Rock put his team in a livery stable and registered at the Grand Union. He sought the bar, his parched throat craving St. Louis beer fresh off the ice.
In the doorway, between lobby and barroom, he halted to look. Anywhere between the Rockies and the Mississippi, between the Rio Grande and the Canada line, a range rider might meet a man whom he knew. They were rolling stones, gathering moss in transit, contrary to the proverb. And Rock was not disappointed, although it would be wrong to say that he was pleased.
For he saw two men whom he recognized. They leaned on the bar at one end, deep in talk, glasses before them. They did not see him. Their backs were toward the doorway in which he stood. Their eyes were on each other, not on the broad mirror over the back bar, which showed Rock their faces.
One was Buck Walters; the other was Dave Wells, the Texan boss of the Wagon Wheel on Old Man River, north of the Canada line.
Rock drew back, unseen, sought a chair in the lobby, and sat down, with some food for thought. Here were two men, each of whom knew him quite well—one as Doc Martin, a Parke cowpuncher; while the other had employed him for nine months in his real identity. Fort Benton was small. He could not remain in that town over the night without meeting both, face to face. Which identity should he choose?
It did not take Rock long to decide. He rose and made for the bar. This time he put his foot on the rail and made an inclusive sign to the bartender, after the custom of the country.
There were other men in the bar now. Walters and Wells looked up to see who was buying. A shadow, very faint, flitted across Buck Walters’ face. He nodded, with a grunt. Wells grinned recognition and stuck out his hand.
“You got the best of me,” Rock drawled. “But shake, anyway.”
“I’d know your hide on a fence in hell,” Wells declared. He was jovial, and his eyes were bright. He had been hoisting quite a few, Rock decided. Walters seemed coldly sober.