But he was hardly prepared for what did happen. He walked straight toward Duffy. The man’s back was toward him. He was talking to Nona. She was just rising from her stool. Duffy was in no way excited. His tone was the habitual slow drawl of the native Texan.
Then Rock spoke.
“Hello, Duffy,” said he.
Duffy wheeled. His arms hung by his sides. There wasn’t the faintest twitch of the fingers hanging a little below his gun belt, nor any quick lighting of his slaty eyes, nor the frowning recognition Rock half expected. True, recognition impended in the man’s attitude. And he was wary—wary without being hostile.
“Hellow, Doc,” he answered evenly.
“Doc!” A ripple of sardonic amusement stirred in Rock. Duffy thought he faced Nona Parke’s dead rider. Rock stood perfectly still for a second or two. The man’s eyes never left his.
“You didn’t expect to see me, did you?” Rock asked.
Surely his voice would establish his identity. Duffy had been in daily contact with Rock Holloway for two months on trail and had known him casually the season earlier. But he didn’t know him now. His words proved that.
“Why, I reckoned I might,” he answered, “seein’ I rode in here. You didn’t expect me to take what you said serious, did you?”
Rock had a retentive memory.