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.

"There, at the end of this street, you'll find a trail. Hit it an' stick to
it. All the little trail's leadin' into it needn't bother you."