“Then I’m sorry I hit him at all,” Rawley declared. “But I had to. He was after the grub, all right. He thanked me for carrying it up to the trail for him. Then he plugged me—I didn’t duck quite soon enough. So—I always hate to be killed, like that,” he finished whimsically.
“That sounds like Uncle Peter,” Nevada observed. “Your voice, I mean. Grandmother, don’t you think Mr. King looks and talks like Uncle Peter?”
Rawley tried not to look as startled as he felt. The pillowy (after all, one letter would have called her willowy in the old days, so that not so much had been changed) Anita walked deliberately over to them, advancing one side at a time, like a duck that travels in a leisurely mood. She laid her cushioned knuckles on her bulging hips and regarded Rawley steadfastly.
“Mebby he look—a lil bit,” she conceded with a superb indifference. “Peter, he t’inner—a lil bit. More darker. More—like his fadder, Jesse.”
“Yes-s—he does look more like Grandfather, of course. But I do think Mr. King looks like them both.” Nevada spoke with a perfect sincerity which sent the spirits of three persons up a notch or two.
Rawley laughed. “Well, maybe we’re some relation—away back,” he said recklessly. “A Cramer, connected with my family, was known to have come West, years ago. I remember reading it in some old record. But I’m afraid I can’t claim he was very closely related. In fact, I rather think he wasn’t.” His eyes met the eyes of old Anita, and he almost thought he saw a gleam of approval in them. He could not be sure.
Of the look in the eyes of Peter, who was standing in the doorway, he was much more positive. The color came into his face as their eyes met. After all, others were sure to notice the resemblance, and there must be some explanation ready.
“I’m sure that’s it.” Nevada laughed softly. “You’re a fourth or fifth cousin, perhaps. Likenesses do travel that way. I wonder if Grandfather would know.”
“I wouldn’t want to ask him,” her Uncle Peter observed in his grim way. “Why stir the old man up for days, just to satisfy idle curiosity?” He laid his hand on Nevada’s head, smoothing back a lock of her hair with a gesture inexpressibly tender. “On the strength of the fifth-cousin relationship, seems like we might drop the Mr. King. Father hates to think of his past,—a quarrel with his family brought him West, as nearly as I can make out. What do folks call you, young man, when they know you well?”
“Oh, Rawley is what I grew up under. George Rawlins King is my name. I wish you would call me Rawley. Then I could say Uncle Peter, and Nevada, and—Grandmother, maybe, if Mrs. Cramer will let me.”