The eagle's wing: A story of the Colorado — Background and Themes

hulk in a wheel chair. And the Kings never ran after anybody; nor the Rawlinses, your grandmother’s people. Two good names--glad you carry ’em both. If you live up to ’em both you’ll go far. Take care of those two books, boy. Remember what I said--they’re your legacy from King, of the Mounted. Good night.”

The old man snapped out the last two words in a tone of finality and reached for his pipe. Johnny Buffalo opened the door an inch wider. Rawley obeyed the unspoken hint and straightway found himself outside, with the door closed behind him. He waited, listening, loth to go. Now that the feud was broken, he tingled with the desire to know more about his grandfather, more about those wonderful old fighting frontier days, more about King, of the Mounted.

“Crazy? I should say not!” Rawley muttered as he made his way slowly across the strip of grass by the syringas. “I only hope my brain will be as keen as Grandfather’s when I am his age.”

He stood for a few minutes breathing deep the night air saturated with perfume. Then, with the spell of his grandfather’s vivid personality strong upon him, he went in to where his mother sat gently rocking beside a rose-shaded lamp, looking over a late magazine.

“I’ve just been having a talk with Grandfather,” Rawley announced bluntly, sitting down opposite his mother and studying her as if she were a stranger to him. Indeed, those few minutes spent in the west wing had dealt a sharp blow to his unquestioning faith in his mother. Mrs. King dropped the magazine and opened her lips--artificially red--and gave a faint gasp.

“Grandfather’s mind is as clear as yours or mine,” Rawley stated challengingly. “A bit old-fashioned, maybe--a man couldn’t live in a wheel chair for fifty years or so, shut away from all companionship as he has been, and keep his ideas right up to the minute. If you ask me, I’ll say he’d make a corking old pal. Full of pep--or would be if he weren’t crippled. It’s a darned shame I never busted through the feud before. Why, fifty years ago he was all through Nevada--think of that! I’d give ten years of my life to have lived when he did, right at his elbow.”

He felt the sag in his pockets then and brought out the two little books.

“I always thought, Mother, that Grandfather King was a particularly wicked old party. Well, that’s all wrong--same as the idea that he’s weak in the head. He gave me this Bible, and made me promise to read it. He said--”

“_Bible?_” Rawley’s mother sat up sharply, and her mouth remained open, ready for further words which her mind seemed unable to formulate.

“You bet. He said if I read it faithfully and got all the good out of it there is in it, I’d thank him the rest of my life--or something like that. He meant it, too.”

“Why, Rawley King! Your grandfather has always been an atheist of the worst type! I’ve heard your father tell how he used to hear your grandfather blaspheme and curse God by the hour for making him a cripple. When he was a little boy--your father, I mean--he was deeply impressed by your grandmother asking every prayer-meeting night for the prayers of the church to soften her husband’s heart and turn his thoughts toward God. Your father has told me how he used to go home afterwards and watch to see if your grandfather’s heart was softened. But it never was--he got wickeder, if possible, and swore horribly at everything, nearly. Your father said he nearly lost faith in prayer. But he believed that the congregation never prayed as it should. I wouldn’t believe, Rawley, that your grandfather would have a Bible near him. Are you sure?”

“Here it is,” Rawley assured her, grinning. “He said it was my legacy from him.”