Sunset Ranch: A Story of a Boy's Adventures in the West — page 231: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Where Karl Went. 219 Perhaps he took a wise precaution to loosen the little gun in its case, so that it might be ready for a hurry call. Your cowboy is always very particular about speed when it counts so much to get the drop on a fellow supposed to be equally expert in hand- ling his firearms. As he drew nearer he discovered that the lone horseman was no outlaw or cowboy, but an Indian. Then something familiar about his get-up caught Karl’s eye; he looked closer, holding his breath for eagerness, and then gave a shrill yell of actual de- light. For it was no other than Little Buckshot, son of a great chief, whom he had defeated in the horse race and later on saved in the blizzard. This was rare luck, indeed, that these two of all boys should come together at this exact place on the almost limitless prairie. Such things have happened in most lives, as though ordered by some special decree of fortune. Karl was delighted to see the young Sioux. It had been a dreary task, this tracking the three horse- men all alone, and he welcomed the advent of one upon whom he could place so great dependence as Little Buckshot. “How!” cried the Indian, as they drew rein. Karl reached for his hand. “I’m right down glad to see you, Little Buckshot. Tell me, haven’t you got anything to eat? I’m ’bout starved and can’t stop to shoot game.” “Some pemmican mebbe—not much—chew hard, taste good, ugh,” replied the other, Indian-like, showing no desire to ask questions, though he must have been devoured with curiosity to know why a thoroughbred like Karl should go hungry on the prairie with game so plentiful, and he so great a Nimrod. While he munched Karl began to explain, comiclooks C©