“Sure.” Charlie looked at him out of narrowed eyes, the bright blue of which held a peculiar gleam, whether of friendship or disapproval Rock could not tell from the boy’s otherwise impassive face. No; not disapproval; merely the recollection of something unpleasant, either in the past or threatening in the future. This capable youngster was by no means an open book. “I wouldn’t yeep, only to give you a hint to step soft. Buck’s mean. He’ll make trouble. Nona’s had a hard enough row to hoe. Long as we draw wages from her, we got to do the best we can for her. The TL ain’t so popular as it used to be with the Maltese Cross.” “Account of me?” Rock inquired. “I don’t know,” Charlie said frankly. “I’ve told you all I know. That talk about rustlin’ an’ hangin’ parties was _meant_ for me to hear. Savvy?” * * * * * Rock didn’t, but he nodded. His brows wrinkled deeply. The solution finally came to him. To make a decision with him was to act. “Do you recollect asking me where I got that riding rig?” he asked. “Sure. Why?” “I’ll tell you in a minute. Meantime I want to show you something.” He rose. “Come on in!” Charlie followed him into the kitchen. “Will you open up that room?” Rock asked Nona. “The one where that stuff is we put away?” “Why----” She stopped short. Something on the faces of the two men checked the question on her lips. Silently she took a key out of a drawer and walked into the hall, the narrow passage that divided the house. She opened a door--the only locked door in all those log-walled rooms. “You better come in,” Rock said. “Charlie’s got to know. You better tell him.” A window from the south let sunlight into the room. A bed long unslept in stood against one wall. On the floor lay a saddle, bridle, a pair of black, Angora-faced chaps, and a pair of silver-inlaid spurs. Beside them a pair of worn riding boots, a brown calfskin belt full of .45 cartridges, and in the holster a plain, black-handled Colt. On a nail above hung a man’s felt hat. A canvas war bag lay across a chair, stuffed with the dead man’s belongings. Rock pointed to the saddle. On the yellow leather a stain lay black like dried paint. “Do you know that rig?” he asked. “Do you see that smear? That’s blood.” “Well?” The boy looked at the dead man’s outfit in puzzled wonder. He looked at Nona Parke and back again at Rock. “Well?” he repeated. “I see it. What’s it all about?” “Am I Doc Martin or not?” Rock asked softly. “Are you crazy?” Charlie demanded. “What are you getting at? Who do you think you are? Have you gone loco?” “Tell him,” Rock commanded the girl. “Doc is dead,” she whispered. “He was shot from ambush a week ago yesterday.” Nona Parke’s cowpuncher looked at her unbelievingly. She gave him details, chapter and verse, describing that tragic afternoon, Rock’s coming, and the burial at sunrise. “That’s all,” she said wearily. “You can see his grave beside dad and mamma.”