“Buck Walters, of course,” Charlie returned promptly. “Who else? Just like his damn left-hand ways. Didn’t you never figure he’d shoot at you over somebody else’s shoulder? As a matter of fact, I’m satisfied Buck aims to get you.”
“Why?”
“Say, you know why well enough,” Charlie blurted irritably. “You been flirtin’ with the undertaker all spring. You ain’t a fool.”
“You mean Alice Snell?” Rock hazarded a guess.
“Sure.” Charlie looked at him out of narrowed eyes, the bright blue of which held a peculiar gleam, whether of friendship or disapproval Rock could not tell from the boy’s otherwise impassive face. No; not disapproval; merely the recollection of something unpleasant, either in the past or threatening in the future. This capable youngster was by no means an open book. “I wouldn’t yeep, only to give you a hint to step soft. Buck’s mean. He’ll make trouble. Nona’s had a hard enough row to hoe. Long as we draw wages from her, we got to do the best we can for her. The TL ain’t so popular as it used to be with the Maltese Cross.”
“Account of me?” Rock inquired.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said frankly. “I’ve told you all I know. That talk about rustlin’ an’ hangin’ parties was meant for me to hear. Savvy?”
Rock didn’t, but he nodded. His brows wrinkled deeply. The solution finally came to him. To make a decision with him was to act.
“Do you recollect asking me where I got that riding rig?” he asked.