“I’D LIKE to look at a rifle,” said Guy to the gunsmith, who came up behind the counter to attend to his wants.

“Something pretty nice?” asked the man.

“No, sir. I can’t afford anything fancy.”

“You want a squirrel-rifle, I suppose?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Guy. “I don’t waste time on such small game. I want one carrying a ball large enough to knock over a buffalo or a grizzly bear.”

“Oh!” said the gunsmith. He looked curiously at Guy for a moment, and then opening a glass door behind him, took out a plainly finished rifle, and handed it over the counter. “There’s one carrying fifty to the pound,” said he, “and I’ll warrant it to shoot two hundred yards with accuracy. Only fifteen dollars.”

Guy took the weapon, and it was so much heavier than he expected to find it that he came very near dropping it on the floor.

The gunsmith said it weighed twelve pounds, but his customer thought he meant to say forty, for when he lifted it to his shoulder and glanced along the barrel as if he were taking aim at something, it was all he could do to hold it, and the muzzle “wobbled” about so violently that it was doubtful if he could have hit the side of a barn at twenty paces. He noticed, too, that the weapon was provided with two triggers and two sights, and he did not see what use they could possibly be; but of course he could not ask questions without showing his ignorance.

“I want something I can depend upon in any emergency,” said Guy after he had looked the rifle over with an air of profound wisdom. “A man who follows the business of a hunter sometimes finds himself in a tight place.”

“Why, I thought you were a sailor,” said the gunsmith. “You look like one.”

“A sailor!” repeated Guy contemptuously. “Well, I have been, that’s a fact,” he added, suddenly recollecting that he had not yet donned his coonskin cap and suit of buckskin; “but I’m a hunter now. Did you never hear of the Wild Rough Riders of the Rocky Mountains?”

This was the name Guy intended to give to his band when he got it organized, and he thought he might as well begin to let people hear of it.

“No,” said the man, looking at Guy as if he were on the point of laughing outright, “I never did.”

“Well, I am one of them, and I want a good rifle.”

“This is a weapon I can recommend,” said the gunsmith. “Here are the molds that go with it. You can see that it carries a large ball. If a bear gets one of them in his head, it will be the last of him.”

“I’ll take it,” said Guy. “Now I want some other things to go with it.”

The gunsmith, who was all attention, handed out the other articles as Guy called for them—a game-bag, a powder-horn (which he filled with rifle-powder), a box of caps, a hunting-knife, two pounds of bullets to fit the rifle, as many pounds of bar lead and a ladle to melt it in, and also a poncho and a Mexican blanket, which he tied up in a bundle so that Guy could carry them over his shoulder. The trading was all done in twenty minutes, and when Guy walked out of the store he had thirty-five dollars less in his purse, and his first hunter’s outfit on his back.

“Now I begin to feel like somebody,” thought the boy, as he lifted his rifle to his shoulder and hurried down the road. “Mr. Schwartz has laid a rope’s end over my back for the last time. Don’t I wish I could see him just now? I’d show him how we rough riders are going to clean out the Indians. I’ll turn into the first hotel I find, get a square meal, and go to bed, knowing that there’ll be no one to awaken me with, ‘All you port watch, ahoy! Roll out lively, Thomas, or I’ll be down there after you.’ But after to-night I shall live in the open air altogether. I wish I had a horse. Those mountains seem a long way off. I shall find my first hunting-grounds among them.”

Guy trudged along the dusty road for the next two hours indulging in such thoughts as these, and very pleasant traveling companions he found them. Now and then he would be aroused by the sound of wheels, when he would wake up long enough to step out of the way of some passing vehicle, and then he would go on with his dreaming again.

At last he found what he was in search of—a hotel, the existence of which was made known to him by a faded sign swinging from the top of a high post, and which conveyed to those who passed that way the information that entertainment for man and beast was there furnished by Tom Davis. The hotel itself was a weather-beaten, tumble-down sort of a building, and was better calculated to repel than to attract customers; but Guy did not stop to look at it. If it could furnish him with plenty to eat and a bed to sleep in, that was all he cared for.

Attracted by the sound of voices, he turned the corner of the building where the principal entrance seemed to be, and found himself in the presence of a dozen or more men who were congregated on the porch, some lounging on benches, and others sitting with their chairs tipped back against the side of the house and their feet elevated on the rounds. They were all taking loudly, and the appearance and actions of some of them indicated that they had had something besides water to drink. They raised their eyes as the boy appeared among them, and after giving him a good looking over, went on with their conversation.

The landlord was among them, and he made himself known to Guy by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder toward the open door—an invitation for him to enter and make himself at home. At any rate Guy took it as such and acted upon it. In the bar-room he found another rough-looking individual, who relieved him of his rifle and pack and asked what he could do for him.

“I want a room and something to eat,” said Guy.

“I don’t know how it’ll be about a room,” replied the man. “We’re pretty full—we always are—but I can give you a shake-down somewhere. Grub is plenty, and you look as though you needed a good tuck-out.”

“So I do,” said Guy. “I am almost starved to death. I haven’t eaten anything but salt horse and hard-tack for the last seven months.”

The man showed some curiosity to know where Guy had been that he was obliged to live on such fare, and the latter told him as much of his history as he cared to have him know. He did not tell him, however, where he was going and what he intended to do, for fear the man might laugh at him. He had a suspicion that the gunsmith laughed at him when he was buying his outfit. Indeed, everybody who knew that he wanted to be a hunter thought the notion a wild one—they looked it if they did not say it—and Guy could not bear to have his grand idea made sport of.

Guy passed a comfortable night at the hotel in spite of its unpromising exterior, enjoyed a good sleep, which was something he really needed, ate a hearty breakfast the next morning, and felt more like himself than he had felt for many a long day. Having settled his bill he stood for a moment on the porch with his rifle in his hand and his pack over his shoulder, looking down the long, straight road before him and wondering how many steps it would take to bring him to his hunting-grounds, when he was accosted by one of the guests of the house who sat on a heavily loaded wagon with his whip and reins in his hand.

“I say, stranger, if you’re travelin’ my way, you might as well get up an’ ride,” said he.

“Are you going to the mountains?” asked Guy.

“Wal, I’m goin’ down to the San Joaquin.”

“Is there any hunting there?”

“Huntin’! Now you’re talkin’. Thar’s bars an’ antelope till you can’t rest.”

“Then that’s the place I’m looking for, and I’ll ride.”

So saying Guy handed up his rifle and pack and mounted beside the man, who cracked his whip and drove off.

Mr. Wilson, for that was the man’s name, was an old miner, having immigrated in ’49. Like many others of his class, he believed that California was completely “petered out,” now that the placer diggings had failed, and he had taken to farming, not because he liked it or it was a profitable business, but because he had to do something for a living, and nothing else offered. He did not own an acre of land, but he raised any number of fine horses and cattle for market, and had one of the best paying stores in the San Joaquin valley. He had been to ’Frisco for supplies, and was now on his way home.

Guy learned this much from two hours’ conversation with his new acquaintance, and during that same time Mr. Wilson had heard all about Guy’s history and intentions. He must have had a high opinion of the boy, too, if he believed all he said, for Guy, like everybody else who tries to make himself appear something better than he really is, was a great boaster. The stories he told of the wonderful feats he had performed with his rifle, and his skill in catching and breaking wild horses, were enough to make one open his eyes.

Guy should have known better than this. He had received a lesson that ought to have broken him of his propensity to boast. He had induced Smith, the shipping agent, to rate him on the articles as an able seaman, and that one act, performed in five minutes’ time, had brought him seven long months of hazing. But Guy never thought of it now. The privations he had undergone, and the cruel treatment he had received while he was on board the Santa Maria, seemed to him like a troubled dream. Besides, Mr. Wilson would never have an opportunity to catch him in any of his falsehoods, for in a few days Guy expected to leave him, never to meet him again.

“So you’re a hunter,” said the ranchman at length. “You don’t look to me like you was made of the right kind of stuff fur that business. It takes them who has been born in it to foller it. I don’t know nobody about here who makes a livin’ at it. Even the Injuns don’t.”

“They don’t?” exclaimed Guy. “How do they make a living then?”

“Why, they work on the ranches—herd cattle an’ sheep, an’ raise garden truck. If I was goin’ to be a hunter I’d go at it right.”

“That’s just what I intend to do,” said Guy. “I am going to hunt about here till I get a horse and find a companion, and then I’m going to strike for the plains.”

“Then my man Zeke is jest the feller you want to see,” said the ranchman. “He’s a reg’lar hunter, an’ you’d know it the minute you sot eyes onto him, fur you have to get a tree in line with him when he’s movin’ to see if he’s goin’ ahead any. He’s the laziest man I ever see, an’ I’ve seed a heap. He b’longs out on the prairy, kills buffaler fur a livin’. Last season he shot two thousand an’ better. Got a dollar apiece fur the hides, an’ come down to ’Frisco to see the elephant. He seed him, too, I reckon, fur when I found him he was flat busted, an’ as hungry as a wolf. He’s herdin’ cattle fur me now to get a hoss an’ a new outfit, an’ when he gets ’em he’s goin’ back to the plains.”

“Did you say he was working for a horse?” asked Guy.

“Wal, he’s arned the hoss already, an’ now he’s workin’ fur a kit—a rifle, blankets an’ so on. He takes ’em outen my store, you know.”

“Have you any other horse you’d like to sell?”

“Wal, I dunno,” said the ranchman with a smile.

“I’ve got a matter of six or seven hundred, mebbe, an’ might spar’ one more.”

“What do you ask for them?”

“All prices—twenty-five to seventy-five dollars.”

“I should like to get one,” said Guy, “and I am willing to work for it.”

“Wal, I’ve got plenty that you can do—I never yet heard that work was scarce in this country—an’ if you’ve a mind to set in with me, I’ll give you twenty dollars a month an’ find you.”

“Find me?” repeated Guy. “Am I going to get lost?”

“Eh? Lost! No. I mean I’ll give you twenty dollars a month an’ all the grub you want to eat an’ all the hosses you need to ride. I give Zeke thirty dollars, but you don’t know nothin’ about herdin’ cattle. You talk like a high larnt boy. Did you ever have any schoolin’?”

“Oh, yes,” said Guy. “I’ve been to school all my life—that is almost all my life. I’ve been a hunter five years, you know.”

“Then mebbe you’re jest the feller I want to tend store fur me. Did you ever do anything of the kind?”

It would not be safe to boast now, for there a was a chance of being found out, so Guy gave a truthful answer.

“No, I never did,” said he, “but I know I could learn.”

“Sartin you could. It’s easy larnt. Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you’re a mind to work about the ranch on week days an’ tend store on Sundays, I’ll give you what I told you an’ let you have your pick of my hosses, an’ I’ve got some good ones, too. Only you must promise one thing—if you want to leave me you must give me a month’s notice, so that I can get somebody to fill your place. I make that bargain with all my hands.”

“All right,” said Guy, “I’ll do it.”

And so the matter was settled. Guy had found a way to get the horse he so much needed, and he was in ecstasies over it.

The journey to Mr. Wilson’s ranch occupied nearly a week, and during that time Guy learned something of the outdoor life he expected to lead all the rest of his days. The change from the close, cramped forecastle of the Santa Maria to the freedom of the country was a most agreeable one, and he thoroughly enjoyed his liberty. He talked to Mr. Wilson every day about Zeke, and made up his mind that he should like him. If he only proved to be a genial, talkative companion and as good a hunter as Flint was a sailor, Guy would ask nothing more of him. Every day he grew more and more impatient to meet him, and was glad indeed when Mr. Wilson pointed out a house in advance of them and informed him that when they reached it they would be at their journey’s end.

“All this land you see here,” said the ranchman, waving his whip toward the broad, level plain which stretched away on both sides of the road, “used to be Congress land. When I first squatted here I had it all to myself, but other fellers kept comin’ in all the while with their hosses an’ cattle an’ locatin’ their farms right in the best part of my pastur’, an’ at last they got to crowdin’ me so heavy that I had to send Zeke with the most of my stock about forty miles farther down the valley. I’m goin’ to send you down to him to-morrer with some supplies.”

“But what if I should get lost?” said Guy. “You must remember that I don’t know the country yet.”

“You can foller a plain trail, can’t you?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Then you needn’t get lost unless you’re a mind to, ’cause the road’s as plain as daylight. Besides, I’ll put the pack on the ole clay-bank, an’ she knows every step of the way.”

So saying, Mr. Wilson cracked his whip, and urging his tired horses into a trot brought his heavy wagon up before the door of the rancho in fine style.

The rancho was a roomy, rambling structure built of unplaned boards, and like the hotel at which Guy had stopped in San Francisco, gave promise of anything but comfortable accommodations. The inside proved on closer acquaintance to be quite as cheerless as the exterior. There was no stove, no fire-place, no chairs, not even a bedstead in the house that Guy could discover. It looked perfectly poverty-stricken. But nevertheless the rancho, and its occupants, too, were as clean as new pins. The earthen floor had evidently just been swept; the table and the benches which served in lieu of the chairs were as white as sand and water could make them; the Mexican wife of the proprietor was neatly dressed, and the children, who crowded about him as he jumped down from the wagon, had just received a thorough scrubbing in anticipation of their sire’s return.

Guy carried his rifle and pack into the house, and during the next half-hour worked hard enough to get up a splendid appetite for supper, although an unpleasant incident that happened drove it all away again.

The first thing Mr. Wilson did was to take a key from a nail under the porch, and open a door leading into a small room adjoining the main building. This proved to be the store of which he had spoken. Here the ranchman kept a variety of useful and salable articles; among the latter tobacco and grape brandy, which, as he told Guy, formed his principal stock in trade. He further informed his new hand that although the rancho was dull enough on week days, it was the very reverse on Sundays, for then it was the headquarters of all the ranchmen and Indians for fifteen miles around, who congregated there to drink, shoot, and run horses. Mr. Wilson liked to join in these sports, and he wanted somebody to take care of the store, so that he could give his undivided attention to them.

After the wagon had been unloaded and the contents stowed away in the store, Guy assisted Mr. Wilson in taking care of the horses. This was done in a very few minutes, for all that was necessary was to unharness them and turn them loose on the prairie.

“Are you not afraid they will stray away?” asked Guy.

“I don’t care if they do,” replied the ranchman. “I’ve got plenty more.”

“But you might lose them altogether.”

“No fear of that. They’ve got my brand on ’em, an’ everybody knows it. Now,” he added, throwing the harness into the wagon, and leading the way toward a small corral into which twenty or thirty horses had just been driven by an Indian vaquero, “I’ll show you the hoss I’m going to sell you. You can try him now an’ see how you like him, an’ to-morrer you can ride him down to Zeke.”

If there was any part of his hunter life on which Guy, during his day-dreaming, had dwelt with more satisfaction than another, it was that which he expected to spend in the saddle. Although he had never mounted a horse in his life, he had somehow got it into his head, along with his other foolish notions, that he had in him the qualities of which accomplished and fearless riders are made. He would render himself famous, not only by shooting grizzly bears and Indians, but by riding horses that nobody else dared to mount. He hoped during his wanderings to meet that celebrated white pacer, which, according to a certain cheap novel he had read, had often been captured by strategy but never ridden. This famous horse always threw those who attempted to mount him, trampled them to death, and then made off, fairly distancing the fleetest nags that could be brought in pursuit of him.

Guy believed in the existence of this animal as firmly as he believed in the existence of the boy trappers, and hoped some day to own and subdue him; but now that he had a chance to begin his career as a rough rider, he felt very much like backing out. He found that there is a vast difference between thinking about things and doing them. The actions of the horses in the corral frightened him. They were such restless fellows! They danced and curveted, reared, flourished their heels in the air, and dashed about the inclosure like veritable wild horses.

The vaquero, in obedience to his master’s order, entered the corral, lasso in hand, and in a few minutes came out again leading a small, clean-limbed horse, which seemed very much averse to leaving his companions, and showed his disapproval of the whole proceeding by furious kicks and plunges.

“Thar he is!” exclaimed the ranchman. “Twenty-five dollars fur him, an’ that’s dog cheap. Gentle as a kitten, as anybody can see.”

“No,” said Guy, “I can’t see it.”

“Oh, he’s lively, of course. He hain’t been doin’ nothing fur three or four months, you know, an’ never had a saddle on him but two or three times. If he hain’t the next thing to a lightnin’ express train, you jest take my hat an’ say no more about it. Purty as a red wagon wheel, too, he is. Jump? I should say he could. And last! You can’t tire him down. He’s made of iron. Thar he is. Jump on him an’ put him through his paces.”

While this conversation was going on, the vaquero had with wonderful dexterity slipped a bridle over the horse’s head, strapped a deep Spanish saddle on his back, and now stood holding him in readiness for Guy to mount.