The eagle's wing: A story of the Colorado

by B. M. Bower

“There is gold where my sergeant said there is gold,” Johnny Buffalo insisted. “I shall look until I find.”

“You will need winter quarters, then,” Rawley observed grimly, rummaging for his sweater. October was hard upon them, and the wind was chill. “Tell you what, Johnny. I’ll have to get out and earn some more money, anyway. I have a dandy offer that came in the last mail. It’s a big job, and it ought to net me a thousand dollars, easy. You remember that spring we passed, back here three or four miles? It isn’t far from the trail. There’s plenty of wood, and a little prospecting there might turn up something. I noticed as we came through that the country looked pretty good. I’ll help build you a cabin there and get you fixed up for winter. Then I’ll go and report on this mine—and come back, maybe, after I’m through. Peter’ll see that you have everything you need while I’m gone.”

Johnny Buffalo nodded approval. “All winter I will hunt for the gold my sergeant gave you,” he declared. “He said it was on the high mountain. I shall find it.”

Rawley had long ago learned that argument was a waste of time and breath. All the while they were building the cabin, Johnny Buffalo talked of finding the gold while Rawley was gone; and Rawley did not discourage him. He was saving a secret for the old man, and he was in a hurry to have it complete before he must leave.

Rawley’s mother had offered for sale the furniture and belongings of the west wing, and Rawley had surreptitiously bought them for a fair price through the friendly dealer who had known him since Rawley was a child. The things were stored ready for shipping. Rawley wrote for them; and on the day when the truck was to bring them to the end of the road nearest Johnny’s winter quarters, he encouraged Johnny to start on a two-day trip to the mountain. Peter and Nevada arrived with the burros before Johnny had much more than walked out of sight.

Never mind what it cost those three in haste and hard work. When Johnny Buffalo dragged himself wearily to the cabin at dusk on the second day, he walked into an atmosphere poignantly familiar. Even the wheel chair had arrived with the rest of the things. That, however, Rawley had left crated and stored in the little shed adjoining the cabin. Everything else he had unpacked and arranged as he had seen them in the west wing.

Peter and Nevada had lingered, waiting for the old man’s return; but after all they lacked the courage to follow him when he went inside. He was gone a long while. The three sat out on a rock before the cabin and watched the moon slide up from behind a jagged peak across the river. They did not talk. Splendid dreams held them silent,—dreams and their conscious waiting for Johnny Buffalo.

Even when he came from the cabin there was no speech amongst them; Johnny Buffalo looked as though he had been talking with angels.

A few days after that, Rawley went away to his work, content because he had wheedled from Nevada a promise to write to him and keep him informed of Johnny Buffalo’s welfare and the progress of the dam. He expected to return in a month. But instead of coming he wrote a long letter.

He had finished the mine report and was about to leave for Washington, he said. The president of the School of Mines where he had studied wrote him, asking if he would not offer his services to the government, which was badly in need of men for research work. Minerals hitherto in little demand had suddenly become tremendously important,—for while the country was not yet at war it was quietly preparing for such an emergency. He told Nevada that, much as he disliked to change his plans, it was too good a chance to pass up, even if his loyalty to the government did not impel him to accept the tacit offer. He would come in contact with some of the biggest men in the game, he wrote.