The rider pulled his horse down to a walk.  “You any good with that thing?”
The words, spoken in English, got Ethan’s full attention.  He studied the man as he rode closer.  He looked to be about his own age, close to the same height, but heavier.  He wore a breechclout, leggings and a leather vest.  His long, square face was framed by jet-black shoulder length hair, parted on the left and tucked behind his ears.  He sported a thin mustache.
Ethan slid the unstrung bow into his quiver and set it aside.  “Not really.  No.”
“Heard you’re good with a rifle, though.  Killed three buffalo your first hunt.”
“Two, actually.  I just hurried the third one along.”
“Could be.  But the way I heard it, you kept Charley from getting killed.”
“Charley?”
“My brother.  You led that cow away when his horse went down.”  The man pulled his horse to a halt, swung a leg over its neck, and jumped to the ground.  “Name’s Bent,” he said, coming forward.  “George Bent.”