Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail / Being the story of how boy and man worked hard and played hard to blaze the white trail, by wagon train, stage coach and pony express, across the great plains and the mountains beyond, that the American republic might expand and flourish

by Edwin L. Sabin

“We’re just looking around, is all,” informed Mr. Baxter.

“Then later. Perhappa for the hair or the whiskers; perhappa for the wash. Permitta me.” And with another bow he handed to Mr. Baxter and to Davy his card.

It read: “H. Murat. Tonsorial Artist. Shaves, Trims and Cuts. Laundry Done.”

“Do you know who he is?” piped another voice at Davy’s side, as the dark foreigner disappeared in the crowd. “He’s a count, a real Italian count.”

The speaker was a slender, fair-haired little fellow, not much older than Dave himself.

“He’s Count Murat. His father was a big man in Italy. But out here the count’s a barber and his wife takes in washing.”

“I declare!” ejaculated Mr. Baxter. “And where did you come from, son?”

“From the States. I’ve been up in the diggin’s, but I froze my feet and I’m going home.”

“Are your folks here?”