Davy alertly seized the sacking, and started out. He knew what buffalo chips were: the dried droppings of the buffalo that used to roam by thousands through the valley. They had been driven out of it, largely by the traffic, but they had left their wallows and their “chips.”
The chips had been well gleaned for other cooks, and he must wander some distance from the wagon before he found enough to pay for the picking up. However, in due time he returned with all that the sack could hold. The buffalo chips made a fine fire, with little smoke and much heat. And they were easy and cheap. Everybody used them in travelling across the plains.
Sam grunted, whether pleased or not, as Davy dumped the load by the fire.
“Now fetch me some fresh water from the creek, will you?” bade Sam. “There’s a bucket.”
The creek was a side branch of the Salt Creek, and both streams were running low; but Davy managed to dip the bucket almost full of water. He brought it back. Sam grunted what might have been thanks or not.
“There comes the boss,” he said.
The man on the white horse was galloping in again; presently he dismounted at the fire. He was a tall man, with scraggy beard, gray eyes and a very tanned skin. He wore slouch hat, blue flannel shirt, jeans trousers and boots. He glanced keenly at Dave.
“Here’s another kid for you to break in, Hank,” informed the cook shortly.
“How’d you get here?” demanded Hank of Dave.
“Billy Cody fetched him out,” said the cook, over his shoulder, from the wagon.