“Guess I will.” Rock was indeed ready to approach any chuck wagon thankfully. It was eleven, and he had breakfasted at five.
They swung their horses away in a lope, four abreast. What the deuce was this Parke rider’s name, Rock wondered? He should have been primed for this. Nona might have told him he would possibly come across the Maltese Cross round-up. This must be her “rep.”
And he was likewise unprepared for the girl’s direct attack. Rock rode on the outside, the girl next. She looked at him sidewise and said without a smile, with even a trace of resentment:
“You must be awful busy these days. You haven’t wandered around our way for over two weeks.”
“I’m working for a boss that don’t believe in holidays,” he parried.
“I’d pick an easier boss,” she said. “Nona never lets the grass grow under anybody’s feet, that I’ve noticed. Sometimes I wish I had some of her energetic style.”
“If you’re suffering from lack of ambish,” Rock said, merely to make conversation, “how’d you get so far from home on a hot day?”
“Oh, Buck was in at the home ranch yesterday, and I rode back with him. Took a notion to see the round-up. I think I’ll go home this afternoon.”
“Say, where’d you get that ridin’ rig, Doc?” the young man asked. He craned his neck, staring with real admiration, and again Rock felt himself involved in a mesh of pretense which almost tempted him to proclaim himself. But that, too, he evaded slightly. He did have a good riding rig. It hadn’t occurred to him that it might occasion comment. But this youth, of course, knew Doc Martin’s accustomed gear probably as well as he knew his own. Naturally he would be curious.
“Made a trade with a fellow the other day.”