“He’s the kid the Injuns had when they corralled Simpson and Woods and little Billy, out near Cedar Bluffs last summer,” reported Sam the cook. “Billy says he’s all right.” “Well, he’s a different color, anyhow,” remarked Hank, referring to Davy’s red head. “How old are you?” “Ten going on ’leven,” replied Davy. “What’s your name?” “David Scott. Billy and the others call me ‘Red.’” “Got any folks?” “No, sir.” “Injuns wiped ’em out,” informed Sam the cook. “Remember?” Hank nodded. “Yes. All right,” he continued, in tone more kindly, to Dave; “you can help the cook to-night. In the morning you can go on herd, and see if you can hold the job. That red thatch ought to give you plenty of spunk, anyhow!” “Yes, sir,” said Davy, encouraged. Two herders came in for supper, leaving one on guard over the herd. They were rough-appearing men, and Davy and his red head had to take considerable banter and joking. He stood that well. He tried not to be “fresh” or impertinent; and when he didn’t know what he ought to say he said nothing and only grinned. After a while the men seemed to accept him as a pretty good kind of a boy. The fact that Billy Cody had vouched for him was a great help. That night Davy slept on the ground again (as he had slept when with the wagon trains), rolled in his quilts, his saddle for a pillow. Breakfast was called before sunrise; and after breakfast he went out on herd. “You’ll be eight hours on and four off,” instructed Hank, “except when you ride in for meals. Tend to business and don’t bother the cattle except when they’re straying. They’re here to rest and get their flesh on. When they stray too far turn ’em back, but don’t run ’em. I suppose Billy told you about what to do, didn’t he?” “Yes, sir; he told me to look out for Indians and emigrants passing through.” There were two herders for the herd to which Davy was appointed. Davy thought that he was lucky in his partner, whose name was the Reverend Benjamin Baxter. When the other men had called him “Reverend,” Davy thought they were joking; but he found out that Mr. Baxter actually was a minister of the gospel. He was a pleasant-faced, thin young man, with dark eyes and hollow cheeks, and an occasional cough. Evidently he was out on the plains for his health. His home was Massachusetts; but in his plains garb and his tan he looked as much of a Westerner as any Missourian. Yes, Davy was lucky to be paired off with Mr. Baxter, who had been well educated and whom everybody seemed to like because, while he was a “preacher” he was also much of a man. “You ride around your half of the herd and I’ll ride around my half, Davy,” said Mr. Baxter. “When we’re about to meet we’ll turn back. Take things easy. You don’t have to ride every minute, you know; just enough to keep the cattle from straying out where they’re liable to get out of sight or be picked up by somebody passing. I’ll let you know when it’s time to go in for dinner.”