“Charley Martin.”
“Where are you camped?”
“At the Platte crossing, just below Jules’.”
“All right,” quoth Billy, cheerily. “Come on, boys. I’m going down to the camp and see what I can get, and Charley’ll grub-stake us home.”
They had clambered up the bank into the dryness, and now they continued down the trail—Billy and Hi and Jim clumping and squashing, Davy tramping sturdily in his teamster costume of flannel shirt and trousers tucked into big boots.
“So you’re a sure-’nough bull whacker, are you?” asked Hi of Davy, with a grin.
“I was hired just as an ‘extra’ for carrying messages, you know,” said Davy, to be both honest and modest. “But we ran short of men so Charley put me at whacking. I can sling a whip some; that is, pretty good. The bulls are trained, anyway.”
“When did you begin?” asked Billy.
“Back at Plum Creek.”
“If you’ve held your job this far, then, I guess you can hold it as long as you like. Bully for you, Red.” And at Billy’s generous praise Davy blushed.