den 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."

He swept his hand round to the west of the mountain. The direction did
not tally with the idea I had gotten from Dick's letter.

"I thought Penetier was on the north side of the mountains."

"Who said so?" he asked, staring. "Don't I know this country? Take it
from me."

I thanked him, and, turning, with a light heart I faced the black
mountain and my journey.

It was about ten o'clock when Hal jogged into a broad trail on the
outskirts of Holston. A gray flat lay before me, on the other side of
which began the slow rise of the slope. I could hardly contain myself.
I wanted to run the mustang, but did not for the sake of the burdened
pony. That sage-flat was miles wide, though it seemed so narrow. The
back of the lower slope began to change to a dark green, which told me I
was surely getting closer to the mountains, even if it did not seem so.
The trail began to rise, and at last I reached the first pine-trees.
They were a disappointment to me, being no larger than many of the white
oaks at home, and stunted, with ragged dead tops. They proved to me that
trees isolated from their fellows fare as poorly as trees overcrowded.
Where pines grow closely, but not too closely, they rise straight and
true, cleaning themselves of the low branches, and making good lumber,
free of knots. Where they grow far apart, at the mercy of wind and heat
and free to spread many branches, they make only gnarled and knotty
lumber.

As I rode on the pines became slowly more numerous and loftier. Then,
when I