Besides, it was generally known that Billy was drawing wages to give to his mother, who was a widow trying to raise a family. Billy was the “man” of the family, and they depended on him. The wagon train liked him all the more for this. Everybody spoke well of “little Billy,” for his good sense and his courage. Davy heard many stories of what he had done. The fight in the mule fort had showed his quality in danger; and he had proved himself in several other “scrimmages” with the Indians.
He and Davy and Lew Simpson and George Woods and Wild Bill and a squad of government men formed a mess, which ate together. The pleasantest part of the day was the noon halt, around the camp-fire; and the evening camp, at sunset. Billy put in part of his rests at practising writing with charcoal on any surface that he could find. Even when Davy had joined the train, the wagon boxes and tongues and wheels bore scrawls such as “Little Billy Cody,” “Billy Cody the Boy Scout,” “William Frederick Cody,” etc. However, as a writer Dave could beat Billy “a mile,” as the teamsters said. Billy was not much of a figurer, either. But he was bound to learn.
“Ma wants me to go to school some more,” he admitted. “So I suppose I’ll have to this winter. I went some last winter, and we had a teacher in the house, too. A little schooling won’t hurt a fellow.”
“No, I suppose it won’t,” answered Davy, gravely. “I’ve had to go to school. But I’d rather do this.”
“So would I,” confessed Billy. “I like it and I need the money—and I need the schooling, too. Reckon I can do both.”
As for Davy himself, the wagon train seemed to consider him, also, somewhat of a personage, because he had shown his “smartness” when the buffalo bull had attacked him. Of course, he had only slid out of his big flannel shirt, and fooled the buffalo with it; but that had been the right thing done in the right place at the right time, and this counted.
Nothing especial happened as the long train toiled on. The trail was fine, worn smooth by many years of travel over it. This was the old Oregon Trail, and California, from the Missouri River, over the plains and the mountains, clear to the Pacific coast of the West. Beaver trappers and Indian traders had opened it, thirty years ago, and it had been used ever since, by trappers and traders, and by soldiers and emigrants, and its name was known the world around.
The wagon train frequently met other outfits, freight and emigrants, bound west; and before the train turned off the main trail for the government road branching southeast for Leavenworth, the Hockaday & Liggett stage-coach from St. Joseph on the Missouri for Salt Lake City passed them. It wasn’t much of a stage, being only a small wagon covered with canvas and drawn by four mules, and running twice a month; but it carried passengers clear through from the Missouri River to Utah. The wagon train gave it a cheer as it trundled by.
“What are you going to do when you reach Leavenworth, Red?” asked Billy one day, when they were riding along. Leavenworth was now only a few days ahead.