They gripped hands. As Buffalo Bill, Billy looked older than he had as Scout Cody, even, during the war. His face had been bronzed deeper by hard plains riding, day and night, and on his firm chin he wore a little goatee. His suit of Indian tanned buckskin was beaded and fringed, and fitted him to perfection. A fine figure of a man he was, too; every inch of him. There was little time to exchange greetings or words. Everything was confusion――and the day would soon pass. “Go in and win, Billy.” “You bet I will, Dave.” And with that Billy strode hastily back to his horse――brushing by the many hands held out to stay him a moment. The match was to last from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon if buffalo could be found. Slim and active, and as picturesque as Buffalo Bill himself, General Custer, from horseback, announced in a loud voice that the spectators were to follow the hunters until the herd was sighted and then must stay behind so as not to alarm the buffalo, until the shooting had begun. After that they might go as near as they pleased. Buffalo Bill and Scout Comstock led away; behind them rode the horsemen, chiefly scouts and army officers. A large bunch of cavalry mounts had been sent out from Fort Wallace, near Sheridan, for the visitor officers, and Davy (who was almost an officer) was accorded the courtesy of one. So he was well fixed. Trailing the horsemen came the excursionists in army ambulances and old coaches and spring wagons and even buggies――raked and scraped from far and near. Thus they all proceeded across the rolling prairie. The scene resembled a picnic more than ever. Buffalo Bill, the talk said, was riding Brigham, his favorite buffalo runner――and a scrubby looking horse Brigham was, too, for a hunter and a racer. Billy’s gun was a heavy, long-barrelled single-shot――a breech-loading Springfield army gun of fifty calibre. Will Comstock was apparently much better mounted and better armed. His horse was a strong, active, spirited black, and his gun was a Henry repeating carbine. He himself seemed a young fellow to be chief of scouts at Fort Wallace; his face was smooth and fair, his eyes roundly blue, and his waist was as small as a girl’s. Suddenly Buffalo Bill raised his hand; and at the instant a hum of excitement welled from the crowd. There were some buffalo――there, about a mile ahead on the right, a good-sized herd, peacefully grazing. Away sped Buffalo Bill and Scout Comstock and two other horsemen, to get to the windward. The two other horsemen were the referees, one to accompany each hunter and keep tab on him. The rest of the crowd followed slowly, so as to give the hunters plenty of time to begin.