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. “Thet your pick?” he asked, as I pointed. “Well, now, you're not so much of a tenderfoot. Thet's the best mustang in the lot. Cless, how much for him, an' a pack-pony an' pack-saddle?” “I reckon twenty dollars'll make it square,” replied the owner. This nearly made me drop with amazement. I had only about seventy-five dollars left, and I had been very much afraid that I could not buy the mustang, let alone the pack-pony and saddle. “Cless, send round to Smith for the lad's outfit, an' saddle up for him at once.” Then he turned to me. “Now some grub, an' a pan or two.” Having camped before, I knew how to buy supplies. Buell, however, cut out much that I wanted, saying the thing to think of was a light pack for the pony. “I'll hurry to the hotel and get my things,” I said, “and meet you here. I'll not be a moment.” But Buell said it would be better for him to go with me, though he did not explain. He kept with me, still he remained in the office while I went up-stairs. Somehow this suited me, for I did not want him to see the broken window. I took a few things from my grip and rolled them in a bundle. Then I took a little leather case of odds and ends I had always carried when camping and slipped it into my pocket. Hurrying down-stairs I left my grip with the porter, wrote and mailed a postal card to my father, and followed the impatient Buell. “You see, it's a smart lick of a ride to Penetier, and I want to get there before dark,” he explained, kindly. I could have shouted for very glee when I saw the black mustang saddled and bridled. “He's well broke,” said Cless. “Keep his bridle down when you ain't in the saddle. An' find a patch of grass fer him at night. The pony'll stick to him.” Cless fell to packing a lean pack-pony. “Watch me do this,” said he; “you'll hev trouble if you don't git the hang of the diamondhitch.” I watched him set the little wooden criss-cross on the pony's back, throw the balance of my outfit (which he had tied up in a canvas) over the saddle, and then pass a long rope in remarkable turns and wonderful loops round pony and pack. “What's the mustang's name?” I inquired. “Never had any,” replied the former owner. “Then it's Hal.” I thought how that name would please my brother at home. “Climb up. Let's see if you fit the stirrups,” said Cless. “Couldn't be better.” “Now, young feller, you can hit the trail,” put in Buell, with his big voice. “An' remember what I told you. This country ain't got much use for a feller as can't look out for himself.” He opened the gate, and led my mustang into the road and quite some distance. The pony jogged along after us. Then Buell stopped with a finger outstretched.