CHAPTER SEVEN: BUD FLIPS A COIN WITH FATE

"I don't think it matters so much where we light, it's
what we do when we get there," said Bud to Smoky, his horse,
one day as they stopped where two roads forked at the base of
a great, outstanding peak that was but the point of a
mountain range. "This trail straddles the butte and takes on
up two different valleys. It's all cow-country--so what do
yuh say, Smoke? Which trail looks the best to you?"

Smoky flopped one ear forward and the other one back, and
switched at a pestering fly. Behind him Sunfish and Stopper
waited with the patience they had learned in three weeks of
continuous travel over country that was rough in spots,
barren in places, with wind and sun and occasional, sudden
thunderstorms to punctuate the daily grind of travel.

Bud drew a half dollar from his pocket and regarded it
meditatively. "They're going fast--we'll just naturally have
to stop pretty soon, or we don't eat," He observed. "Smoke,
you're a quitter. What you want to do is go back--but you
won't get the chance. Heads, we take the right hand trail. I
like it better, anyway--it angles more to the north."

Heads it was, and Bud leaned from the saddle and recovered
the coin, Smoky turning his head to regard his rider
tolerantly. "Right hand goes--and we camp at the first good
water and grass. I can grain the three of you once more
before we hit a town, and that goes for me, too. G'wan,