“It’s not for us to say, Nomad; Cody is boss here, and we’re simply trailing along with him, to help him as much as we can.” “Waugh! Waal, I’m shore goin’ ter speak ter Buffler. He don’t know what he’s bitin’ off when he pards in wi’ a wart hog like thet feller.” Old Nick Nomad spoke his mind vigorously, elaborating to Buffalo Bill the objections he had stated to Hickok. But the great scout was skeptical, even though, a thing he did not confess, he had still rankling recollection of that unpleasant incident of the Niobrara; he said that he had agreed to take Conover along, and that instead of being a handicap, he believed Conover would be able to aid them materially. It was the last word. Whatever Buffalo Bill said went. CHAPTER XX. SIGNS AND OMENS. The marshal and citizens of Skyline watched Buffalo Bill’s party out of town with strange interest. And it was a suggestive and attractive sight, even setting aside for the moment the occasion of their going forth. In the lead, stirrup to stirrup, rode Buffalo Bill and old Nick Nomad, the scout mounted on his superb horse, Bear Paw, and Nomad astride of Hide-rack. The contrast between the scout, with his erect, fine bearing, and the wizened old trapper, was almost startling. Yet no one knowing old Nomad could ever doubt that, in his way, he was a wonderful man. Nomad would not ride with Tom Conover, so Wild Bill fell in at Conover’s side, and they followed right behind Cody and Nomad. The contrast here was almost as great, for Conover, with his baggy corduroy clothing, his puffy face and watery eyes, and the livid scar high on his forehead, resembled no more that dashing free lance of the plains, Wild Bill Hickok, than Nick Nomad did Buffalo Bill. There was always something light and jaunty in Wild Bill’s appearance, wherever he was seen. He liked flashing bits of silver on the trappings of his horse, and soft velvet in his attire when it could be had; even though the attire was only that of a frontiersman and often rough from hard usage. There was usually a light smile on his open, fearless, almost reckless countenance; it rested there now, as he rode out from the town of Skyline toward the forbidding mountains, even though he could not be sure he was not riding out to meet death. Behind Wild Bill and Conover rode Little Cayuse, the Piute Indian boy; and at his side one of his Apache scouts. The other two of his three Apaches brought up the rear of the warlike procession; the four Indians silent and grave, with impassive, dark faces; but their blankets were new and gorgeous in color, while their clothing was paint and feather decked.