As he rode he sang, while he sang he worshiped, but the god he tried to glorify was a dim and faraway mystery.

The Angel was warm flesh and blood.
Every time he passed the little bark-covered imprint on the trail he dismounted, removed his hat, solemnly knelt and laid his lips on the impression.

Because he kept no account himself, only the laughing-faced old man of the moon knew how often it happened; and as from the beginning, to the follies of earth that gentleman has ever been kind.
With the near approach of dawn Freckles tuned his last note.

Wearied almost to falling, he turned from the trail into the path leading to the cabin for a few hours' rest..