“I keep forgettin’,” the boy muttered. “If I was you I’d advertise that fact pronto. It ain’t healthy to be in Doc Martin’s shoes around here.”
“I have a notion to fill ’em for a while, just to see what comes of it,” Rock said slowly. “You’re sure Buck Walters had it in for Doc over this girl—and nothing else?”
“Nothing else that I know of,” Shaw said.
Something in the boy’s tone made that denial unconvincing and warned Rock that there was more in Charlie Shaw’s mind than he would utter.
“Do you suppose there was something that Doc Martin knew or had found out or suspected, that would make Buck want him out of the way?”
Shaw stared at Rock for a minute, as if trying to fathom his purpose—as if he were suspicious of subtleties beyond his understanding.
“I can’t answer for what Doc might have known. All I know is that I’m a Parke rider, and I don’t aim to horn into nothin’ that don’t concern me nor the outfit I ride for—nor my friends.”
“I’m a TL rider, too,” Rock said pointedly. “I aim to be as good a hand, if not better, to the outfit I work for as any rider that ever forked a cayuse. Even if you don’t know anything positive, Charlie, you could tell me what you think about Buck Walters.”
“I might tell you when I know you better,” the boy said bluntly. “A man that wags his tongue too free is a fool. I’ve told you what I know. It ain’t important what I think.”
Rock gave him credit for a wisdom beyond his years and did not press the matter. He had taken a liking to this slender, smiling youth. Charlie was good stuff—that curious mixture of which all good range men were made—loyalty, courage and a rude dignity. And he was damnably efficient. The boy had an eye like an eagle and a discerning, practical mind. He knew or suspected far more than he would ever admit to any one he didn’t know inside out and could trust implicitly. He would have told things to Doc Martin that he would only reveal to Rock Holloway when Rock had demonstrated that he was all wool and a yard wide.