She was young. Her dress of homespun material looked the worse for wear.

“He’s a pretty horse,” she said, patting the sleek nose.

“Yes, he is. I hope the horse I’ve got to buy will be like him,” replied Tom.

“Are you a buffalo-killer, too?” she inquired, in quicker tone.

“I expect to be.”

“Milly,” called a gruff voice, “you’re not a hoss thief and you’re not makin’ up with strangers.”

Tom turned hastily to see a big man looming across the camp fire. He wore a leather apron and carried a hammer in his brawny hand. It was impossible that this blond giant could be the girl’s father. Even in that moment of surprise and annoyance Tom felt glad of this conviction. The man’s face bore a thin yellow beard that could not hide its coarseness and brutality. He had bright, hard blue eyes.

“Excuse me,” said Tom, stiffly. “I had to come after Mr. Hudnall’s horse.” Then turning to the girl, he thanked her. This time her eyes were cast down. Tom abruptly started off, leading the animal.

It did not occur to him that there was anything significant about the incident, except a little irritation at the coarse speech and appearance of the blond man. Nevertheless, that part of it slipped from his mind, and the vague, somehow pleasurable impression of the girl persisted until the serious and thrilling business of choosing horse and gun precluded all else.

The fact that Hudnall and his men left off work, and Pilchuck insisted on being the arbiter of these selections, attested to the prime importance with which they regarded the matter. Hudnall argued with Pilchuck that he knew the merits of horses as well as the latter knew guns.

So they journeyed into town, up the dusty motley-crowded street, rubbing elbows with Indians, soldiers, hunters, scouts, teamsters, men who bore the stamp of evil life upon their lean faces, and women with the eyes of hawks. Pilchuck knew almost everybody, it seemed. He pointed out many border celebrities to Tom’s keen interest. One was Colonel Jones, a noted plainsman, who in the near future was to earn the sobriquet “Buffalo Jones,” not like his contemporary, Buffalo Bill, for destroying buffalo, but for preserving calves to form the nucleus of a herd. Another, and the most striking figure of a man Tom had ever seen, was Wild Bill, perhaps the most noted of all frontiersmen. He was a superb giant of a man, picturesquely clad, straight as an Indian, with a handsome face, still, intense, wonderful in its expression of the wild spirit that had made him great. Tom thought he had never before seen such penetrating, alert eyes. Pilchuck mentioned casually that not long since, Wild Bill had fought and killed twelve men in a dugout cabin on the plains. Bill got shot and cut to pieces, but recovered. Tom was far from being a tenderfoot, yet he gaped at these strange, heroic men, and thrilled to his depths. Seeing them face to face stimulated and liberated something deep in him.

The supply store where Pilchuck conducted Tom and the others was full of purchasers, and except for absence of liquors in bottles it resembled a border barroom. It smelled of tobacco in bulk; and Tom saw shelves and stacks of plug tobacco in such enormous quantity that he marveled to Hudnall.

“Golly! man, we gotta have chaw tobacco,” replied that worthy.

A counter littered with a formidable array of guns and knives appeared to be Pilchuck’s objective point.

“We want a big fifty,” he said to the clerk.

“There’s only one left an’ it ain’t new,” replied this individual, as he picked up a heavy gun. It was a fifty-caliber Sharps rifle. Pilchuck examined it and then handed it over to Tom. “I’ve seen better big fifties, but it’ll do for a while… . Next you want a belt an’ all the cartridges you can lug, an’ both rippin’ an’ skinnin’ knives.”

When these purchases were made Tom had indeed about all he could carry. Hudnall then ordered the supplies needed for his outfit, and when that was accomplished Pilchuck led them down the street to the outskirts of town, where there was a corral full of dusty, vicious, kicking horses.