“The Mohaves attacked the whites when we had gone many days. My sergeant left me with his horse by the wagons. He crept behind bushes and killed many. He was a great warrior and I was proud when his gun brought death to a Mohave. I watched him, for I loved him. When I saw him fall from his knees and lie on his face in the sand, I jumped from the horse and went creeping through the brush. He was not dead. I took his gun and killed Mohaves. Pretty soon my sergeant looked at me and smiled while I killed. When there were no more Mohaves, the captain came. They put my sergeant in a wagon and I sat beside him. I gave him water, I gave him food. With my fists I beat back those who would take from me the joy of serving him. “A long time he was sick in the town we entered. I was with him. Every day and every night he could open his eyes and see that I was with him.” The sonorous voice ceased its monotone and the Indian sat silent, staring into the past. After a while he turned his head and looked full at Rawley. “I was a boy when he took me. Now I am an old man. Since he took me there has been no night when my sergeant could call and get no answer. There has been no day when my sergeant could look and could not see me. Now my sergeant is gone. My heart is gone with him.” Enthralled by the picture vividly painted with bold strokes by the Indian, Rawley sat hunched over his pipe, cuddling the cooling bowl in his fingers. “Your sergeant was my grandfather. At the last I loved him, too. I am a King. I need you.” His tone stamped the lie as truth. Later he would find some way of making it the truth, he thought. Johnny Buffalo eyed him sharply in the deepening dusk. “You have read the book?” he asked after a minute. “If you have read, then I will go with you. The spirit of my sergeant will go. My heart may live again.” “What book?” Rawley’s eyes widened. “Your grandfather gave you the book. Your grandfather commanded that you read.” Reproach was in the voice of Johnny Buffalo. “I have read the diary--the book where he wrote of his travels. Do you mean that book?” Johnny Buffalo gave a grunt that was pure Indian and signified disgust. Rawley frowned over the puzzle and his very evident defection. It must be the Bible that was meant, he decided. But he could see no reason why he should read the Bible and then go somewhere. Still, the thing seemed to have pulled Johnny Buffalo out of his slough of despond, and that was what Rawley had been working for. “If you mean the Bible,” he said tentatively, “I read it a little, that night.” Johnny Buffalo peered at him. “Read that book more. Your grandfather commanded that you should read. I heard the promise you gave. You said, ‘You bet.’ It was a promise to obey your grandfather.” “I mean to keep the promise,” Rawley replied defensively. “I haven’t had time. Things have been pretty much upset since that night.”