He was a tall, slender, erect man of about thirty-five, with long bronzed, florid face, sandy complexion and crisp, sandy beard.
“That’s Lieutenant William T. Sherman, formerly of the Army. He’s practising law here now with Judge Ewing,” said another man, aside, to a companion. In a few more years he would be the famous “General Sherman.”
Billy Cody, too, was of the opinion that the green-horns on the trail would meet with trouble; and in Davy’s opinion Billy ought to know. Already reports were to the effect that the route up the Smoky Hill and the Republican were short of grass and exposed to the Indians, and that the emigrants were being compelled to throw away much of their baggage.
However, this did not stop anybody from starting. Davy and Billy had the gold fever bad. Even Mr. Shields had decided to take his wife and baby and leave the ranch for the diggings, where he counted on making more money in a week than he could make here in a year. So Davy only waited on Billy, to start, himself.
“Shucks!” exclaimed Billy, in May. “I’ve got to quit, Dave, and go on the trail again. Mother said last night ‘All right.’ She’ll let me go. She needs the money and I’ll send her back a lot. Come on. We’ll raise a gang and start.”
“When, Billy?”
“Right away, as soon as we get the men and the outfit. This green grass makes me restless. Got any money left, Dave? We have to buy a wagon and team.”
Yes, Davy had almost all his herding wages on deposit with Mr. Majors. He was proud to say so, and to be able to pay his own way.