“Yes. In my safe deposit box, in St. Louis.”
“Humph.” Peter deliberately twisted the paper into a spill, felt in his pocket for a match, and as deliberately set fire to the paper, turning and tilting it until the creeping flame was about to scorch his fingers. He laid the stub on the floor, bent and watched it go black, then set his foot upon the charred fragments.
“Boy, you keep what was given you. If I’ve any right in it, I’ll sign that right over to you. But never mention that—” he motioned toward the ashes on the floor—“above your breath. Your grand—my father was right. The vultures are perched here by the river, and the old vulture’s eye is never shut. While you’re here, forget it. Both of you.”
“But it isn’t mine. It’s yours, Uncle Peter. I don’t want it—now.”
“If it’s mine, then it will never be found. I don’t need it. When the vultures swoop down and light—the feast will be big enough even for them. But I warn you, remember. Never speak of that again, in this camp.” He stood up, gazing down at Rawley much as Grandfather King had looked at him that night. With a quick, impulsive movement he stooped and laid his hand over Rawley’s, pressing it warmly. He smiled; and there was that in the smile which made Rawley draw in his breath sharply.
“If Fate had dealt the cards straight to me—I might have had you for my son!”
He drew his hand away, turned and walked out.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE COLORADO
The tribe of Cramer dined. In the shack beside the big mesquite tree was heard the clatter of knives and forks—more knives than forks, one might guess—the dull clink of enameled ware, the high, demanding voices of hungry children more Indian than white. Above all the clamor of feeding, the shrill petulance of Aunt Gladys could be heard rising above all other sounds as she expostulated incessantly with her young. The baby was crying monotonously. Some one kicked a dog, which shot out of the open door ki-yi-ing hysterically.
In the smaller rock dugout, tinkle of glass and silver plate and china betrayed the fact that the white blood held itself aloof from the red at mealtime. In the larger cabin built for Nevada, Rawley had just finished his supper, eaten with Johnny Buffalo in a punctilious regard for the old man’s feelings, though he had been invited to join Peter and Nevada at table.