urned out to be far less savage than his father, but quite
as bibulous, a rotund hail-fellow-well-met, oily as an Esquimau, with
round, twinkling eyes and a reservoir of questionable stories which he
tapped on the slightest provocation. The guidebook called him "the
innkeeper," which has a romantic connotation not altogether true to
the hard facts of Frank's hostelry, and spoke of him as "a jolly, fat,
rosy-cheeked young man, brimming over with animal spirits." He
habitually wore a bright crimson mackinaw shirt, tied at the neck with
a gaudy silk handkerchief, and fringed buckskin trousers, which
Roosevelt, who had a weakness for "dressing up," no doubt envied him.
He was, it seemed, the most obliging soul in the world, being
perfectly willing to do anything for anybody at any time except to be
honest, to be sober, or to work; and agreed to find Roosevelt a guide,
suggesting that Joe Ferris, who was barn superintendent for him at the
Cantonment and occasionally served as a guide for tourists who came
to see "Pyramid Park," might be persuaded to find him a buffalo.

Frank guided his "tenderfoot" to the Post store, of which he was
manager. It was a long log building, one fourth used for trading and
the rest for storage. Single window lights, set into the wall here and
there, gave the place the air of perpetual dusk which, it was rumored,
was altogether necessary to cloak Frank's peculiar business methods.

They found Joe Ferris in the store. That individual turned out to be
as harmless a looking being as any "down-East" farmer--a short,
stockily built young fellow of Roosevelt's own age, with a moustache
that drooped and a friendly pair of eyes. He did not accept the
suggestion that he take Roosevelt on a buffalo hunt, without debate.
The "dude" from the East did not, in fact, look at first sight as
though he would be of much comfort on a hunt. His large, round glasses
gave him a studious look that to a frontiersman was ominous. Joe
Ferris agreed at last to help the tenderfoot find a buffalo, but he
agreed with reluctance and the deepest misgivings.

Ferris and Frank Vine, talking the matter over, decided that the camp
of Gregor Lang on Little Cannonball Creek fifty miles up the river,
was the logical place to use as headquarters for the hunt. Gregor
Lang, it happened, had just left town homeward bound with a wagon-load
of supplies. He was a Scotchman, who had been a prosperous distiller
in Ireland, until in a luckless