The balance of the day was spent in getting their outfit ready. Frank was already provided with horse, saddle, and bridle, and the other appurtenances of the rider: chaps, spurs, oilskin slicker, and blankets. Some of these John possessed also, but he still lacked a horse; a few simple necessaries in the shape of a frying-pan, tin cups, coffee, flour, sugar, and the inevitable beans must be supplied for both. The dicker for John's sorrel was made in short order, and by nightfall all the outfit was complete. At daylight the following morning they were busy making up the packs, and a hard job they found it, for nothing seemed to fit, and apparently there was enough stuff to load a whole train. It was made up at last into two packs and lashed securely behind the saddles; they mounted and rode out of the fast-awakening town. One of the two at least was leaving it for a long time, to return under very different circumstances. Nothing of this sort entered their minds, however, and they went out as unconsciously as if off for a half-day's trip.
Frank knew the country pretty thoroughly, having been over it once or twice before, so it was plain sailing most of the time. Day after day they travelled along at a dog trot—a gait that the Western horse can keep up all day and one which a rider brought up to it finds perfectly comfortable, but which would shake the teeth out of an Easterner. The trail was clearly marked, easily followed, and much of the way wide enough to allow the horsemen to ride side by side.
Though the two had been partners for several months they had seen but little of each other; during the day at the railroad camp Frank worked while John slept, and during the night the reverse was the case. This was the first chance either had of really knowing the other, and both were well pleased. There was plenty of time and opportunity to talk, and they soon found that they had plenty of acquaintances in common.
"Ever been to Miles City?" John said one day as they were trotting steadily along. The leather of the saddles creaked and the cooking utensils made a regular accompaniment to the thudding hoof-beats.
EACH MAN TOOK HIS ROPE AND FLUNG IT OVER THE HORSE HE WANTED. ([Page 281.])
"Sure. Two years ago this spring."
"That was about the time Dick Bradford and Charley Lang shot each other, wasn't it?" John was referring to a "killing" that was famous the country round.