Robin had seen that. It was his business to see such things. But he had spotted another cow with a calf well-grown in that milling mass and he knew other men must have seen them also. None of them would mention the fact, unless he asked. A “rep” was supposed to know his business. He turned and twisted in that jumble of moving beasts until he found what he looked for, and cut them into the bunch being held. He knew precisely how many unbranded calves with Mayne mothers were in that cut. While four riders threw the beef into the day herd the rest built a fire, put in the irons. There were perhaps forty calves to be branded. Robin was delegated to run an iron. As each calf came dragging to the fire the roper called the brand of his mother cow. With a dozen men on the job it was soon done. “’At’s all.” Thatcher stopped and coiled his rope. “All right. Turn ’em loose,” Steele ordered curtly. Robin flung himself on his horse and tore after the cattle that were already departing at a trot, running out a noose as he went. He knew what he was after. He had an extremely tenacious memory for animals. He spotted his objective, swung his loop, took his turns and came back dragging a red calf full six months old. Fifty yards behind a Bar M Bar cow came bawling a loud protest at the maltreatment of her offspring. The irons had been drawn, the fire partly kicked apart. But when they saw Robin with his calf an iron went back into the coals. “Good eye, kid,” Steele commented. “They overlooked one on you. Some of these stock hands losin’ their eyesight, I guess.” No more was said. The calf ran free, squirming at the smarting mark on his side. But Robin wondered how often that sort of thing happened to Mayne cows in the course of the season’s round-up. He couldn’t be everywhere. It was not humanly possible for him to see everything. And he nursed the conviction that any Bar M Bar calf overlooked like that would carry a T Bar S before spring. It was a tough proposition, he said to himself, a hard game. The cards were stacked; the play crooked. If he could just once get Mark Steele dead to rights! Robin had never fired a shot in anger in his life. But he felt now, at rare moments, that under certain circumstances homicide was not only justifiable but righteous. CHAPTER VI--EVIDENCE IN THE CASE At the outer end of a long ride, a circle which was carrying them deep into the Bad Lands lining the north side of the Missouri River, Robin found himself riding beside Mark Steele after all the other riders save Tommy Thatcher, Tex Matthews and himself had been turned off. They had fallen into pairs. Thatcher and Matthews jogged fifty yards in the rear. “You mentioned rustlers one time to me,” Robin said guilefully. “I haven’t seen no sign of crooked work. Did you dream somebody was draggin’ the long rope on the Block S range?”