So he filled his plate and busied himself with his food. No one tarried to converse. As each rider finished eating, he arose, roped a fresh horse out of the remuda, and saddled. The girl and the other two riders ate in silence. From the corner of one eye Rock could see the girl occasionally glance at him, as if she were curious or tentatively expectant. He couldn’t tell what was in her mind. He was going it blind. He didn’t know a soul whom he was supposed to know. That amused him a little—troubled him a little. The quicker he got on his way the better. He had got a little information out of this visit, though. He heard one of the riders address the big, well-dressed man as “Buck.” He heard him issue crisp orders about relieving the day herders. Old Uncle Bill Sayre’s words floated through his mind: “Buck Walters is young, ambitious and high-handed with men an’ fond of women. He dresses flash. A smart cowman.”
That was Buck Walters, the range-functioning executor of the Maltese Cross estate. And there was some distaste in Buck Walters for Doc Martin. More wheels within wheels. Rock wondered if this tawny-haired girl could be the daughter of the deceased Snell. Probably. That didn’t matter. But it might matter a good deal to him if there was any occasion for bad blood between Walters and the dead man into whose boots he, Rock, had stepped.
He finished and rose.
“Well, people,” said Rock, “I’ll be like the beggar, eat and run. I have a long way to go.”
“Tell Nona to ride over to see me,” the girl said politely, but with no particular warmth. “I’ll be at the ranch most of the summer.”
“Sure,” Rock said laconically. “So long.”
He was a trifle relieved when he got clear of that camp. He had plenty of food for thought, as he covered the miles between White Springs and the Marias. Stepping out of his own boots into those of a dead man seemed to have potential complications. When Rock pulled up on the brink of the valley, he had just about made up his mind that he would be himself. Or, he reflected, he could turn his back on Nona Parke and the TL, and the curious atmosphere of mystery that seemed to envelope that ranch on the Marias. He was a capable stock hand. He could probably work for the Maltese Cross and learn all he wanted to know under his own name. Why burden himself with a dead man’s feud, even if the dead man might have been his brother?
As far as Nona Parke went, one rider was as good as another to her. And Rock had no intention of remaining always merely a good stock hand. Other men had started at the bottom and gained independence. No reason why he should not do the same. Land and cattle were substantial possessions. Cattle could be bought. From a small nucleus they grew and multiplied. Land could be had here in the Northwest for the taking. Why should he commit himself to a dead man’s feuds and a haughty young woman’s personal interests? For a monthly wage? He could get that anywhere. He could probably go to work for the Maltese Cross, without question and in his own identity.
Rock, looking from the high rim down on the silver band of the Marias, on the weather-bleached log buildings, asked himself why he should not ride this range and fulfill his promise to an uneasy man in Texas in his own fashion? Why shouldn’t he work for some outfit where there were neither women to complicate life, nor enemies save such as he might make for himself?