Under his ready laugh and effervescent smile, Charlie Shaw gave the impression of entire competence. The downright self-reliance demanded by the range of all who would pass muster in its service, was quite apparent to Rock. In a cow camp a man was judged by the way he carried himself, and what he could do, rather than his years. Charlie had been giving Nona an account of things on round-up. Apparently he had just ridden in. He nodded to Rock and went on with his talk. Rock sat down beside them to roll a cigarette.
“I know within a dozen head how many unbranded calves are scattered around here,” Nona said finally. “We had an open winter. We should have at least seventy or eighty more calves than last year. Yet the tally is less.”
“The range is covered to the last fringe,” Charlie stated. “They’ll make a few more rides, but they won’t show much. I don’t savvy it either, Nona, but that’s the count.”
“How did the Cross come out on their calf crop?” she inquired.
“Nobody knows but Buck. I wouldn’t ask him.”
The girl stared at the porch floor for a second, frowning.
“I don’t understand it,” she said. “There ought to be more calves than that.”
Charlie didn’t comment. After a minute she got up and went inside. Shaw looked at Rock smoking in silence.
“Say, old-timer,” he remarked abruptly, but in a discreet undertone, “there’s some whisperin’ about you in the Maltese Cross outfit.”
“Yes?” Rock became alert. “What do they whisper? And who’s whispering?”