“Hidin’ behind another man’s ownership of a brand,” Tex knitted his brows. “If he’d said to Sutherland: ‘I’m goin’ to have a few cows of my own an’ make a start,’ Sutherland would have done one of two things. Either told him straight he couldn’t own cattle an’ run the Block S at the same time, or he would have said it was a good scheme an’ for him to go right to it, save his money an’ get somewhere. But Mark has played it too foxy. If he’s rustlin’ under the T Bar S brand he owns it, or the biggest share in it. If Sutherland ever finds out his range boss has a silent ownership in a brand on his own range, right there Mark’ll come to the end of his rope. Old Adam’d get him an’ get him right. Barrin’ that, Mark’s got all the best of it just now. He’s put you in wrong. He’ll get you if he can. You know too much. He can always bluff Dan Mayne. If he wasn’t afraid, old Dan would have bellowed it all out loud long ago. There’s nothin’ but your word against Mark yet. But as a matter of fact, kid, I----” Tex broke off. He grinned. “I won’t talk, right now,” said he. “From now on I’m a Bar M Bar rider. Two heads are better’n one. I can’t tell you _all_ I may know or think, Robin, old boy. But I’ll say this: If you go up against Shinin’ Mark too soon an’ do kill him, you’ll have to go on the dodge, because Sutherland’ll sure try to put you in the pen. So you keep clear of a fight with Mark Steele if you can. Maybe by spring you won’t have to throw lead with him. Maybe a deputy with a warrant’ll save you the trouble.” They slept on that. CHAPTER XII--THE OPENING GUN In between the high moments of any man’s existence life seems to flow evenly, with a monotonous smoothness, like the placid reaches of a slow stream between foaming rapids. For a time it was like that with Robin. He rose before dawn, performed small tasks, rode abroad more or less perfunctorily during the day. Storms blew up and blew over. Between blizzards the range lay quiescent. Cattle and horses fed on high ground where the sun warmed them. When night came or harsh winds stung too bitterly they sought shelter in canyons, in the sparse timber of the foothills, in the rough tangle of the Bad Lands. Winter for the range herds was a period of endurance, a struggle to survive. In this dumb struggle man had little part. Cattleman and cowboy alike kept to warmed quarters. Their saddle horses munched hay in log stables. The range stock attended by their enemies, the blizzard and the prowling wolf, drifted at will until spring should bring green grass.