“Well, that proves to my mind he’s crazy,” his mother said grimly. “Your father always felt that Grandfather King had sinned against the Holy Ghost and _couldn’t_ repent. Anyway,” she added resentfully, “that’s about all you’ll ever get from him. When he deeded this place to your father for a wedding present--that was a little while after your grandmother died--he reserved the west wing for himself as long as he lived. It’s in the deed that he’s not to be interfered with or molested. When he dies, the west wing becomes a part of this property--which is mine, of course. He lives on his pension, which just about keeps him and that awful old Indian. Of course the pension stops when he dies. So he was right about the legacy, at least. But I’ll bet he put a curse on the Bible before he gave it to you. It would be just like him.” Rawley shook his head dissentingly. “It’s darned hard to sit in a wheel chair for fifty years,” he remarked somewhat irrelevantly. “I’d cuss things some, myself, I reckon.” And he added abruptly, “Say, Grandfather’s got the bluest eyes, Mother, I ever saw in a man’s head. I thought eyes faded with old age. Did you ever notice his eyes, Mother?” His mother laughed unpleasantly. “Your Grandfather King never gave me any inducement to get close enough to see his eyes. Seeing him on the porch of the west wing is enough for me.” “He laid a good deal of stress upon his past,” said Rawley. “I suppose because he hasn’t any present--and darned little future, I’m afraid. He gave me some nuggets. Would you like a nugget ring, Mother?” His mother glanced at the nuggets and pushed away Rawley’s hand that held them cupped in the palm. “No, I wouldn’t. Not if your Grandfather King had anything to do with it. He’s been like a poison plant in the yard ever since I came here, Rawley; like poison ivy, that you’re careful not to go near. I don’t want to touch anything belonging to him--and I hope I’m not a vindictive woman, either.” Rawley was rolling the nuggets in his hand, staring at them abstractedly. “It’s queer--the whole thing,” he said finally. “I feel a sort of leaning toward Grandfather. It was something in his eyes. You know, Mother, it must be darned tough to have both legs chopped off at the knees when you’re a young husky over six feet in your socks and full of pep. I--believe I can understand Grandfather King. ‘A hunk of meat in a wheel chair’--that’s what he called himself. And those amazing blue eyes of his--” His mother glanced curiously into his face. “They can’t be any bluer than yours, Rawley,” she observed. Rawley looked up from the nuggets, his forehead wrinkled with surprise. “Oh, do you think that, Mother?” He stood up suddenly, still shaking the nuggets with a dull clink in his hand. “Well, I hope Grandfather’s passed on a few more of his traits to me. There’s a few of them I’m going to need,” he said drily and kissed his mother good night. CHAPTER TWO JOHNNY BUFFALO BEARS ANOTHER MESSAGE