hor could scarcely restrain his delight. All three of the scouts
were men of fine physique and dashing appearance. It was very possible
that they had one or two things to learn about acting, but their
inexperience would be more than balanced by their reputation and
personal appearance, and the knowledge that they were enacting on the
stage mock scenes of what to them had oft been stern reality.

"Don't shoot, pards!" began Will, when the conference opened. "I
guess, Judson," he continued, after vainly trying to find a diplomatic
explanation, "you'd better tell them what we want."

Buntline opened with enthusiasm, but he did not kindle Wild Bill
and Texas Jack, who looked as if they might at any moment grab their
sombreros and stampede for the frontier. Will turned the scale.

"We're bound to make a fortune at it," said he. "Try it for a while,
anyway."

The upshot of a long discussion was that the scouts gave a reluctant
consent to a much-dreaded venture. Will made one stipulation.

"If the Indians get on the rampage," said he, "we must be allowed leave
of absence to go back and settle them."

"All right, boys," said Buntline; "that shall be put in the contract.
And if you're called back into the army to fight redskins, I'll go with
you."

This reply established the author firmly in the esteem of the scouts.
The play was written in four hours (most playwrights allow themselves
at least a week), and the actor-scouts received their "parts." Buntline
engaged a company to support the stellar trio, and the play was widely
advertised.

When the critical "first night" arrived, none of the scouts knew a line
of his part, but each had acquired all the varieties of stage fright
known to the profession. Buntline had hinted to them the possibility of
something of the sort, but they had not realized to what a condition
of abject dismay a man may be reduced by the sight of a few hundred
inoffensive people in front of a theater curtain. It would have done
them no good to have told them (as is the truth) that many experienced
actors have touches of stage fright, as well as the unfortunate novice.
All three declared that they would rather face a band of war-painted
Indians, or undertake to check a herd of stampeding buffaloes, than
face the peaceful-looking audience that was waiting to criticise their
Thespian efforts.

Like almost all amateurs, they insisted on peering through the
peep-holes in the curtain, which augmented t