Robin looked off through the haze of Indian summer lying on the creek bottom. The tips of the Little Rockies loomed like a mirage on the eastward horizon above a great spread of undulating sagebrush and the gashed desolation of the Bad Lands. The nearer hills were dun with autumn shades, arid, brown. For a moment he visualized the return of spring, a green and dazzling world with flowers opening--and himself not there. “I won’t run,” he said quietly. “I’ll play the hand I’ve got since I’m in the game.” “What’ll you do?” Mayne asked. “I’ll be organized all the time,” Robin said briefly. “I ain’t worryin’.” The old man stuffed his pipe and puffed furiously for a second or two. “Well, maybe we can get a cinch on him,” he said hopefully. “I’ll take a shoot up to Helena and see if I can’t get the Association to put a stock detective down here for a spell. An’ we’ll have to ride, Robin. I covered some country already. I’ve picked up some stuff here an’ there. I guess I’ve gathered as many as forty calves. They’ve sure cut back lots of unbranded stuff. I bet they’ve stole five thousand dollars’ worth of calves from me in the last year. There’s Block S’s too. I bet you they throw what they steal across the river when she’s froze.” Robin grasped his meaning. The Missouri runs like a broad band across Northern Montana--a wide, deep, swift river well named the Big Muddy. It was an effective barrier to wandering stock, since range cattle seldom swim unless forced. Only in rare and terrible winter storms when the northwest blizzards raged over a long period did northern cattle move south of that barrier. Seldom did range stock from the Musselshell and the Judith Basin cross the big ice. No one on the south side would think twice about T Bar S stock here and there--unless fresh iron work showed. During the fall and winter when the ice held, Steele and Thatcher could work on unbranded calves and throw them south. More and more Robin wondered why Shining Mark and Thatcher had chosen to kill those cows and brand their calves that day within riding distance of the Bar M Bar. A calculating cow thief, Robin concluded, would take a foolish chance when temptation offered. And Steele was really master of the broad range covered by the Block S. He had felt safe. Every calf branded was so much to the good. The mere chance of laming a horse by Cold Spring had tipped his hand--mere chance alone. If Robin had not crippled Stormy, he would not have suspected Mark Steele of rustling. And now that Mark Steele knew his game was known he was out to offset that whim of chance by making the country too hot for Robin Tyler. Kill him or make him run. It was simple.