“Here’s your critters.  Take your choice,” the dealer urged.

“I’ll take the brown one,” my uncle replied, promptly.  And the bargain was closed.

Mat and Beverly and I had already climbed into our wagon, and Aunty Boone appeared now at the store door, ready to join us.

“You takin’ that nigger?” the trader asked.

“Yes.  Lead out your best offer now.  I want another mule,” Esmond Clarenden replied.

But the horse-merchant proved to be harder to deal with than the crowd had been.  The foolish risk of losing so valuable a piece of property as Daniel Boone ought to be in the slave-market taxed his powers of understanding, profanity, and abuse.

“Cussin’ solid, an’ in streaks,” Aunty Boone chuckled, softly, as she listened to him unmoved.

Equally unmoved was Esmond Clarenden.  But his genial smile and diplomatic power of keeping still did not prevent him from being as set as the everlasting hills in his own purpose.

“This here critter is all I’ll sell you,” the trader declared at last, pulling a big white-eyed dun animal out of the group.  “An’ nobody’s goin’ to drive her easy.”

“I’ll take it,” Uncle Esmond said, promptly, and the vicious-looking beast was brought to where Aunty Boone stood beside the wagon-tongue.

It was a clear case of hate at first sight, for the mule began to plunge and squeal the instant it saw her.  The woman hesitated not a minute, but lifting her big ham-like foot, she gave it one broadside kick that it must have mistaken for a thunderbolt, and in that low purr of hers, that might frighten a jungle tiger, she laid down the law of the journey.

“You tote me to Santy Fee, or be a dead mule.  Take yo’ choice right now!  Git up!”

For fifty days the one dependable, docile servant of the Clarendens was the big dun mule, as gentle and kitten-like as a mule can be.

And so, in spite of opposing conditions and rabble protest and doleful prophecy and the assurance of certain perils, we turned our faces toward the unfriendly land of the sunset skies, the open West of my childish day-dreams.

* * * * *

The prairies were splashed with showers and the warm black soil was fecund with growths as our little company followed the windings of the old trail in that wondrous springtime of my own life’s spring.  There were eight of us:  Clarenden, the merchant; Jondo, the big plainsman; Bill Banney, whom love of adventure had lured from the blue grass of Kentucky to the prairie-grass of the West; Rex Krane, the devil-may-care invalid from Boston; and the quartet of us in the “baby cab,” as Beverly had christened the family wagon.  Uncle Esmond had added three swift ponies to our equipment, which Jondo and Bill found time to tame for riding as we went along.

We met wagon-trains, scouts, and solitary trappers going east, but so far as we knew our little company was the only westward-facing one on all the big prairies.