"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.
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