He turned to see Buck Walters stalking toward him. Wells’ long, thin figure showed plain in the glimmer of light. He stood on the edge of the plank walk, staring at the river.
“Got somethin’ to say to you,” Walters announced curtly.
“Shoot,” Rock answered in the same tone.
Walters faced him, six feet away. His face, so far as Rock could see, told nothing. It was cold and impassive, like the face of a gambler who has learned how to make his feature a serviceable mask to hide what is in his mind. Buck’s face was unreadable, but his words were plain.
“This country ain’t healthy for you no more, Martin.”
“Why?”
“Because I tell you it ain’t.”
“You’re telling me doesn’t make it so, does it?”
“I know. Talk’s cheap. But this talk will be made good. You need a change of scenery. I’d go South if I was you—quick. You’ve been on the Marias too long.”
“Why should I go South, if I don’t happen to want to?” Rock asked.