“Why, sure,” Rock agreed. “I don’t suppose it would be very difficult for me to get a pretty good idea of how this Buck Walters is handling the Maltese Cross.”
“That’ll be good enough,” Sayre nodded. “If yo’re on the ground takin’ notice, I’ll be satisfied. Le’s see,” he stopped to reflect, “yo’ll be into Montana about September. I don’t issue no orders, son. Use your own judgment. Barrin’ a hard season, nothing much ever happens on a cow range in the winter.”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” Rock said seriously. Then he stopped. Old Uncle Bill was grinning at him understandingly.
“I ain’t going to prime yo’ with no false ideas, Rock,” he declared. “Yo’ just circulate around in that vicinity as it suits yo’ and let me know how she stacks up.”
“Whereabouts in Montana is the Maltese Cross located?” Rock inquired.
“Marias River. Their post office is Fort Benton—no’thern part of the territory. You’re bound for the Marias with the Seventy Seven. Course, she’s a long stream. The Maltese Cross is on the lower end, near where the Marias joins the upper Missouri.”
“I understood the Seventy Seven was headed for the Musselshell,” Rock observed.
“Maybe yo’-all understood that, son, but that herd’ll be turned loose on the Marias,” Sayre said positively. “I get that info’mation from the men that’s backin’ the Duffys. Joe Duffy is on trail with a herd in the same brand, too, from the Panhandle.”
“I didn’t know. Don’t matter to me, nohow,” Rock said, “so long as I get to Montana. I’m bound North, like the bear that went over the mountain, to see what I can see. And I won’t be on the Seventy Seven pay roll after I get there. I sort of feel that in my bones.”