Rock left his horse standing on the reins. The others turned their mounts loose. The Cross riders were squatted about the chuck wagon in tailor-fashion attitudes, loaded plates in their laps. Rock followed the other three to the pile of dishes beside the row of Dutch ovens in the cook’s domain. Some of the men looked up, nodded and called him by name. And, as Rock turned the end of the wagon, he came face to face with a man holding a cup of coffee in one hand--a man who stared at him with a queer, bright glint in a pair of agate-gray eyes, a look on his face which Rock interpreted as sheer incredulity. He was a tall man, a well-built, good-looking individual, somewhat past thirty, Rock guessed. His clothing was rather better than the average range man wore. Neither his size nor his looks nor his dress escaped Rock’s scrutiny, but he was chiefly struck by that momentary expression. And the fellow knew Rock. He grunted: “Hello, Martin.” “Hello,” Rock said indifferently. Then, as much on impulse as with a definite purpose, he continued with a slight grin: “You seem kinda surprised to see me.” Again that bright glint in the eyes, and a flash of color surged up under the tan, as if the words stirred him. Rock didn’t stop to pry into that peculiar manifestation of a disturbed ego. He was hungry. Also, he was sensible and reasonably cautious. He felt some undercurrent of feeling that had to do with Doc Martin. Between the vivacious blonde and this brow-wrinkling stockman, Rock surmised that posing as Doc could easily involve him in far more than he had bargained for. * * * * * So he filled his plate and busied himself with his food. No one tarried to converse. As each rider finished eating, he arose, roped a fresh horse out of the _remuda_, and saddled. The girl and the other two riders ate in silence. From the corner of one eye Rock could see the girl occasionally glance at him, as if she were curious or tentatively expectant. He couldn’t tell what was in her mind. He was going it blind. He didn’t know a soul whom he was supposed to know. That amused him a little--troubled him a little. The quicker he got on his way the better. He had got a little information out of this visit, though. He heard one of the riders address the big, well-dressed man as “Buck.” He heard him issue crisp orders about relieving the day herders. Old Uncle Bill Sayre’s words floated through his mind: “Buck Walters is young, ambitious and high-handed with men an’ fond of women. He dresses flash. A smart cowman.”