The events were well under way when the scout and old Nomad arrived, but the latter immediately made inquiries regarding his entry to the events. They found Cayuse and Skibo, and the colored pard was introduced to Nomad by Buffalo Bill, who said: “Nick, I want you to shake hands with our new pard, Skibo. Skibo, this is old Nomad, of whom you have heard us often speak. Nick, when you shake his hand, go easy, or you may hurt him.” The trapper stared in amazement at the huge negro, who had been described to him as a light-complexioned little weakling. “Waugh! Little--as er nine-y’ar-old buffler bull! Light-complexioned--as ther bottom ov er chimney pot!” This was sort of exclamatory soliloquy, but the trapper was none the less hearty in greeting the grinning colored man when he got around to it. “How are ye, Skibo? Buffler told me ter look fer er consumptive cuss, an’ you s’prised me. So you turned pale when you saw a dead greaser er swimmin’?” “Yar, yar! Dat’s what Ah done. Ah specs Ah was whiter’n you be fer ’bout two whole minutes--an’ dat wa’n’t much of a day for gittin’ white, nohow.” “Lookahyar! Don’t yer go fer ter hingin’ on my pinkan’-white complexion, ’cause yo’re so blamed dusky er smut coal would make er white mark on yore skin.” “Yar, yar! Mars’ Nick. Yo’ shore is er white-libered, delekit-lookin’ blossom.” The grinning pair, still shooting nonsense at each other, grasped hands, and old Nomad, who had a grip like the jaws of a rock crusher, found his match. Nick and Skibo were bound to be good friends from that hour. There was no color line among Buffalo Bill’s pards, and Skibo felt that he was considered an equal. Little Cayuse greeted Nomad with usual stoical mien, and remarked with twinkling eyes: “Hide-rack heap fool mule; Navi all same pigeon--go like bullet.” “Huh! Yeow little yaller rascal, Hide-rack will run over yore measly pinto some day; see if ’e don’t. Hide-rack’s ther best anermile south o’ ther old Missou, ’cept Bear Paw.” “Ugh! Heap bones! Stumble much, fall down mountain, break Nomad neck. Ugh!” The party stood near the corral watching a pony race as the entries scored down to the mark and were to sweep away across the plain for a mile. Forty men were in saddle in the race. Others had galloped far down the course, and few were left about the ranch. Buffalo Bill and Carson, the proprietor, were cantering leisurely down the field, and the new bride had climbed to the seat of a prairie schooner to watch the contest, rather than to remain longer in the saddle. “Tell yer what I’ll do, Piute; I’ll race yer down behind ther crowd ter see ther run, an’ if yer git thar fust I’ll buy yer ther purtiest young cannon in Bozeman.” “Ugh!” acquiesced Cayuse, and the pair mounted and rode away.