Davy read: “I, ――――, do hereby swear, before the Great and Living God, that during my engagement and while I am in the employ of Russell, Majors & Waddell, I will, under no circumstances, use profane language; that I will drink no intoxicating liquors; that I will not quarrel or fight with any other employe of the firm, and that in every respect I will conduct myself honestly, be faithful to my duties, and so direct all my acts as to win the confidence and esteem of my employers. So help me God.” This was an impressive promise, but it sounded just like the strict and Christian Mr. Majors. Dave had no hesitation in signing it. “All right,” crisply approved Mr. Russell. “If you keep that pledge you’ll never be far wrong. Here’s your Bible. To every man employed in our trains we give a Bible. There’s no time or place when the Bible isn’t a help and a comfort. The more of them we get on the plains the better. Now I’m going out to the camp. You come along and I’ll start you off.” Davy tucked the compact little leather-bound Bible into his pocket, and followed Mr. Russell’s wiry active figure out of the door. Russell, Majors & Waddell certainly organized their business on somewhat unusual lines; Davy had heard the pledge and the Bible both laughed at by outsiders as being foolishness for running bull trains. But nobody was enabled to point out the harm done, and few denied that considerable good might result. At any rate, no better bull outfits crossed the plains than those of Russell, Majors & Waddell. They did what no other outfits could do; nothing stopped them. The streets of Leavenworth were busier than ever, with emigrants, teamsters, rivermen, soldiers, and Indians――Kickapoos, Osages and Pottawattamies; with wagons, oxen, mules and horses. The company’s freight trains were started from a large camp on the outskirts of town. Hither Mr. Russell, with Davy in tow, hastened. Charley Martin was speedily found working hard――together with the assistant wagon master, who was nicknamed “Yank.” “Here’s your ‘extra,’ Charley,” announced Mr. Russell. Charley paused and wiped his forehead. He gazed, rather puzzled. “What name does he go by, Mr. Russell?” “Davy Scott.” “Sometimes they call me ‘Red,’ too,” volunteered Davy. Charley Martin smiled; and when he smiled, Davy instantly liked him. “Oho! This must be Billy Cody’s pard on the trail and at the Cody home, I reckon. I’ve heard about him, but I never had the pleasure of meeting him. You must have been growing some, haven’t you, Red? I thought you were a runt.” And Davy fidgeted, embarrassed. During his sturdy life in the open air he had indeed been growing; he had shot up and broadened out, and had acquired a steady eye and a manner of self-reliance. “Where’ve you been keeping yourself lately?” continued Charley. “I’ve just got back from Pike’s Peak.”