“Yes, I want an outfit,” I said, much embarrassed. “I'm going to meet a friend out in Penetier, a ranger—Dick Leslie.”
Buell started violently, and his eyes flashed. “Dick—Dick Leslie!” he said, and coughed loudly. “I know Dick.... So you're a friend of his'n? ... Now, let me help you with the outfit.”
Anything strange in Buell's manner was forgotten, in the absorbing interest of my outfit. Father had given me plenty of money, so that I had but to choose. I had had sense enough to bring my old corduroys and boots, and I had donned them that morning. One after another I made my purchases—Winchester, revolver, holsters, ammunition, saddle, bridle, lasso, blanket. When I got so far, Buell said: “You'll need a mustang an' a pack-pony. I know a feller who's got jest what you want.” And with that he led me out of the store.
“Now you take it from me,” he went on, in a fatherly voice, “Holston people haven't got any use for Easterners. An' if you mention your business—forestry an' that—why, you wouldn't be safe. There's many in the lumberin' business here as don't take kindly to the Government. See! That's why I'm givin' you advice. Keep it to yourself an' hit the trail today, soon as you can. I'll steer you right.”
I was too much excited to answer clearly; indeed, I hardly thanked him. However, he scarcely gave me the chance. He kept up his talk about the townspeople and their attitude toward Easterners until we arrived at a kind of stock-yard full of shaggy little ponies. The sight of them drove every other thought out of my head.
“Mustangs!” I exclaimed.
“Sure. Can you ride?”
“Oh yes. I have a horse at home.... What wiry little fellows! They're so wild-looking.”
“You pick out the one as suits you, an' I'll step into Cless's here. He's the man who owns this bunch.”
It did not take me long to decide. A black mustang at once took my eye. When he had been curried and brushed he would be a little beauty. I was trying to coax him to me when Buell returned with a man.