“What sort of er chap?”
“Oh, a light-complexioned little fellow, who joined us for his health.”
“What’s his name?”
“We call him ‘Skibo.’”
“Waal, you knows yer own bus’ness best, Buffler, but this here outfit hain’t no horspital corps, nor no reesort for nussin’ babies. I sh’d think ther place fer er consumptive wuz in er home somewhar, whar ther smell er powder wouldn’t make ’im faint.”
“He stands hearty victuals first-rate, Nick. I have seen him turn pale only once, and that was when a dead greaser came swimming down the river after him.”
“Waal, I’m glad ter know a dead greaser c’n swim, fer I hain’t never seen er live one what could. Whar is ther new pard—an’ thet thar redskin papoose?”
“Little Cayuse and Skibo have ridden out to a ranch to see the games to-day. A chap named Carson is celebrating his wedding, and is giving the boys a blow-out and a programme of sports. He offers good prizes for best riding, roping, tying, shooting, jumping, etc.”
“Why didn’t you go, Buffer?”
“I preferred to stay here to see if I couldn’t locate the body of Hickok.”