“Davy Scott.”
“Sometimes they call me ‘Red,’ too,” volunteered Davy.
Charley Martin smiled; and when he smiled, Davy instantly liked him.
“Oho! This must be Billy Cody’s pard on the trail and at the Cody home, I reckon. I’ve heard about him, but I never had the pleasure of meeting him. You must have been growing some, haven’t you, Red? I thought you were a runt.” And Davy fidgeted, embarrassed. During his sturdy life in the open air he had indeed been growing; he had shot up and broadened out, and had acquired a steady eye and a manner of self-reliance. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself lately?” continued Charley.
“I’ve just got back from Pike’s Peak.”
“Good for you. Well, if you’ve travelled with Billy Cody, and Mr. Russell recommends you, too, you’ll do.” And Charley called to his assistant: “Here’s our ‘extra,’ Yank.”
Charley was small and compact, tanned and gray-eyed, and so quick and cheery that anybody felt like calling him by his first name at once. “Yank,” the assistant wagon boss, was high-shouldered, long-legged, slouchy, and very different from Charley. His sullen face was bristly with carroty stubble, his eyes were small and close together, and his lips were thin and hard-set, leaking tobacco-juice. Him, Davy did not fancy at all; and by his glance and contemptuous grunt he evidently did not fancy Davy.
Further exchange of conversation was interrupted by the incisive voice of Mr. Russell reproving a teamster who had a perverse ox in hand.
“My man, don’t you understand there’s to be no cursing while you’re working for this company?”
“I’m not cursing,” retorted the man, with a dreadful oath.