Buck’s lips twitched. “Not exactly,” he shrugged. “Miss Thorne hired me while he was in Paloma. I got a notion he was rather peevish about it. Reckon he prefers to pick his own hands.” 74
As the doctor swung into the saddle, his face momentarily lightened.
“Don’t let that worry you,” he said, a faint little twinkle in his eyes. “It isn’t good for anybody to have their own way all the time. Well, you know what to do about Bemis. If he shows any signs of fever, get hold of me right away.”
With a wave of his hand he rode off. Stratton’s glance followed him curiously. Had he really been pleased to find that the new hand was not a friend of Tex Lynch, or was the idea merely a product of Buck’s imagination?
Still pondering, he turned abruptly to find Pedro regarding him intently from the kitchen door. As their glances met, the Mexican’s lids drooped and his face smoothed swiftly into its usual indolent indifference; but he was not quite quick enough to hide entirely that first look of searching speculation mingled with not a little venom.
Stratton’s own expression was the perfection of studied self-control. He half smiled, and yawned in a realistically bored manner.
“You sure you don’t know where the bunch went?” he asked. “I’m getting dead sick of hanging around doing nothing.”
“They don’ say,” shrugged the Mexican. “I wash dishes an’ don’ see ’em go. Mebbe back soon.”
“Not if they’re moving a herd—I don’t think!” 75 retorted Buck. “Guess I’ll ask Miss Thorne,” he added, struck by a sudden inspiration.
Without waiting for a reply, he walked briskly along the front of the house toward the further entrance. As he turned the corner he met the girl, booted, spurred, her face shaded becomingly by a wide-brimmed Stetson.