” he teased. “Don’t you like me to say I love you in as many different ways as I can set it down in black and white?” “Of course, silly,” she reproved. “But why didn’t you stay here and run our round-up instead of Mark Steele?” “Did your dad tell you?” “He’s like you,” she murmured. “He thinks and looks and acts more than he talks. There he is now.” Adam Sutherland came ambling slowly across the yard bearing a rod and reel. He nodded to Robin, opened his basket to show them half a dozen glistening fish; then he shouted through an open window. A Chinese house boy came to bear away tackle and trophies. Sutherland lit a cigar. “Well, Tyler,” he said. “I expect you want to see me about something, eh?” May rose and withdrew, stopping behind her father’s chair to pat his head with one hand while she blew Robin a kiss off the other. When they had the porch to themselves Sutherland turned an impassive eye on Robin. “I was sort of expectin’ you’d turn up,” said he. “How’d you get along with the spring work?” “All right. I’m through except for a day herd we’re holdin’. The outfit’s movin’ in opposite Eagle Creek ford to-morrow,” Robin told him. “We’ve covered the range. Branded out a tally of seventeen hundred calves. Beef stock is shaping up pretty good in the Basin. Feed’s good. Looks like it might be a little overstocked, though, on a dry year. Too many sheep outfits over there.” Sutherland nodded. “I’ll move that J7 stuff north next year,” he remarked absently. Robin sat silent a moment. “Look,” he said abruptly. “I’ve got to stir up somethin’. You asked me twice why I called Mark Steele a thief. I’m goin’ to tell you why, now.” Sutherland took the cigar out of his mouth, inspected critically the ash. “Shoot,” he said casually. “I’m listenin’.” Robin began at the beginning, the day he lamed Stormy, the gray horse, by Cold Spring. He spared nothing, no one, himself, Mayne, Ivy, Mark Steele. All that had grown out of Shining Mark’s depredations had burned in Robin’s breast so long it was a relief to speak freely. Sutherland sat staring at the porch floor, frowning a little, forgetting to puff at his cigar. Once or twice he shifted abruptly in his chair. Once or twice he stared at Robin with narrowed eyes. Dusk deepened into dark while Robin talked. The crickets chirped in the dry grass. Stars twinkled above.