“Back from Arizona, hey?” he launched abruptly at Rawley, and his voice was grim as his face.
Rawley started. Perhaps he expected a cracked, senile tone; it would have fitted better the tradition of the old man’s mental weakness.
“Just got back to-day, Grandfather.” Instinctively Rawley swung to a matter-of-fact manner, warding off his embarrassment over the amazing interview.
“Mining expert, hey? Know your business?”
“Well enough to be paid for working at it,” grinned Rawley, trying unsuccessfully to keep his eyes from straying curiously around the room filled with ancient trophies of a soldier’s life half a century before.
“Not much like your father! I’ll bet he couldn’t have told you the meaning of the words. Damned milksop. Bank clerk! Not a drop of King blood in his body—far as looks and actions went. Guess he thought gold grew on bushes, stamped with the date of the harvest!”
“I remember him vaguely. He never seemed well or strong,” Rawley defended his dead father.
“Never had the King make-up. Only weakling the Kings ever produced—and he had to be my son! Take a look at that picture on the bureau. That’s what I mean by King blood. Johnny, give him the picture.”
The Indian moved silently to a high chest of drawers against the farther wall and lifted from it an enlarged, framed photograph, evidently copied from an earlier crude effort of some pioneer in the art. He placed it reverently in Rawley’s hands and retreated to a respectful distance.
“Taken before I started out with Moorehead’s expedition in ’59. Six feet two in my bare feet, and not an ounce of soft flesh in my body. Not a man in the company I couldn’t throw. Johnny could tell you.” A note of pride had crept into the old man’s voice.