There is another kid out there now,somewhere,just learning to sing,and sling a gun,and hoping to earn a legend of his own. Perhaps,some day he will meet The Kid,and that will be another story—different,yet the same.
And so they traveled,forward,onward,toward dramas the outlines of which blurred in the dozing of the man,and were by the chicken dimly surmised.
Only remained the hoof-marks in the meadow and the torn hillside to mark the boisterous trail of the life that had broken the peace of the place and passed on.
One rider had detached and was approaching.His easy gait showed no alarm.
Mr. Arthur had no idea what he would say to Billy Knapp.
Whether or not he heard, the coachman did not slow.