“Well?” The boy looked at the dead man’s outfit in puzzled wonder. He looked at Nona Parke and back again at Rock. “Well?” he repeated. “I see it. What’s it all about?”
“Am I Doc Martin or not?” Rock asked softly.
“Are you crazy?” Charlie demanded. “What are you getting at? Who do you think you are? Have you gone loco?”
“Tell him,” Rock commanded the girl.
“Doc is dead,” she whispered. “He was shot from ambush a week ago yesterday.”
Nona Parke’s cowpuncher looked at her unbelievingly. She gave him details, chapter and verse, describing that tragic afternoon, Rock’s coming, and the burial at sunrise.
“That’s all,” she said wearily. “You can see his grave beside dad and mamma.”
“Poor old Doc,” Shaw muttered. He looked at Rock with new interest. “I wouldn’t ’a’ believed it if she hadn’t told me. You’re the dead spit of him. You talk like him. Only, you seemed a little different, some way, from what Doc used to be.”
“Come on into the bunk room,” Rock invited. “Let’s try to get down to cases.”
“Has anything happened?” Nona asked sharply.