“Waal, yer can’t, ’cause he hain’t hyar! Yer mought jest ez well quit yer mopin’ an’ come erlong.”
“Are you going, Nick?”
“Shore! The’ hain’t goin’ ter be no prizes ter waste thet yer Uncle Nick can gobble onter. Not noways ef Nick knows hisself, an’ I think he do.”
“Very well; I’ll go with you.”
At the Carson ranch were gathered about three hundred miners and cowpunchers to partake of the hospitality of one of their number, swear allegiance to the new bride, and strive for the prizes in the day’s contests.
Out of respect for the bride’s request, the courage juice was indulged in moderately, and Buffalo Bill thought it about as orderly a crowd of the kind as he had ever seen.
The events were well under way when the scout and old Nomad arrived, but the latter immediately made inquiries regarding his entry to the events. They found Cayuse and Skibo, and the colored pard was introduced to Nomad by Buffalo Bill, who said:
“Nick, I want you to shake hands with our new pard, Skibo. Skibo, this is old Nomad, of whom you have heard us often speak. Nick, when you shake his hand, go easy, or you may hurt him.”
The trapper stared in amazement at the huge negro, who had been described to him as a light-complexioned little weakling.
“Waugh! Little—as er nine-y’ar-old buffler bull! Light-complexioned—as ther bottom ov er chimney pot!”