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steer.
But the mental turmoil taking place at my seat must have involved some momentary physical slips which became audible and visible for occasionally, as the walls tottered, the head of a fellow passenger would turn in my direction and stare at me, quizzically.
I had decided: that I had been as fortunate, so far, as any 22-year-old alive; that I was old enough to grow up and stop thinking of Christmas only as a time to get and receive; that I was rushing as fast as the train could carry me toward a family who needed me and the best I had in me; that sometimes God and the U.S. Navy knew better than I and that maybe this was one of those occasions; that it was time to trust them both and to submit to what they were trying to teach me. And submit I did, if not with complete cheerfulness then, at least, as in duty bound.
Having so firmly and piously resolved that Christmas is not a time to be selfish, I was still lost in thought and I almost lost the casket in Denver when we changed trains (about which I had been specifically warned). But, finally, just after sunrise on this cold Christmas morning, our train pulled into the barren-looking little town. The only things moving at that hour were the restless tumble weeds, rolling forever, it seemed, across the plains in the cold wind.
As the train slowed to a stop, I was faced with a sad and dismal sight on the platform: lined up in front of the little green railway station was Spurlin’s family — father, mother, kid sister and an aunt. An ancient station attendant was rolling a Railway Express wagon down the length of the train to its baggage car.
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