The Young Lion Hunter | Page 3

Jim and Hal, who appeared to be getting on a friendly footing, I took Ken over to the office of Mr. Birch, the Supervisor of Coconina Forest Preserve. As a matter of fact, this rather superior person had always jarred on me. He was inclined to be arrogant, and few of the rangers liked him. I had to get along with him, for being head ranger, it was policy for me to keep a civil tongue in my head. When I introduced Ken and stated my desire to sign him in as my helper the Supervisor looked rebellious and said I had all the helpers I needed.
"Who is this fellow anyhow, Leslie?" he demanded. "I'm not going to have any of your Eastern friends chasing around the preserve, setting fires and killing deer. This idea of yours about a helper is only a bluff. I don't sign any more rangers. Understand?"
I bit my tongue to keep from loosing it, and while I was trying to think what was best to do Ken stepped forward.
"Mr. Supervisor," he said, blandly, "I've only come out to have a little vacation and get some practical ideas on forestry. Please be good enough to look at my credentials."
Ken handed over letters with the Washington seal stamped on them, and Birch stared. What was more when he had read the letters his manner changed very considerably, and he even looked at me with a shade of surprise.
"Oh--yes--Mr. Ward, that'll be all right. You see--I--I only--I've got to be particular about rangers and all that. Now anything I can do for you I'll be glad to do."
Ken's letters must have been pretty strong, and I was secretly pleased to see old Birch taken down a bit. The upshot of the matter was that Ken got a free hand in Coconina, to roam where he liked, and spend what time he wished with the rangers on duty. We left the office highly pleased.
"We'll go over to the corral now and look over some mustangs," I said.
From Ken's face I knew his thoughts reverted once more to the mustang which had trotted its way into his heart. But I said nothing. I wanted his surprise to be complete. Jim and Hal joined us, and together we walked down the street. Kanab was only a hamlet of a few stores, a church, a school, and cottages. My lodgings were at a cottage just at the end of the street, and here, back of a barn, was the corral. When we turned a corner of the barn there was a black mustang, all glossy as silk, with long mane flying and shiny hoofs lifting as he pranced around. He certainly looked proud. That, I felt sure, was because of the thorough currying and brushing I had given him.
Ken stopped stock-still and his eyes began to bulge. As for the mustang, he actually tried to climb over the bars. He knew Ken before Ken knew him.
"Oh! Dick Leslie!" exclaimed Ken.
Then, placing both hands on the top bar, with one splendid vault he cleared the gate.

CHAPTER II
- WINGS
It did me good to see the way Ken Ward hugged that little black mustang. Somehow a ranger gets to have a warm feeling for a horse. Now, Ken's mustang remembered him, or if he did not he surely was a most deceitful bit of horse-flesh.
"He's fine and fat--in great shape," said Ken, rubbing his hands all over the mustang. "He hasn't been worked much."
"Been down on our winter range for six months," I replied. "I had him brought in this morning, and after the blacksmith clipped and shod him I took a hand myself."
"Ken, I want a mustang," sang out Hal.
He sat on the top of the corral fence, absorbed in the appearance and action of Ken's mount.
"Now, Kid, keep your shirt on," said Ken. "You'll get one. It's just half an hour since you arrived."
"That's long enough. Do you think I'm going to stand around here and watch you have a pony like that and not have one myself?"
"It's a mustang, not a pony," said Ken.
Purcell, the owner of the cottage and corrals, drove up at this juncture, and I engaged him in conversation regarding a mount for the boy and the pack-horses we would need on our trip.
"Wal, there's a bunch of mustangs over in the waterin' corral. Some good ones--all pretty wild. But about pack-hosses--that sort of bumps me," said Purcell, dubiously. "I'm due to go to Lund after grain an' supplies, an' I need my regular packers. I'll let you have one, an' the big bay stallion."
"You don't mean that big brute Marc?" I queried.
"Sure. He's all right, if you handle him easy. I don't know as he'll stand for a pack-saddle--any kind of a saddle--but you might load somethin' on