This was sort of exclamatory soliloquy, but the trapper was none the less hearty in greeting the grinning colored man when he got around to it.
“How are ye, Skibo? Buffler told me ter look fer er consumptive cuss, an’ you s’prised me. So you turned pale when you saw a dead greaser er swimmin’?”
“Yar, yar! Dat’s what Ah done. Ah specs Ah was whiter’n you be fer ’bout two whole minutes—an’ dat wa’n’t much of a day for gittin’ white, nohow.”
“Lookahyar! Don’t yer go fer ter hingin’ on my pinkan’-white complexion, ’cause yo’re so blamed dusky er smut coal would make er white mark on yore skin.”
“Yar, yar! Mars’ Nick. Yo’ shore is er white-libered, delekit-lookin’ blossom.”
The grinning pair, still shooting nonsense at each other, grasped hands, and old Nomad, who had a grip like the jaws of a rock crusher, found his match.
Nick and Skibo were bound to be good friends from that hour. There was no color line among Buffalo Bill’s pards, and Skibo felt that he was considered an equal.
Little Cayuse greeted Nomad with usual stoical mien, and remarked with twinkling eyes:
“Hide-rack heap fool mule; Navi all same pigeon—go like bullet.”
“Huh! Yeow little yaller rascal, Hide-rack will run over yore measly pinto some day; see if ’e don’t. Hide-rack’s ther best anermile south o’ ther old Missou, ’cept Bear Paw.”