At the station in Chicago I was met with orders from General Sheridan to continue straight ahead to Fort McPherson as quickly as possible.  The expedition was waiting for me.

At Omaha a party of my friends took me off the train and entertained me until the departure of the next train.  They had heard of my evening clothes and insisted on my arraying myself therein for their benefit.  My trunk was taken to the Paxton Hotel and I put on the clawhammer and all that went with it.  About fifty of my Omaha friends accompanied me to the train; in my silk hat and evening dress I was an imposing spectacle.  But I expected to change into my Plains clothes as soon as I got into the car.  However, these plans were sadly upset.  Both my friends and I had forgotten my trunk, which in the hour of my greatest need was still reposing in a room in the Paxton Hotel, while in clothes fit only for a banquet I was speeding over the Plains to a possible Indian fight.

At Fort McPherson, my old friend, “Buffalo Chips,” was waiting for me.  He had been left behind by General Reynolds to tell me to overtake the command as soon as possible.  He had brought out old Buckskin Joe for me to ride.

The expedition was already well on its way north into the Loup country and had camped at Pawnee Springs, about eight miles from McPherson Station, the night before.

Poor old Buffalo Chips almost fell dead when he saw how I was dressed.  The hat especially filled him with amazement and rage, but there was nothing else to do.  I had to go as I was or go not at all.

The champagne with which my Omaha friends had filled my stateroom I gave to the boys at the station.  I did not have to urge them to accept it.  They laughed a good deal at my stovepipe hat and evening dress, but because of the champagne they let me off without as much guying as I would otherwise have received.

Jumping on our horses, we struck out on the trail of the soldiers.  It was about one o’clock when we overtook them.  As we neared the rear guard, I pulled off my overcoat and strapped it behind my saddle.  I also put my hair up under my stovepipe hat and galloped past the command, to all appearances fresh from a New York ballroom.

“Look at the dude!  Look at the dude!” they shouted as I rode among them.  Paying no attention to them, I galloped up and overtook General Reynolds.  Saluting him, I said: 

“General, I have come to report for duty.”

“Who in thunder are you?” he demanded, looking at me without a sign of recognition in his eye.

“Why, general,” I said, “I am to be your guide on this expedition.”

He looked at me a second time, and a grin spread over his face.

“Can it be possible that you are Cody?” he asked.  I told him that I was Cody.

“Let down your hair,” he commanded.  I took off my hat, and my hair fell over my shoulders.  A loud yell went up from both officers and enlisted men, as the word went up and down the line that the dude they had been bedeviling was none other than Buffalo Bill.