“Gosh, who do you think I am?” Rock asked. “Your long-lost brother or something?”
“Why, you’re Rock Holloway, darn you!” Wells said bluntly. “I’d ought to know you. I paid you off less’n a month ago. Course, if you’re layin’ low for somethin’——” He paused significantly. Over his shoulder Rock marked the surprised attention of Buck Walters.
“If that is so, I sure must have a double,” Rock said. “I been drawin’ wages from the TL on the Marias River for goin’ on two years, without a break. Does this Holloway fellow you speak of look so much like me, stranger?”
Wells looked him up and down in silence.
“If you ain’t Rock Holloway, I’ll eat my hat,” he said deliberately.
“Let’s see a man eat a Stetson for once,” Rock said to the manager of the Maltese Cross. “Tell him who I am.”
“Eat the hat, Dave,” Walters said. “This feller never rode for you—not in this country. His name is Doc Martin. He rides for a lady rancher on my range. I know him as well as I know you.”
Wells scratched his head.
“I need my sky piece to shed the rain,” he said mildly. “Maybe the drinks are on me. If you ain’t the feller I think you are, you certainly got a twin.”
“I never had no brothers,” Rock declared lightly and reached for his glass. “Never heard of anybody that looked like me. Well, here’s luck.”