“A long time he was sick in the town we entered. I was with him. Every day and every night he could open his eyes and see that I was with him.”
The sonorous voice ceased its monotone and the Indian sat silent, staring into the past. After a while he turned his head and looked full at Rawley.
“I was a boy when he took me. Now I am an old man. Since he took me there has been no night when my sergeant could call and get no answer. There has been no day when my sergeant could look and could not see me. Now my sergeant is gone. My heart is gone with him.”
Enthralled by the picture vividly painted with bold strokes by the Indian, Rawley sat hunched over his pipe, cuddling the cooling bowl in his fingers.
“Your sergeant was my grandfather. At the last I loved him, too. I am a King. I need you.” His tone stamped the lie as truth. Later he would find some way of making it the truth, he thought.
Johnny Buffalo eyed him sharply in the deepening dusk.
“You have read the book?” he asked after a minute. “If you have read, then I will go with you. The spirit of my sergeant will go. My heart may live again.”
“What book?” Rawley’s eyes widened.
“Your grandfather gave you the book. Your grandfather commanded that you read.” Reproach was in the voice of Johnny Buffalo.
“I have read the diary—the book where he wrote of his travels. Do you mean that book?”