“I knew it, anyway. And you did more good than your personal service in hospital could have done. It took money to keep the nurses going that were on the job, remember.”
“Two years ago,” mused Nevada, “you’d have called me on that Sphinx remark and for calling myself Injun. Yes, you have grown. You can keep to the essential point much better than before. Well, and how is Johnny Buffalo? I haven’t seen him for a week.”
“Nor I for over two years. I left a note on his table. Nevada, how long has he had that wheel chair of Grandfather’s standing across the table from his own?”
Nevada looked at him studyingly until Rawley, for all his vaunted strength, found his eyes sliding away from the directness of her gaze.
“Cousin Rawley, if you have grown hard, you won’t sympathize with Johnny Buffalo, or understand. For more than a year, now, he has believed that his sergeant comes and sits in that chair to keep him company. He really believes it. You mustn’t laugh at him, will you?”
Rawley was staring down at the always hurrying river. He said nothing.
“Just don’t laugh at Johnny,” Nevada urged. “And don’t argue with him. It’s a comfort to him to believe that. He doesn’t always keep the chair at the table. Sometimes it is by the window, or close to the fire when I go there. I think he moves it just as he would if your grandfather were living there with him.”
“That’s nonsense!” Rawley spoke sharply.
“It’s a comfort to Johnny Buffalo,” Nevada observed calmly. “I’m glad I saw you first, if that is your attitude. Johnny Buffalo has been brighter and happier, ever since he first thought he saw your grandfather walk in at the door and stand smiling down at him. He insists that his sergeant has his legs back, and that not a day passes but he comes and sits awhile with him. He—there’s something he won’t tell me, but he’s very anxious to see you, especially. I think it is something concerning your grandfather.”
“Oh, well, if it’s any comfort to the old man—” Rawley frowned, but his tone was yielding.