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“Those are yours, aren’t they?” asked Davy, following him, to watch.

“They’re mine if I want them,” said Billy. “Reckon I’ll take ’em home and give ’em to my sisters.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Salt Creek Valley, Eastern Kansas, near Leavenworth. Where do you?”

“Nowhere, I guess,” replied Davy, trying to smile.

“Pshaw!” sympathized Billy. “That’s sure hard luck. Ride along with me and I’ll tell you about things.”

“Here, boy—crawl into this,” called a teamster nearby; and he tossed at Davy a red flannel shirt. “It’ll match yore ha’r.” And he laughed good-naturedly.

“It’s my color all right,” responded Davy, without being teased, as he picked up the shirt. “Much obliged.” He slipped it over his head. It fitted more like a blouse than a shirt, but he needed something of the kind. After he had turned back the sleeves and tucked in the long tails, he was very comfortable.

“Climb on your mule, Red,” bade Billy Cody. “We’re going to start, and Lew Simpson won’t wait for anybody.”

Mr. Simpson was already on his mule. The other mounted men were in their saddles. Mr. Simpson cast a keen glance adown the line.