“Hush! Vot dit I told you about calling me dot name? I am Vilt Bill, de Bull-man, now. Hafen’t I told you dot ve are now in de Vest, among de bad mens und I must be a bad mans, too? Now, Jake, don’t you eat any more dust. If you do, und drink vater on top of it, your name vill be mud.”
“Aren’t you sorry you brought me along to look for Dora, Mr. Gold——, I mean Wild Bill, the Bull-man? I’m a lot of trouble, ain’t I?”
“Drouble nodings! You are a fool. You are vorking for me, und you don’t know it. Do you t’ink I vould let you stay dere alone in New York to starf? No, sir! I vould not let Somolus Levinsky get from me mine errant-boy. Not since I dit loset mein Dora. I must haf some chilt arount me, or I shall go grazy. Dere! dere! dake de hoss out dere und find him some grass or someding. You must vork und earn your vages.”
“All right, Mr. Wild Bill,” said Loney, smiling, for he knew well that the shoemaker would not starve or overwork man or beast.
While the child was leading the weary horse toward a trough which received its water from far up the mountains, a tall Indian, in full chief’s dress—feathers and all—stood on the edge of the path to the run. The boy, being on the farther side of the horse, did not see the Indian, who stood with folded arms looking at the child, then at the poor horse and lastly at the surprising “get-up” of the shoemaker.
The latter looked at his leggings and belt with pardonable pride, then felt of his four pistols, one by one, and, wishing to keep up the delusion of his own greatness, he strutted about a little, at the same time saying:
“I shall see if I can remember de vay to shout. Ee—you! I am de Vilt Bill, de Bull-man. I am de pest shoemaker—na—na—dot is not it. I am de rink-tail squealer of de cook-stofe—no, I mean range. I am de——”
Here the “bad man” happened to get a view of Red Eagle, the Indian, which at first paralyzed him. Then he rallied and drew one of his pistols and, with the bravery of a “well-heeled” man, he took a step forward, saying, with growing courage:
“Dot is Hiawatha. Gif me a pack of cigarroots.”
As he said this, Morris held out his hand, whereat the Indian held out his own hand, saying, in a guttural voice: