"Say, you fellows, can you direct us to the camp?"
"They're nothing but a bunch of greasers," came another voice from behind the lights; "drive ahead, Jim."
"Hold on thar, Buck," hailed Coyote Pete. "I'd like ter hev a word with you."
"Say, are you chaps Americans?" demanded an astonished voice.
"Reckon so," hailed back Pete dryly, "that's what my ma said. Who air you, anyhow?"
"I am Big Buck Bradley, manager, owner and sole proprietor of Buck Bradley's Unparalleled Monst-er-ous and Unsurpassed Wild West Show and Congress of Cowboys," came back the answer. "Who are you?"
"Well, I reckon jes' at present we're in danger of being made a Wild West Show of, ourselves," drawled Pete. "But are you really Buck Bradley himself?"
"I was, at dinner-time," was the response.
"Hoorah!" yelled Pete. "It ain't possible, is it, Buck, thet you've forgot Mister Peter de Peyster?"
"What, Coyote Pete?"