“Yes, I know it.”
“And this trail is filled with road agents, they say; road agents that lay fer everything that comes along, and shoots men as if they wasn’t more than wolves.”
“Yes, it’s a dangerous trail.”
“What if you’re held up?”
“I shall defend myself; but I’m trusting not to be.”
“I reckon I can trust ye; and if I can’t trust ye I can watch ye. Hold the hoss’ head, and I’ll sail up to his back.”
The scout held the horse by the head, and with an agility that was surprising, disdaining his aid, she put a foot in the stirrup and mounted to the animal’s back, seating herself behind the saddle.
“I’m spryer’n I look,” she said, “otherwise I couldn’t got into that tree where ye found me. Now, if you’ll mount, we’ll jog along, and you can tell me more about yerself while we’re goin’. I’ll say to you that Pizen Jane, of Cinnabar, is searchin’ fer somebody she hopes to find; and if she finds him, interestin’ times aire billed to foller fer all concerned. That’s why I’m on this trail; what you’re on it fur ain’t appeared yit, so fur as I know.”
Buffalo Bill mounted, smiling at the woman’s naïve manner of trying to “pump” him.
Then they jogged on, as quaint a pair as the trail had seen in many a day.