The Young Forester. Zane Grey

or two.”

      Having camped before, I knew how to buy supplies. Buell, however, cut out much that I wanted, saying the thing to think of was a light pack for the pony.

      “I'll hurry to the hotel and get my things,” I said, “and meet you here. I'll not be a moment.”

      But Buell said it would be better for him to go with me, though he did not explain. He kept with me, still he remained in the office while I went up-stairs. Somehow this suited me, for I did not want him to see the broken window. I took a few things from my grip and rolled them in a bundle. Then I took a little leather case of odds and ends I had always carried when camping and slipped it into my pocket. Hurrying down-stairs I left my grip with the porter, wrote and mailed a postal card to my father, and followed the impatient Buell.

      “You see, it's a smart lick of a ride to Penetier, and I want to get there before dark,” he explained, kindly.

      I could have shouted for very glee when I saw the black mustang saddled and bridled.

      “He's well broke,” said Cless. “Keep his bridle down when you ain't in the saddle. An' find a patch of grass fer him at night. The pony'll stick to him.”

      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.”

      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 had surmounted what I took to be the first foot-hill, I came upon a magnificent forest. A little farther on the trail walled me in with great seamed trunks, six feet in diameter, rising a hundred feet before spreading a single branch.

      Meanwhile my mustang kept steadily up the slow-rising trail, and the time passed. Either the grand old forest had completely bewitched me or the sweet smell of pine had intoxicated me, for as I rode along utterly content I entirely forgot about Dick and the trail and where I was heading. Nor did I come to my senses until Hal snorted and stopped before a tangled windfall.

      Then I glanced down to see only the clean, brown pine-needles. There was no trail. Perplexed and somewhat anxious, I rode back a piece, expecting surely to cross the trail. But I did not. I went to the left and to the right, then circled in a wide curve. No trail! The forest about me seemed at once familiar and strange.

      It was only when the long shadows began to creep under the trees that I awoke fully to the truth.

      I had missed the trail! I was lost in the forest!