Rawley lay back with a relieved sigh and watched Peter, his eyes smiling a little. He did not think that he had done any unusual thing. Peter was exactly the kind of son whom Grandfather King had longed for, all these years. Rawley guessed that Peter, too, had been defrauded of the father he would have worshiped. It was a foregone conclusion that, had Grandfather King known Peter, he would have sent him, long ago, hunting for the mine. And while Peter had not said so, Rawley guessed shrewdly that Peter did not greatly admire Jess Cramer, in spite of the fact that he had believed the man his father. His nightmare thoughts, that he had somehow defrauded Peter, were wiped out once for all. The code had been written for the son of King, of the Mounted. The son had it. No more was to be said. Peter opened the paper and read it through slowly, a corner of his lip drawn between his teeth. What he thought, no man could say. He finished the reading and folded the paper slowly, looking at Rawley afterward from under his heavy brows. “Have you still got the Bible and the references?” he asked. “Yes. In my safe deposit box, in St. Louis.” “Humph.” Peter deliberately twisted the paper into a spill, felt in his pocket for a match, and as deliberately set fire to the paper, turning and tilting it until the creeping flame was about to scorch his fingers. He laid the stub on the floor, bent and watched it go black, then set his foot upon the charred fragments. “Boy, you keep what was given you. If I’ve any right in it, I’ll sign that right over to you. But never mention that--” he motioned toward the ashes on the floor--“above your breath. Your grand--my father was right. The vultures are perched here by the river, and the old vulture’s eye is never shut. While you’re here, forget it. Both of you.” “But it isn’t mine. It’s yours, Uncle Peter. I don’t want it--now.” “If it’s mine, then it will never be found. I don’t need it. When the vultures swoop down and light--the feast will be big enough even for them. But I warn you, remember. Never speak of that again, in this camp.” He stood up, gazing down at Rawley much as Grandfather King had looked at him that night. With a quick, impulsive movement he stooped and laid his hand over Rawley’s, pressing it warmly. He smiled; and there was that in the smile which made Rawley draw in his breath sharply. “If Fate had dealt the cards straight to me--I might have had you for _my_ son!” He drew his hand away, turned and walked out. CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE COLORADO