“They are dogs of Pahutes!” he exclaimed, when Rawley entered the room. “They would drag the virtue of good men in the mud. They shall retract. They shall know the truth! Or I shall kill.”
With three long steps Rawley was beside him, his hand on the rifle barrel, touching the trembling, sinewy hand of Johnny Buffalo. But the old man would not yield the gun. His eyes neither softened nor lowered themselves before the steadfast blue eyes that were the heritage of the Kings.
“You better get back to bed,” Rawley warned him, half-laughing. “If Peter comes and finds you up, there’ll be the devil and all to pay. I guess we won’t massacre anybody, Johnny,—at least not to-night.”
“I heard the half-breed make a mock of Peter and of you. I heard him say that Peter is your father. When he said that, he laughed. His laugh was evil. Now he shall kneel upon his knees and beg the forgiveness of Peter and of you. He shall say that he spoke a lie from his black heart that would like to see others vile, because he is vile. If he does not say that he lied, I shall kill him. And that half-breed cousin, Anita, shall own her sin and her son. It is not good that Peter should be thought the son of that old vulture, when we know that he is the son of my sergeant. He is not your father. He is your uncle. I will tell them so, and we will see then if they laugh!”
If unshakable dignity can rave, then Johnny Buffalo was raving. Rawley tried again to take the rifle gently from the Indian’s grasp; but the brown fingers seemed to have grown fast to the barrel. Rawley hated to do it, but his word had been given to Peter and this unforeseen uprising must be quelled; he therefore took Johnny Buffalo firmly by the shot shoulder. The old man wilted in his grasp. Rawley leaned the rifle against the table and helped Johnny Buffalo back to his bed.
Subdued but knowing no surrender, Johnny Buffalo lay glaring up at Rawley, even while his lips were twisted with pain. With a singularly motherly motion, Rawley adjusted the pillows and smoothed the sheet.
“That’s a nice way to act—start out gunning for my adopted family the minute I get one!” he scolded with mock severity. “Can’t leave you a minute but you jump the reservation and go on the warpath. And here I thought you were civilized!”
He grinned, but in Johnny Buffalo’s eyes the fire did not die. His thin, old lips would not soften to a smile. The immobility of his face reminded Rawley of what his Uncle Peter had just said about Indians: that it is impossible to pry an idea out of their minds, once it is firmly fixed there. Nevertheless, he sat down beside the bed and repeated to Johnny Buffalo all that Peter had said concerning Young Jess’s charge. He was wise enough, however, to refrain from any attempt to rouse sympathy in Johnny’s heart for that pathetic culprit, Anita. Rather, he flattered himself by declaring that Peter was pleased because the tribe of Cramer believed him Rawley’s father, and he emphasized the need of protecting Peter’s influence over the two men, and his and Nevada’s interest in the river gold. The mocking laughter of Young Jess, he declared, was not worthy a second thought.
It took Rawley just three hours to bring about an unconditional surrender to Peter’s wishes in the matter. Even so, Rawley went to his own bed fagged but feeling that he had done pretty well, considering Johnny Buffalo’s first intention. But as an indemnity to the old man’s pride, Rawley had faithfully promised that he would get their camp outfit up from its hiding place on the morrow, and that he would pitch their tent as far as was practicable from the tribe of Cramer. Johnny Buffalo, it appeared, would not attempt to hold himself responsible for what might happen if he were compelled to listen to further inanities from Gladys, or to hear the voices of Old Jess or Young Jess or Anita. Nevada he very kindly excepted from the general condemnation of the tribe. And Peter, of course, was a King. He therefore could do no wrong,—in the eyes of Johnny Buffalo.
It was a secret relief to Rawley that the change could be placed in the form of a concession to the Indian’s pride. His own pride was demanding that he should move under his own canvas roof and eat the bread—so to speak—of his own buying. He had never felt quite right about taking Nevada’s cabin. He happened to know that their occupancy had forced her to many little makeshifts. Then the jibe of Old Jess had made his position as a guest intolerable, in spite of the quick championship of Nevada and Peter. He had felt obliged to consider, however, Johnny Buffalo’s welfare. The old man was not recovering as quickly as he should. Rawley had felt constrained to stay on his account; but now it seemed likely that a change to their own tent would really be beneficial. He had not dreamed that Johnny Buffalo’s Indian pride had been daily martyred by the presence of Anita and Gladys.