“Gosh, no,” Rock equivocated. “Nothing at all. I wanted this kid to know how things stand, though. I couldn’t go on and not tip my hand, for fear he’d think there was something queer about me.”
“Probably it’s best,” Nona agreed. “Supper will be ready in a few minutes. Charlie has to ride back to the round-up. I’ll call you.”
“All right.”
They turned out of the hall into the huge room where Rock slept. Side by side, they sat on a bed that seemed lost in that empty space, where forgotten riders had clanked their spurs and joked and told stories through long winter nights, while the fireplace roared.
“Now you see where I stand,” Rock said. “I’m having a dead man’s troubles wished on me. Tell me just how Doc Martin stood with Alice Snell, and why Buck Walters had his knife out for Doc.”
“That’s simple,” the boy answered. “This blond dulce was soft on Doc—crazy about him. I don’t blame you. Darn it, I keep thinkin’ of you as Doc Martin. I can’t get it that he’s cashed in.”
“You can see how hard it is for me to make any one believe I’m not Doc,” Rock observed.
“Hell, yes. They’d have to have it proved. They’d laugh and think you were trying to put it over ’em.”
“Were you and Doc friends?” Rock asked. He wanted to know where this boy stood.