Two big valises and his blankets he packed on Sunfish, a
deceptively raw-boned young buckskin with much white showing
in his eyes--an ornery looking brute if ever there was one.
Bud's guitar and a mandolin in their cases he tied securely
on top of the pack. Smoky, the second horse, a deep-chested
"mouse" with a face almost human in its expression, he
saddled, and put a lead rope on the third, a bay four-year-
old called Stopper, which was the Tomahawk's best rope-horse
and one that would be missed when fast work was wanted in
branding.

"He sure as hell picked himself three top hawses," a tall
puncher murmured to another. "Wonder where he's headed for?
Not repping--this late in the season."

Bud overheard them, and gave no sign. Had they asked him
directly he could not have told them, for he did not know,
except that somehow he felt that he was going to head north.
Why north, he could not have explained, since cow-country lay
all around him; nor how far north,--for cow-country extended
to the upper boundary of the States, and beyond into Canada.

He left his horses standing by the corral while he went to
the house to tell his mother good-by, and to send a farewell
message to Dulcie, who had been married a year and lived in
Laramie. He did not expect to strike Laramie, he told his
mother when she asked him.

"I'm going till I stop," He explained, with a squeeze of her