“And the whole world sent back the song
Which now the angels sing.”
The music rose and descended to its lovely and simple end; and, for a second time in Denver, Lin brushed a hand across his eyes. He turned his face from his neighbor, frowning crossly; and since the heart has reasons which Reason does not know, he seemed to himself a fool; but when the service was over and he came out, he repeated again, “‘Peace and good-will.’ When I run on to the Bishop of Wyoming I’ll tell him if he’ll preach on them words I’ll be there.”
“Couldn’t we shoot your pistol now?” asked Billy.
“Sure, boy. Ain’t yu’ hungry, though?”
“No. I wish we were away off up there. Don’t you?”
“The mountains? They look pretty—so white! A heap better ’n houses. Why, we’ll go there! There’s trains to Golden. We’ll shoot around among the foot-hills.”
To Golden they immediately went, and, after a meal there, wandered in the open country until the cartridges were gone, the sun was low, and Billy was walked off his young heels—a truth he learned complete in one horrid moment and battled to conceal.
“Lame!” he echoed, angrily. “I ain’t.”