“I know where we were,” Charlie said. “Couldn’t say for sure whether Buck was early or late off circle that afternoon. Anyhow, I’m here to tell you that he wouldn’t be likely to do his own bushwhackin’. Too foxy for that. He’s got at least half a dozen riders in his outfit that’d kill a man for two bits—especially if Buck told ’em to.”
“Got something on ’em, I suppose,” Rock suggested.
“Maybe; I don’t know. I know he’s got some hard citizens in his crew. None of ’em has made a crooked move since they come to Montana, but they got ‘Killer’ written all over ’em. There’s two fellers that never ride with the round-up. They hang around the home ranch all the time, foolin’ with horses. They got a name down South. A rider in Benton told me their history last fall.”
“I see. Buck Walters has a lot of hard pills on his pay roll.” Rock nodded. “Not because they’re such good range hands, eh? Most cowpunchers aren’t killers—not by choice or for money. Now, why do you reckon he keeps men like that around, Charlie?”
But all Shaw could answer was a shake of his head and a muttered, “Search me.”
“It would sort of seem as if Buck kept a crowd around that would burn powder free and easy, if the play came up,” Rock mused. “Consequently, he must expect something to break. What would it likely be? A cow outfit don’t have to fight for nothin’ in this country.”
And again Charlie Shaw shook his blond, youthful head.
“He wouldn’t surround himself with bad men from Bitter Creek, waiting for their night to howl, just to deal with Doc Martin for shining up to a girl he has his mind on.”
“No; because he brought most of his crowd up from the South with him,” Charlie answered. “But he’ll put your light out, just the same, if he gets a good chance.”
“Doc Martin has already had his light put out,” Rock said.