"Well," said Mr. Cadwalader, "he has killed more men than he can count
on his fingers when he tries to go to sleep."

"I can't imagine it," I said, gazing with admiration at Buffalo Bill's
fine and kind face and splendid figure. "His friend does not look so
amiable."

"I should think _not_. That is the celebrated Mr. Holmes of Texas. He
is a terror in this part of the world."

"He looks it," I said. "See all the pistols he has about him. I can see
one in his coat pocket, and one in his vest pocket, and..."

"And many under his coat which you can't see."

Just at that moment the "terror" got up, and, lo! a pistol fell out of
his clothing on to the floor. Fortunately, it did not go off, but it
frightened us almost out of our senses (the ladies, of course). Buffalo
Bill picked up the weapon and handed it back to Mr. Holmes, who put it
quietly in his pocket, seeming rather abashed.

Buffalo Bill and his friend walked down the middle of the car, and we
were somewhat agitated when he stopped in front of Johan and said in a
soft, cooing voice, "Would you take a drink with me, sir?"

We gasped when we saw Johan shake his head and say politely with a
smile, "No, thank you." We expected a volley of pistol-shots and the
speedy wiping out of us all, but Buffalo Bill merely gave Johan an
inquiring look and a tired but sarcastic smile.