“That’s so,” agreed Wild Bill, “but I’m hoping for the best.”
Just what he meant by “the best” he did not explain.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE STAGE FROM MONTEGORDO.
“What’s yer name, anyhow?” asked Lonesome Pete.
The man in the “boiled” shirt, the red vest, and the tight trousers coughed and looked embarrassed.
“I almost hate to tell you,” said he.
“Whoa-up, thar, yeh gangle-legged Piute!” yelled Chick Billings, the stage-driver, reaching for the off-leader with his whip-lash. “Calls hisself a hoss, that critter does,” he added to Pete and the stranger; “but he acts more like a blame’ coyote.”
“Thar’s a hull lot o’ folks out hyer as kinder fergits what their names useter be,” went on Pete, addressing the stranger. “A feller’s got a right ter change his name when he crosses the Missoury, comin’ West, if so be he thinks proper.”
“Not me—not on your life!” exclaimed the stranger hastily. “My record is clear——”
“Every ole hardshell in these parts, some on ’em with half a dozen notches, ’ll say that,” cut in Pete, with considerable sarcasm.