“Hello,” he said, gruffly. “Where do you hail from?”
“I was out there, with the Indians, while you were fighting,” explained Davy.
“Didn’t we give it to ’em!” asserted Billy Cody. “They thought they had us; but they didn’t.”
“I saw you shoot Lame Buffalo,” said Davy, eagerly. “I guess you killed him.”
“He shore did,” declared the wounded man. “When little Billy draws bead on anything, it’s a goner.”
“Well, I had to do it,” said Billy Cody. “Lew told me to.”
“So I did,” uttered the second of the two men. “It was time those Injuns knew what they were up against, when they tackled us and Billy. That one shot licked ’em.”
“Hurrah for little Billy!” cheered the crowd, good-natured; and Billy fidgeted, embarrassed, although anybody could see that he was rather proud.
He was a good-looking boy, although now his face was burned and grimy, and his clothing rough. He stood a little taller than Davy, but he was slender and wiry. He had brown hair and dark brown eyes and regular features; and under his grime and tan his skin was smooth. He was dressed just like the men, and carried himself like a man; but the muzzle of the long heavy yager extended above his hat-brim. Evidently his two companions thought highly of him, and so did the men of the wagon train.
“Some of you tend to Woods’ shoulder; then if you’ll hustle a little grub we’ll be ready for it,” quoth the man called Lew. “Those mule carcasses served a good purpose but they weren’t very appetizing.”