“Hickok,” said he, slowly turning to the Laramie man, “I’m er Piegan of thet sky pilot ain’t cuttin’ a wider swath in my regyard than I ever thort one could. He seems ther clear quill.”
“And so he is, if I know the brand. But I hope our ride to the Brazos won’t turn out a Sunday-school picnic.”
“Et won’t be ther parson’s fault ef et does,” chuckled the trapper. “Did ye mark his eye, Pard Hickok? Et’s what they calls a fightin’ eye. Ef necessary, I’ll bet a blue stack thet Jordan kin convart the heathen by an upper cut an’ a right hook ter ther jaw. Oh, I’m plumb gone on him.”
“He’ll do,” returned Hickok briefly, but with conviction. “We’ve been in town about three hours, Nick, and we’ve got the cattle barons down on us.”
“What do we care? Thet means excitement—somethin’ ter fill in ther time till Buffler gits hyar. Ye was pinin’ fer thet, a spell ago.”
“I’m pining for it now, too. Come on, pard, and let’s mosey back into the main street.”
“Kerect. Ef any o’ Benner’s ’r Phelps’ punchers makes er dead set at us prior ter supper, us two’ll turn Hackamore inside out.”
CHAPTER V.
“COME-ALONGS.”
The clerk at the Delmonico Hotel, as the shanty hostelry was called, made a mistake while Wild Bill, Nomad and Cayuse were at supper with the sky pilot. A man came in with a small package wrapped in a piece of newspaper.
“Charlie,” said the man to the clerk, “tuck this here package away in Lige Benner’s saddlebags.”