“I been ridin’ myself some lately,” Mark went on in his crisp tone. “I’ve seen things.” “What you been drinkin’?” Robin tried raillery. Steele frowned. “I seen some pretty fishy lookin’ work,” he growled. “Pretty raw. There’ll be a necktie party when I get it figured out.” “Well, they can’t steal no cows of mine,” Robin said lightly. “’Cause I don’t own ary a split hoof. You don’t surprise me much. I guess there’s no range in Montana, nor any place where cows run, that there isn’t somebody packin’ a runnin’ iron and draggin’ the long rope now and then.” “Ain’t you seen nothin’--no big calves with a fresh brand and no mother handy?” Steele persisted. Robin shook his head. “If I’d come across stuff like that anywhere in Bar M Bar territory I guess old Dan Mayne would be ridin’ the pinnacles with a Winchester and frothin’ at the mouth,” he drawled. “What’s the brand?” “I ain’t talkin’,” Steele said darkly. “An’ you keep this to yourself what I say. _Sabe?_ They’re workin’ on the Block S mostly, I expect. But they might not overlook the Bar M Bar. So keep your eyes open, kid, an’ let me know if you spot anything that looks queer.” Three or four riders behind broke their horses into a lope, came abreast, laughing, elbows flopping like limp-winged birds. Steele and Robin fell into their pace. In a row, bobbing uniformly, hoofs beating out a steady rhythm on the dry turf, they passed the saddle herd, the wagons. The night hawk driving the bed wagon popped his whiplash as they went by. The cook, acting Jehu, braced himself by the four-horse reins, a cigarette in his lips. Far ahead of the wagons they overtook and joined the other riders. At noon they camped two hours on a creek bottom, ate, caught fresh horses and moved on. Mid-afternoon saw the cavalcade top a rise below which, in the middle of a great gray stretch of sagebrush, the town of Big Sandy lifted a huddle of unpainted buildings. There the chuck wagon would take on a month’s grub, the cowboys would drink Bourbon whisky and play poker overnight, and at dawn the Block S would depart into the wide waste of Lonesome Prairie, to return again in due time with a herd of prime beef cattle two thousand strong. And all the way to town Robin wondered what Shining Mark was getting at; what was his real object in that conversation. Was he craftily seeking to discover if Robin _had_ been the rider on the sorrel horse who turned over the dead cow to read her brand? Or was he shooting straight when he promised a necktie party for cow thieves unknown? When Robin gazed at Steele’s easy erectness in the saddle, the flashy ornamentation of his riding rig, he was troubled by a promise of trouble. He was sure, yet not so sure. More than ever he wished he had been able to see what brand went on those calves that day.