“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 foothills.”
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.”
“Shucks!” said Lin, after the next ten steps. “You are, and both feet.”
“Tell you, there's stones here, an' I'm just a-skipping them.”
Lin, briefly, took the boy in his arms and carried him to Golden. “I'm played out myself,” he said, sitting in the hotel and looking lugubriously at Billy on a bed. “And I ain't fit to have charge of a hog.” He came and put his hand on the boy's head.
“I'm not sick,” said the cripple. “I tell you I'm bully. You wait an' see me eat dinner.”