"Why didn't you say so?"

The reply trembling on my lips was cut short by the entrance of Buell.

"Hello!" he said in a loud voice, shaking hands with me. "You've trailed
into the right place. Smith, treat this lad right. It's guns an' knives an'
lassoes he wants, I'll bet a hoss."

"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, bolsters, 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."