July 4th. Great doings at the fort to-day, with barbeque, wrestling, target practice and gambling. Miners and Indians came out of the hills to celebrate the holiday. In the wrestling matches I easily held my own, as in the sharp-shooting. Anita received my message and was here—el gusto de mi corazon. What a damned pity she’s not white! But she’s more Spanish than Indian, with her proud little ways and her light heart. Jess Cramer tried again to come between us, and there was a fight not down on the program. They carried him to the hospital. A little more and I’d have broken his back, the surgeon said. If he looks at her again—
More elision just when the interest was keenest. Rawley wanted to know more about Anita—“the joy of my heart”, as Grandfather had set it down in Spanish. The next page, however, whetted Rawley’s curiosity a bit more:
July 15th. To-morrow we march to Las Vegas to meet a party of emigrants and guard them to San Bernardino. The Indians are unsettled and traveling is not safe. A miner was murdered and scalped within ten miles of the fort the other day. No mi alebro—Anita wept and clung to me when I told her we had marching orders. Dulce corazon—God, how I wish she was white! But in any case I could not take her with me. I shall return in a month’s time—
August. In hospital, after a hellish trip in a wagon with other wounded. Mohave Indians attacked our wagon train, one hundred miles northeast of here, on the desert. While leading a charge afoot against the Indians I was shot through both legs. Gangrene set in before we could reach this place, and the doctor will not promise the speedy recovery I desire.
My Indian boy, Johnny Buffalo, refuses to leave my side. He hates all other whites. On the desert I picked him up half dead with thirst, and set him before me on the saddle because he feared the wagons. I judge him to be about ten. If I live, I shall keep the boy with me and train him for my body-servant. A faithful Indian is better than a watch-dog—
A lapse of several months intervened before the next entry. Then a brief record, which told of the closing of one romance and the beginning of another:
November 15th. This day I married Mary Jane Rawlins. Was able to stand during the ceremony, supported by two crutches. My Indian boy slipped away from the others and stood close behind me during the service, one hand clutching tightly my coat-tail. Mary has courage, to wish to marry a man likely to be a cripple the rest of his days.
Nothing further was recorded for several years; four, to be exact. Then:
Returned to-day from hospital. After all this suffering, both legs were taken off above the knee. The poison had spread to the joints. What a pity it was not my neck.
On the next page was one grim line:
December 4th, 1889. My wife, Mary Rawlins King, was buried to-day.
That ended the diary. In a memorandum pocket just inside the cover, a folded paper lay snug and flat. Rawley drew it forth eagerly and held it close to the lamp. His face clouded then with disappointment, for nothing was written on the paper save a list of Bible references.