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Updated: June 19, 2025
Olave better known along this yer trail as Kiddie Kiddie of Birkenshaw's Kiddie of the Camp." Rube drew back in astonishment. "Kiddie?" he cried. "Oh, that's diff'rent; that's a whole lot diff'rent. Why didn't yer put me wise at first? I know th' name of Kiddie. Ought to. I've heard it often 'nough. Real proud ter see you, sir," he added, taking Kiddie's outstretched hand.
What about the lot as was at Birkenshaw's t'other morning? You was thar, I hear. What about Broken Feather?" "Broken Feather could hardly know that I'm takin' this trip with the Pony Express," Kiddie demurred. "Um!" Hoskin shook his head. "I ain't so sure 'bout that, Kiddie," he said. "He has spies planted all along the trail. He knows 'most everything. You'd best be keerful."
Rube was painfully bashful of this newly-arrived stranger, whom he regarded merely as a traveller passing along the Salt Lake Trail. Yet he was curiously fascinated by the man who owned such a beautiful horse and who knew his way so unerringly about Birkenshaw's camp. The more he watched, the more the boy was perplexed.
"He's too clever for us. Not a bit o' use trying ter pick up his scent in runnin' water, Sheila. Never mind, you've given proof that he's the man that dealt you the cut on the shoulder." Rube was eager to tell Kiddie of his discovery, and he sat up that night with Abe Harum, waiting for Kiddie to ride along the trail and change ponies at Birkenshaw's station.
He strode off and harangued the Indians in a loud voice of command. "Who is he, Kiddie?" Rube was curious to know. "Who and what is he?" "A man of the name of Simon Sprott," Kiddie told him. "Used to be a friend of Gid Birkenshaw's years ago, when Gid was a lone trapper in Colorado." "Then he ain't a Crow Injun?" "Well, he is and he isn't," returned Kiddie, helping the boy to his feet.
The jolting of the cart was painful to him, but when at length they arrived at Birkenshaw's camp he declared that he wasn't at all badly hurt. "Just leave me alone, boys," he said, "I don't want you ter make any fuss over me. There's nothing serious the matter a few bruises, a sprained ankle, a kinder gen'ral shakin' up; that's all.
He conducted them into his teepee, and Rube Carter was surprised to see how comfortably furnished it was, with a camp bed and washing-stand, a table and two or three chairs, as well as a stove, and even a shelf of books. Simon Sprott looked at Kiddie in deliberate scrutiny. "Friend of Gid Birkenshaw's, you tell me?" he said very slowly. "And the son of Buckskin Jack.
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