"Make it afternoon; I've things to see to first. How are you fixed for a horse?"
"I've got my own hoss back yander in town. I hated to use him till I had to. That's why I hired a team."
"I have a pack horse. That's all we'll need. Bring your own outfit. I've plenty of grub here."
"That's mighty kind," said the sheriff. "The county will pay for your hoss and the grub."
"I don't want pay. This is my shout. I'm doing it for my friends."
"Well, your friends ought to be right obliged. I'll remember it. You won't find me makin' things harder. And now I'll pike along back to town."
They shook hands and the sheriff climbed back into the sagging buckboard and departed. Casey returned to his quarters and began to gather an outfit by the only practical method; that is to say, by piling everything he wanted in a heap. He was engaged in this occupation when Clyde knocked and entered.
"Why, Casey, whatever are you doing?"
He told her, and she approved his plan. She began to examine the heap he had thrown together on the table—knife, cartridges, fishhooks and line, compass, matches, sweater, poncho—with a girl's interest in such masculine possessions. But she exclaimed at the lack of toilet articles. Where were his razors, his hairbrushes?
"I'll get along without them."