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.
Now there is another young man wandering somewhere in the west, learning to sing and playing guns, hoping to create his own legend. Maybe one day he will meet a kid too, and that will be another story with the same little difference.
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.
They continued to move forward, toward the impermanence of life, the foreground of their eyes gradually blurred, the Irish were drowsy, and the rooster vaguely guessed this scene.
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.
Only the hoofprints on the grass and the devastated hillside depict the cruel footprints of life, destroy the tranquility of the canyon and leave.
One rider had detached and was approaching.His easy gait showed no alarm.
A knight got out of the team and rode towards him. He walked briskly without showing concern.
Mr. Arthur had no idea what he would say to Billy Knapp.
Mr. Arthur didn't know how to speak to Lineppe.
Whether or not he heard, the coachman did not slow.
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