“You can’t sell nothin’ wearin’ a T Bar S to Sutherland or anybody else,” Mark said very slowly and distinctly. He had drawn himself straight as an arrow. His mouth had an ugly twist. “If Jim Bond gave you a bill of sale for the T Bar S it ain’t worth the paper the damned old crook wrote it on. He don’t own it. He never did. The brand registry stood in his name, but I own the cattle and I can prove ownership. I’ve owned ’em ever since the time the T Bar S’s were turned loose on this range. I give you notice right now. I can produce the papers for that. You won’t deliver no T Bar S cattle to Adam Sutherland nor anybody else, Mr. Tyler.” Anger rang in his voice. Unquestionably Shining Mark was stirred. But he made no move beyond that defiant speech. Robin, watching him closely, shrugged his shoulders. “You may have the papers,” he said insolently. “But I’ve got the cattle. I’ll deliver ’em to the Block S.” Steele took a step forward. For a breath Robin thought Shining Mark meant to burn powder at last and he stiffened in his tracks, half turned, ready. But Mark controlled his temper. He, too, shrugged his shoulders. His lips parted, but before the words were uttered Sutherland faced him. “So you claim to own the T Bar S brand?” “I do own it,” Mark said coolly. “An’ you’ve owned it for two years, here on my range, unknown to me? Hidin’ behind another man’s registry of the brand?” “I have. You can put it that way if you like.” “I don’t like it no way you put it, Steele,” old Adam said. “If the J7 has gathered between three and four hundred in that brand there’s a screw loose somewhere. I know how many head came in here two years back. That ain’t a natural increase. You know what I mean.” “I can’t help what you mean,” Steele replied quite casually. He leaned against the porch column, cocked up one booted foot and played with the spur rowel. “If they’ve increased plenty so much the better for me. I own ’em. I can prove ownership. You can be suspicious if it suits you. If you think I’ve rustled you know what to do about that. You’ve handled rustlers before.” “You have rustled, by God--an’ you’ve done worse!” Sutherland gritted. Shining Mark looked at him unmoved. “That’s open to argument,” he said brazenly. “You’ve got stock detectives. You’ve got men with eyes in their heads. They’ve been around me all the time. If you think you got a case, go ahead. I’ve got a clear conscience, Sutherland. And I own that T Bar S brand. Nobody’s goin’ to sell it but me--an’ don’t you forget that, Mr. Robin Tyler.” “I told you before you may have papers enough to choke a cow,” Robin said. “But possession is nine points of the law, I’ve heard. I’ve got the cattle. I’ll deliver ’em to the Block S. You can gamble on that.” “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” Shining Mark snarled. “I’m here to tell you you won’t. I’ll tell you something more. I’ll----”