shape, and all your clothes."

But the last words fell on unconscious ears.

CHAPTER 4.

THE TRAIL

"Frank, what'll we do about horses?" asked Jones. "Jim'll want the bay,
and of course you'll want to ride Spot. The rest of our nags will only
do to pack the outfit."

"I've been thinkin'," replied the foreman. "You sure will need good
mounts. Now it happens that a friend of mine is just at this time at
House Rock Valley, an outlyin' post of one of the big Utah ranches. He
is gettin' in the horses off the range, an' he has some crackin' good
ones. Let's ooze over there--it's only thirty miles--an' get some
horses from him."

We were all eager to act upon Frank's suggestion. So plans were made
for three of us to ride over and select our mounts. Frank and Jim would
follow with the pack train, and if all went well, on the following
evening we would camp under the shadow of Buckskin.

Early next morning we were on our way. I tried to find a soft place on
Old Baldy, one of Frank's pack horses. He was a horse that would not
have raised up at the trumpet of doom. Nothing under the sun, Frank
said, bothered Old Baldy but the operation of shoeing. We made the
distance to the outpost by noon, and found Frank's friend a genial and
obliging cowboy, who said we could have all the horses we wanted.

While Jones and Wallace strutted round the big corral, which was full
of vicious, dusty, shaggy horses and mustangs, I sat high on the fence.
I heard them talking about points and girth and stride, and a lot of
terms that I could not understand. Wallace selected a heavy sorrel, and
Jones a big bay; very like Jim's. I had observed, way over in the
corner of the corral, a bunch of cayuses, and among them a clean-limbed
black horse. Edging round on the fence I got a closer view, and then
cried out that I had found my horse. I jumped down and caught him, much
to my surprise, for the other horses were wild, and had kicked
viciously. The black was beautifully built, wide-chested and powerful,
but not heavy. His coat glistened like sheeny black satin, and he had a
white face and white feet and a long mane.

"I don't know about giving you Satan--that's his name," said the
cowboy. "The foreman rides him often. He's the fastest, the best
climber, and the best dispositioned horse on the range.

"But I guess I can let you have him," he continued, when he saw my
disappointed face.

"By George!" exclaimed Jones. "You've got it on us th