The result was that in half an hour not a drop of liquor remained to the poor fellow who kept the station--that I paid up the score "like a man," as my drunken companions assured me, who now clapped me familiarly on the shoulder, and called me "Little Grit," as a pet name--that Miss Spitfire, minus her revolver, sat biting her nails about two rods away--and that she waited anxiously for the expected arrival of the 'Frisco train, bound eastward.
"Come, now, Little Grit," said the leader of the band, when the whisky had all disappeared, "you was gwine with Buffalo Bill; better come along with me--I'm a better fellow, an' hev killed more Injuns than ever Bill did.

We're arter them pesky redskins now.

A lot of 'em crossed the stream a couple o' nights ago, and stole our best horses.
We're bound to hev 'em back.

Some o' them red thieves will miss their skalps afore to-morrow night.

A feller as kin fight a woman is jist the chap for us.