"Want to sell that buffalo, stranger?" interrupted another voice.
This man was a square, stubbly faced, red-faced and red-haired individual, in a faded cotton shirt and old army trousers belted at the waist with a rope.
"Why—I don't know," replied Harry, reflectively, scratching his nose.
The man walked around Duke, scrutinizing him.
"He's got a buckskin patch on. We'd better watch out," whispered Terry, to his partner. So he had: the whole seat of his trousers was buckskin coarsely stitched in place.
"Half the men in camp have buckskin or other patches," chuckled Harry. "That gives me an idea."
"Offer you $25, dust, stranger," abruptly spoke the man. "He's lame. You can't use him. He'll be no good in the diggin's."
"What'll you do with him, then?" questioned Harry.
"Put him in my show. He won't have to work. And he's too tough for butchering. But he'll be all right on exhibition."
"Hum!" mused Harry. "My partner and I'll talk it over. We're going to camp over night before going on."