From the post Davy and Mr. Baxter rode on down to Leavenworth City. Leavenworth never had seemed so busy. New buildings had gone up, the streets were crowded with people and teams, and the levee was lined with steamboats bound north and south. But the people all were bound west. They had gathered from every quarter of the States. The twang of the Yankee, the drawl of the backwoodsman, and soft slur of the Southerner mingled in a regular hubbub.
Mr. Majors was in his office; Mr. Russell was out somewhere on the trail; Mr. Waddell was down home at Lexington, Missouri, visiting his family. And who should be sitting in a chair in the office but Wild Bill Hickok—as handsome and as gentlemanly as ever.
“Hello, there,” hailed Wild Bill. “How goes it?”
Mr. Baxter nodded cheerily at him.
“Fine,” answered Davy, feeling rather awkward in his worn-out old clothes and his long hair, but not ashamed of what he had been doing.
“I hear you’re making good, boy,” asserted Wild Bill. “I reckon you can hold your own as well as Billy.”
“He certainly can,” claimed Mr. Baxter. “He’s the hero of the camp.”
“Bassett sent you in, did he?” queried Mr. Majors. “How are things at the camp?”
“Same as usual, Mr. Majors,” answered Mr. Baxter. “Davy’s a hero now, I suppose you’ve heard.”