Title: Alden the Pony Express rider : Racing for life
Author: Ellis, Edward Sylvester, Prittie, Edwin John
Language: English
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                          THE OVERLAND SERIES


                     ALDEN THE PONY EXPRESS RIDER



[Illustration: THE SHARP CRACK OF WEAPONS RANG OUT IN THE STILLNESS]



                          THE OVERLAND SERIES


                                 ALDEN
                              ――――THE――――
                          Pony Express Rider
                              ――――OR――――
                            Racing for Life


                              ――――BY――――
                            EDWARD S. ELLIS

                     Author of the Deerfoot Books,
                       The Arizona Series, etc.


                            ILLUSTRATED BY
                           EDWIN J. PRITTIE


                      THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
                             PHILADELPHIA



                          COPYRIGHT 1909, BY
                        THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.

                          PRINTED IN U. S. A.



                     CONTENTS



 CHAPTER                                      PAGE
     I. INTRODUCTORY                             9
    II. A QUARREL                               24
   III. WESTWARD BOUND                          39
    IV. THE DANGER CLOUD                        54
     V. ON GUARD                                69
    VI. ABORIGINAL CUNNING                      84
   VII. JUST IN TIME                            99
  VIII. THE ATTACK                             114
    IX. OLD ACQUAINTANCES                      129
     X. A HUNT                                 145
    XI. A DISAPPOINTMENT                       159
   XII. A NOT UNCOMMON INCIDENT                176
  XIII. “THAT’S JUST LIKE HIM”                 191
   XIV. AN ALARMING SITUATION                  204
    XV. NOW FOR THE MAIL STATION               219
   XVI. CAUSE AND EFFECT                       234
  XVII. AT THE STATION                         249
 XVIII. OUTWITTED                              264
   XIX. A BLESSING IN DISGUISE                 279
    XX. A STRANGE PROCEEDING                   293
   XXI. A SETBACK                              307
  XXII. JETHRO’S SECRET AND WHAT FOLLOWED      320



                            RACING FOR LIFE



                               CHAPTER I

                             INTRODUCTORY


Never did the town of St. Joseph, in the State of Missouri, pass
through more stirring excitement than on the afternoon of April 16,
1860.

Every man, woman and child seemed to feel the pulsing in the air.
Most of the people were on the street, though hundreds of mothers and
daughters were at the upper windows, on the alert that something which
was expected should not elude them. The men talked together in earnest
voices, sometimes moving restlessly over the pavements, glancing at
their watches and saying, in those hushed, eager tones which often
accompany tense emotion:

“It’s pretty near time! I hope he won’t be late.”

“No fear for Alec; he’s _always_ on time.”

“Poor fellow! he doesn’t look strong,” remarked a sympathizer.

“Alec Carlyle is one of those chaps that you can’t judge by looks;
there isn’t a better horseman west of the Alleghanies.”

St. Joseph in those days was not a large town. There was room to hold
in comfort most of the population on Third Street, and it was there
that nearly all of them had gathered on this soft spring afternoon. Had
you been a member of the crowd you would have noticed that the eyes of
nearly every one were turned expectantly toward the one-story, brick
express office on the east side of the street, between Felix and Edmond
Streets. Something was going on inside of that modest structure, but
as yet it was veiled from the public. Several men and boys who stood
nearest the building tried to peep through the windows, but, unable to
do so, intently listened. All that they heard was the occasional stamp
of a horse’s feet, and the confused murmur of voices. But it was not
hard for them to imagine the scene within.

It was about four o’clock, when a small cannon boomed from the side of
the street, two or three doors distant. The report was a signal to the
ferry boat to come across from the Ellwood side of the river and await
a certain horseman who would soon arrive at the bank.

Only a few minutes had passed, when from within the stables near the
express office, some one vigorously shoved open the doors. At the same
instant, a wiry pony, with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils and fine
muscles aquiver, made a tremendous leap which carried him almost to the
middle of the street, and heading toward the river, plunged away under
the prick of the spur, on a dead run.

Horse and rider made a fine picture. Silver mounted trappings decorated
both. The man might have been mistaken for a circus performer, in
his brilliant uniform, with plated horn, pistol, scabbard and belt,
gay, flower-worked leggings, jingling spurs and fine boots with
high heels, such as cowmen and rustlers affect. He was of slight
figure, dark mustache, flashing hazel eyes, flowing hair and closely
compressed lips, and he sat his steed with perfect grace. He wore the
broad-brimmed sombrero that seemed scarcely affected by the gale which
his animal created. He did not look to the right or left, nor notice
the cheers, shouts and waving of hats and hands. He peered grimly
ahead, as if his life depended upon his reaching the ferry without a
second’s loss of time.

As the pony shot like a cannon ball out of the doors of the stable
and sped with arrowy swiftness down the street, the two men with whom
he had been in consultation within the structure stepped forward and
watched him. They smiled, though there was a serious expression on each
face, for both felt they were looking upon an epoch-making event. And
it was Alexander Carlyle, the superb horseman, who was making it.

Neither of the couple took their eyes from him as long as he was within
sight. One was Ben Fickland, superintendent of the stage line to
Denver, known as “Pike’s Peak Express,” the uncle of the horseman. The
other was Mr. Russell of the firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell, who had
been running for years a daily coach from the Missouri River to Salt
Lake City. The two were thrilled not so much by what they saw as by
their knowledge of what it meant.

On the afternoon that I have named, the first “Pony Express” left St.
Joseph, Missouri, on the long westward trip to San Francisco. The four
small leather sacks holding the mail were each six by twelve inches,
one being fastened at the front and the other at the rear of the
saddle, so that the rider sat between them. The pouches were impervious
to rain, and for further protection, the letters were wrapped in oiled
silk and then sealed. The pouches themselves were locked, not to be
opened until they reached their destination. It was ordered from the
first that they and their contents should never weigh more than twenty
pounds. A rider might carry several hundred letters on each trip, for
all were written on the finest of tissue paper. The postage at first
was five dollars for each letter, later reduced as the building of
the telegraph line progressed, to one dollar an ounce. In addition to
this enormous postage, the merchants who were awaiting the important
missives joined in paying the carrier a liberal fee, when he maintained
the schedule or made quicker time than usual.

Mr. Russell had been persuaded by Senator Gwin of California to start
the Pony Express. He had made an arrangement with the railways between
New York and St. Joseph to run a fast train; the Hannibal and St.
Joseph Railroad used a special engine, and the boat which made the
crossing of the Missouri was held so that not a minute would be lost in
transferring the mail. A piercing whistle notified the horseman that
the boat was waiting for him.

About the same time, Harry Roff, mounted on a mettled half-breed
broncho, galloped eastward from Sacramento. He, too, did his part
in opening one of the most romantic episodes in the history of our
country. Two sets of mail bags were approaching each other from points
two thousand miles apart, and there were times when this approach was
at the astounding speed of forty and even fifty miles an hour! The
average daily rate was two hundred and fifty miles a day, but where
everything was favorable, or when an express rider was fleeing from
the vengeful red men, his pony struck a gait of twenty-five miles and
maintained it, when an untrained horse would have dropped in his tracks.

When Harry Roff dashed out from Sacramento, he made one change and
covered the first twenty miles in fifty-nine minutes. He changed
again at Folsom and headed for Placerville, at the foot of the Sierra
Nevada range, fifty-five miles away. At that point, he found a rider
awaiting him, who, quickly shifting the two packed mail pouches, was
off with the speed of the wind. Thus from point to point and relieving
one another at comparatively regular distances, the entire run of 185
miles was made in a little more than fifteen hours. Be it remembered
that in crossing the western summit of the mountains the horse had to
wallow through thirty feet of snow. Not only that, but most of the
distance was through a hostile Indian country, where a slight mistake
on the part of the horseman was likely to prove fatal to him. There was
no saying what boulder or rock sheltered a crouching redskin waiting
exultingly with bow and arrow or rifle for the horseman to come within
range. A white man was legitimate game for the warrior, as much as
was the deer or bear, and the sentiments of the rider were the same
regarding the warrior. One rider covered the last 130 miles of the
western division, from old Camp Floyd to Salt Lake City, where his
partner from the east met and exchanged mails with the comrade going
toward the Missouri.

After the rider from St. Joseph had reached the river side, he passed
upon the waiting ferry boat, and entering a room prepared for him,
changed his fancy costume for what might be called a business suit.
Hardly had the boat touched the other shore, when the eager pony was
off again on a dead run.

It is worth remembering in these later days, that the route of the
Pony Express westward was that which was followed by the Mormons in
1847, and by the emigrants a year or two later when on their way to
California in quest of gold. Crossing the Missouri, the messenger
veered slightly to the southwest, holding to the course until he struck
the old military road, forty-odd miles distant, where he shifted to
the northwest and crossed the Kickapoo Reservation. Then in succession
he passed through Grenada, Logchain, Seneca, Ash Point, Guittard’s,
Marysville, Hollenburg, thence following Little Blue Valley to Rock
Creek, Big Sandy, Liberty Farm, across prairies to Thirty-Two Mile
Creek, over the divide, sand hills and plains to Platte River, and then
westward and up that valley to Fort Kearny.

When the Pony Express began operations, the messengers from St. Joe
rode to the station of Guittard, 125 miles away. This was done every
week, until two months later the service was made semi-weekly, when
the first rider finished his run at Seneca, 80 miles out.

Fort Kearny was an old post in Nebraska. It is now a thriving town and
the capital of the county of the same name. The trail from this point
led westward for 200 miles along the Platte River to Julesburg, in the
northeastern corner of Colorado, then to Fort Laramie, whose gray ruins
stand to-day in southeastern Wyoming, fifty miles west of Cheyenne.
Next, over the foothills to the northwest, and through the famous South
Pass of the Rocky Mountains, by Fort Bridger to Salt Lake City.

This completed the long ride over the eastern division. From Salt
Lake, the express rider strained every nerve to Fort Churchill, 50
miles away, thence to Rush Valley, or old Camp Floyd, Deep Creek,
Ruby Valley, Smith’s Creek, Fort Churchill, over the Sierra Nevada
Mountains, and so on through points that have been already named, to
Sacramento, whence the mail was carried by boat to San Francisco.

A glance at the map will show that this long run――not quite two
thousand miles from St. Joe――was across and through the wildest
portion of our continent. Rugged mountains, inaccessible to the
ordinary traveler, had to be crossed, and only he who was familiar
with the route could do it. Tumultuous torrents had to be forded or
swum, where horse and rider were often hurled far down stream before
the animal could clamber up the rocky bank on the other side. Those
desolate solitudes were swept by furious storms of sleet, hail and
rain, vast valleys were turned into swirling lakes, and the driving
snow often blinded horse and rider, so he could not see twenty feet
beyond the nose of his animal.

There were stretches of plain where the panting pony and his master
could not get a drop of water for hours. When they plunged into the
mountains in the depth of winter, the temperature was often far below
zero, but the undaunted rider kicked away the snow on the lee side of
some boulder, kindled a fire of dead limbs, when he could find such
sparse fuel, but more often he had nothing of that nature. The tough
little pony was wrapped about by his blanket, the master inclosed his
iron body in another, or partly in the same one, lay down and slept,
with never a dream to disturb his rest. But he could not forget his
duty, which was so impressed on his mind that he awoke to the minute
he had set for awaking. Probably the first faint streakings of morning
were showing in the east, when he flung his blanket aside, remounted
and dashed off again.

It will be understood that when the Pony Express was organized, it was
necessary to establish relief stations at intervals of a dozen miles or
so. Now and then these were separated by greater distances, when it was
impossible to have it otherwise. Between the stations, the rider kept
his horse at the highest possible speed. The average time scheduled
was ten or twelve miles an hour, but where the route was favorable,
the ponies held a speed of twenty and sometimes of twenty-five miles.
Thus, as has been stated, the rider from the east and he from the west
thundered toward each other at the incredible rate of fifty miles an
hour――equal to the speed of an express railway train.

There were portions of the trail where no rider dared show himself and
pony during the daytime, because of the Indians on the alert for his
scalp. The intrepid fellow and animal remained in hiding till night.
When darkness came the man stealthily re-saddled his horse, led him
out from the covert in which they had been crouching, climbed silently
into the saddle and resumed his headlong ride.

The late Major Chorpenning, remembered as one of the most prominent
of freighters across the plains, told me that more than once he had
labored through the mountains in the depth of winter when the snow
under his feet was sixty feet deep! He was in Salt Lake City, talking
with Brigham Young, when word came that the mail rider westward had
been killed by Indians. The fiery-tempered Major bounded to his feet
and swore he would follow up the rider, recover the mail and carry
it to Sacramento. When he refused to take any companion with him,
President Young forbade him to go, insisting that it would be sure
death.

“I’m serving the United States and not _you_,” replied the Major,
laying his hand on his revolver; “I don’t think it will be healthy for
either you or any one else to try to stop me.”

So it was the daring Major rode out of Salt Lake City alone. Being
perfectly familiar with the route, he made good progress. He had
decided in his mind where the rider had met his death, and there sure
enough he came upon the body. It was shockingly mutilated, and it was
evident the man had made a brave defense. Chorpenning found his watch,
which strangely enough had not been taken away by his slayers, and
within a rod of where he lay were the mail pouches, unharmed. The pony,
of course, was gone.

The Major strapped the pouches in place and resumed his ride westward.

“From that hour,” said he, “until I came in sight of Carson City, it
seemed to me I was playing hide and seek with the Indians. The first
thing that caught my eye was what looked like a crow sitting on the
edge of a rock only a little way in front. A second glance showed that
it was the topknot of a redskin, who dropped down before I could draw
bead on him. He wasn’t the only one of his kind in the neighborhood,
for I caught glimpses of several, and believe I winged one of them.

“Having found secure shelter, I waited till night before moving on
again. For the following three days and nights I did not do a mile
of traveling when the sun was shining. As it was, I pushed so hard
that, being lucky in catching the boat at Sacramento, I reached San
Francisco several hours ahead of schedule time. The people would not
believe my story at first. I remember that the famous mountaineer
Kit Carson was one of the doubters, but when convinced of what I had
done, he declared it the most remarkable ride ever made by any man in
crossing the plains.”

Since this chapter is introductory and intended merely to clear the
ground for what follows, I shall close it with an account of the most
wonderful ride in the history of the West. It took place in 1851, and
the hero was F. X. Aubrey, who made a wager of $1,000 that he would
ride alone from Santa Fè, New Mexico, to Independence, Missouri, in six
days. The distance is not quite 800 miles.

With the grim resolve to win or die in the attempt, Aubrey sent half a
dozen of his toughest and fleetest ponies ahead, and had them stationed
at different points, to be used by him as he came up to where they were
waiting. He galloped out of Santa Fè at a sweeping pace, smilingly
bowing in response to the cheers of his friends who had gathered to see
him start. Several undertook to accompany him part of the way, but his
pace was so tremendous that he soon left all behind. He did not stop
for rest at any point of that terrible ride. Arriving at a station, he
halted just long enough to change horses, when he was off again at the
same furious speed. He snatched a few bits of bread and meat, and ate
them without drawing rein. Nature could not be denied, and he must have
slept for hours at a time while automatically spurring his animal and
holding his seat in the saddle.

The terrific strain killed several of his best horses, but he dashed
into Independence, just five days and nineteen hours after leaving
Santa Fè. He had to be carried into the hotel, where he lay in a stupor
for forty-eight hours. But for his superb constitution and health, he
must have succumbed. In the course of a few days, however, he fully
recovered, having given an exhibition which will stand for many a day
as a record beyond the reach of any horseman of the plains.



                              CHAPTER II

                               A QUARREL


I have tried to give you an idea of the scene in the town of St.
Joseph, Missouri, on that afternoon in April, 1860, when Alexander
Carlyle, the first Pony Express rider, dashed out of the stables and
galloped full speed down the street to the ferry, amid the huzzahs of
the excited multitudes.

You will recall the hint I dropped as to the appearance of the young
man. He was a consumptive, and had to give up the trying work at the
end of two months. Half a year later he died and was succeeded by John
Frye. This daring fellow afterward became a member of General Blunt’s
Union scouts, and was killed in 1863, in a hand to hand fight with a
squad of “Arkansas Rangers,” after he had slain five of them.

Among the crowds swarming in St. Joe were three persons of whom I shall
have considerable to tell you. Alden Payne was a lusty, bright-witted
youth, seventeen years old, whose home was on a small farm, two or
three miles from the town. His father owned the place, and he and his
wife were industrious and thrifty. The couple, however, caught the
gold fever, though the discovery of the precious metal in California
was more than ten years old and the excitement had largely died out.
They decided to sell the property and go overland to the Pacific slope.
Their two children were Alden and “Vixey,” a sweet girl, eight years
younger than her brother. In addition, Mr. Payne had a colored youth
who had been turned over to him when an infant by his widowed mother,
she having consented to become the wife of a big, lazy darky, with no
love for other folks’ children.

Jethro Mix, although a year younger than Alden, was half a head taller,
several inches bigger around, and more than twenty pounds heavier. It
cannot be said he was bright, but he was strong, fond of every member
of the family, indolent, and a good servant when forced to work.

Mr. Payne sold his property to Otis Martin, his brother-in-law. While
making preparations to join an emigrant train soon to start across the
plains, an unexpected obstacle appeared. Mr. Martin refused to pay over
the purchase money, unless Payne kept charge and took care of the place
until the following spring. At first, the owner believed he would have
to put off his western journey until the time named, but a compromise
was reached. Naturally because the delay impended, the couple were
more anxious than before to start on the long, dangerous journey. They
decided to do so, taking Vixey with them, but leaving Alden and the
colored youth, Jethro, to look after the property until the middle of
the following April, when they would turn it over to Mr. Martin, and
follow the family across the plains.

It was the keenest of disappointments to the two youths, who, if
possible, were more eager to start on the two-thousand-mile journey
than were the adults; but this disappointment was greatly softened by
the knowledge that the delay was only for a few months. The assurance
that it was much better to set out in the spring than in the autumn had
not a feather’s weight with them: they would have been glad to head
westward in the midst of a December snowstorm.

It should be added regarding Alden and Jethro that, having spent
their lives on what might be called the frontier, they had used every
privilege which came within their reach. Both were fine horsemen, and
Alden had no superior among the young men in the neighborhood as a
hunter and marksman. The two spent every hour they could command in
roaming through the forests, some of which were miles distant. While
the colored youth did well when all the circumstances are remembered,
he was by no means the equal of his young master in courage or in skill
with the rifle.

Alden, accompanied by Jethro, walked into St. Joe and joined the
spectators who were waiting to see Carlyle start on his ride of a
hundred and thirty miles westward. They had known of his intention for
several days. The enterprise bore so close a relation to their own
plans that they felt peculiar interest in it.

“Gorry! ain’t it queer, Al?” asked his companion, after the gaily
bedecked rider had dashed by on his way to the ferry.

“Isn’t what queer?” inquired his companion, in turn.

“Why, dat Alec Carlyle am gwine ober de same road dat we’re gwine to
go ober in a day or two.”

“There’s nothing strange in that.”

“Why couldn’t we fetched down our war steeds and gone wid him?”

“He wouldn’t allow it; we should be too much in his way, and we
couldn’t keep up with him for more than a few miles.”

“Dunno ’bout dat; Jilk and Firebug don’t take de dust ob any other
animiles.”

Jethro thus alluded to the horse owned by himself and the mare which
was the favorite of his master.

“That may be so, Jeth, but we expect to ride our horses all the way to
California, while Alec will change his every ten or twelve miles.”

“Can’t we do de same?”

“How?”

“Why, ebery ten miles I’ll get into de saddle ob Firebug, and you kin
get into de saddle ob Jilk: _dat_ will be changing hosses.”

Alden looked at Jethro. The colored lad tried to keep a sober face, but
had to duck his head and chuckle. He might be slow-witted, but he was
not in earnest in making his proposition.

Alden made a feint of chastising the African, who caught hold of
his flapping hat to keep it on and dived three or four paces away.
Just then several cheers came from the ferry, and Alden withdrew his
attention from his companion. Thus he stood, his back toward the negro,
when it suddenly seemed to him that a runaway horse had collided with
his shoulder.

The blow knocked Alden toward the middle of the street, his hat falling,
as he strove desperately to keep his feet and barely succeeded. The next
instant, as he replaced his hat, he turned hurriedly around to learn the
cause of the shock.

A youth about his own age and size had violently bumped him. Alden was
quick tempered and flamed with anger. The young man, whom he had never
seen before, said something, but in his blind rage our friend did not
catch the words.

“What do you mean by doing that?” he demanded, doubling his fists and
striding toward the stranger, whose smile added oil to the flames. The
other held his ground and seemed to catch the hot resentment of Alden.

“I can’t say I meant anything in particular, my red-faced friend; what
are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll mighty soon show you,” replied Alden, who, without an instant’s
hesitation, launched his right fist at the face of the other; but he
neatly dodged the blow and delivered so stinging a one on the cheek
of Alden that he reeled for several paces. The single repulse did
not scare the assailant, however, but made him more cautious. His
antagonist was lithe and active, and coolly awaited the second assault,
which you may be sure was not as blind as before.

The Express Rider having gone upon the ferry boat, the attention of
the crowd was shifted to the two youths, confronting each other with
doubled fists and savage countenances.

“A fight! a fight!” was shouted, and men and boys swarmed around the
couple, taking care to keep far enough back to give them plenty of room.

It was quickly evident that he whom Alden had attacked was a stranger
to every one in the crowd. None the less, it was equally evident that
some sympathized with him, although the majority were with Alden.

“Give it to him, Payne! Knock him out!”

“Look out for yourself!” called a tall man to the unknown; “Alden is
a fighter from Fight Town, at the head of Fight River; keep your eye
peeled!”

“I’ll help you soak him!” added Jethro, bounding to the side of his
master, putting up his big hands, see-sawing with them, ducking his
head, and making several feints from a safe distance.

“Keep out of the way!” commanded Alden; “I don’t want your help.”

“Can’t get along widout me; you knock him ober and I’ll stomp on him
and smash――”

His impatient master made a vigorous sweep with his hand which tumbled
Jethro on his back, with his shoes kicking toward the sky.

“All right!” exclaimed the African, clambering to his feet; “den I’ll
help de oder feller.”

And he ran across and assumed a fighting attitude.

“It’s time to teach Al some sense――”

But the stranger was equally impatient, and made a similar back-handed
stroke which sent the colored lad down again.

“Keep away or you’ll get hurt,” he warned.

“Gorrynation! if dat’s de way I’m treated I’ll lick _bofe_ of you!”

And in order the better to carry out his threat, he began fiercely
doffing his coat. He made a great pretense of hurrying, but, before he
could shed the garment, a man standing near seized him by the arm and
yanked him back with a force that came near throwing him to the ground
again.

“What’s the matter with you, Mix? ’tend to your own business.”

This same person afterward remarked:

“I noticed that it didn’t take much pulling to keep that darky out of
the muss.”

The briers being cleared from the path, the two combatants now came
together. The stranger did not retreat, when Alden quickly but
guardedly approached, and after a couple of feints landed a blow fair
and square on his cheek that staggered him. He held his feet, however,
and advanced again. The two would have closed the next minute, with the
result in doubt, but an unlooked for interruption came. A loud voice
demanded:

“What do you mean, Ross?”

And without waiting for an answer, a tall man, with bearded face and
dressed in rough homespun, strode forward. With his right hand he flung
back the youth whom he had addressed, and in the same moment did the
same to Alden with the other hand. His black eyes shone with anger.

“You young fools! I ought to spank both of you, and I’ll do it, if
either strikes another blow. Off with you, Ross!”

If the youth called “Ross” felt no fear of Alden Payne, he held the man
in awe. He dropped his hands, though they remained clenched, and tried
to make excuse.

“He attacked me, uncle; haven’t I a right to defend myself?”

“How is that?” sternly asked the man, turning upon Alden.

“He pushed me almost off my feet, and instead of apologizing, added an
insulting remark.”

“He is speaking false,” said the nephew.

“Probably you are right,” commented the man, who evidently had faith in
the veracity of his nephew, “but there has been enough of this; come
with me.”

“I hope you will let us fight it out,” said Alden, keenly regretting
the interference; “I should like to give him a lesson in speaking the
truth.”

“Please let us finish,” pleaded the other, with a beseeching look to
his relative. Certainly there was no questioning the courage of either
young man.

“Yes; let ’em settle it,” added one of the bystanders, uttering the
sentiments of the spectators; “the fight will be a thing of beauty.”

Others joined in the request, but the man paid no heed. He did not lay
his hand on his nephew, but merely said, “Come,” and strode off in the
direction of the river. The youth walked reluctantly after him. Looking
back at Alden, he paused a moment, shook his fist and said:

“We’ll meet again some day and have it out.”

“That will suit me down to the ground,” replied Alden, emphasizing his
words also with a gesture of his fist.

“Gorrynation!” said Jethro, after the stranger was at a distance, “but
it was lucky for bofe of you dat dese four men held me back. When I git
mad, I’m orful, and if I’d got at you, dere wouldn’t anyting been left
’cept a couple of grease spots.”

This boast caused uproarious laughter. Jethro looked around in the
faces of the crowd and asked reprovingly:

“What you all laughing at? What’s de matter wid you, Tony Burke? If yo’
doan’ shet up straight off, I’ll frow you down so hard you’ll make a
bulge on toder side de yarth.”

This warning was addressed to a lad about the size of Alden. He was a
clerk in a St. Joe grocery store, and known to everybody. His merriment
was more boisterous than anybody else’s. The instant the threat was
uttered, however, his face became sober. He took a step forward.

“Are you talking to _me_?” he demanded, and an instant hush fell on the
bystanders.

“Yas, I is; doan’ you hyar me? Is you deef? You’s getting too sassy,
Tone Burke; you need taking down a peg or two, and _I’m_ de gemman dat
am gwine to doot.”

“I’m your apple tart; put up your fists.”

“Who said anyting ’bout fists? I was talking ’bout wrastlin’; if your
head warn’t so thick you’d understood me.”

“Very well; I prefer fists, but I’ll wrestle.”

“_Fus’ holt!_” shouted Jethro, his face lighting up with a grin at the
advantage thus gained by his promptness.

“Suit yourself,” calmly replied the other.

Both were right-handed. Jethro because of his call secured the choice
as to which side he should take, when they made ready for the struggle.
Naturally, he placed himself on the left of his antagonist, and slipped
the right arm behind his neck, with the hand over the farther shoulder.
The white youth assumed a reverse position, making his left arm take
the place of the other’s right.

Thus the right hand of the white youth and the left hand of the African
were free. The two loosely gripped hands in front, for be it remembered
the method described was the old fashioned way of wrestling, and is
still popular in many parts of the country.

Alden Payne’s anger was wafted aside by the new turn of matters, and
the eyes of all were fixed upon the couple. Alden took upon himself the
duty of umpire.

“Are you ready, Tony?” he called.

“Ready,” was the reply.

“Ready, Jeth?”

“Ise allers ready; you oughter know dat, Al――”

Before he could end his sentence, his big feet shot upward as high as
his head had been a moment before. The white youth with fine dexterity
flung off the grasp of Jethro in the same instant, and he went down on
his back with an impact that seemed to shake the earth and forced a
loud grunt from him.

“First fall for Tony!” called Alden; “change holds!”

“Dat warn’t fair,” protested Jethro, as he clambered to his feet.

“Why wasn’t it fair?” asked the umpire.

“I warn’t ready.”

“You said you were; change holds.”

“I won’t wrestle if I’ve got to use my left arm.”

“That’s the rule of the game; you must do it.”

“I’m satisfied,” said the grinning Tony, who, before Jethro could back
out, slid his left arm behind the burly neck of the African. In the
same instant, the struggle was renewed with all the cunning, power and
skill of which the two were masters.

Tony did not find his task as easy as before. Jethro was certainly
a powerful youth, fully the equal of the other, but was slower of
movement. He baffled two or three attempts to take him unawares, and
then tried hard to lift Tony clear so as to fling him helpless to the
ground. The white youth skillfully prevented. Then Jethro placed one
foot behind the knees of the other, intending to force him over. It was
a fatal mistake, for it left Jethro standing on one foot only. In the
twinkling of an eye, as may be said, he went down precisely as before,
and with as terrific a bump. But he grinned as he climbed to his feet
and called out triumphantly:

“Dat’s de way I allers fetches ’em; I frows myself on my back and
_dey’re gone_!”



                              CHAPTER III

                            WESTWARD BOUND


The “Southern Overland Mail” was the first transcontinental stage
line in this country, and probably the longest continuous run ever
operated in the world. It lacked 241 miles of an even three thousand.
The terminal points were St. Louis and San Francisco. From each of
these cities a coach started at the same hour, the first setting out on
September 15, 1858. In order to avoid the stupendous snows in the Rocky
Mountains, the course was made far to the southward, by way of El Paso,
Yuma and Los Angeles. At first the schedule time was twenty-five days,
soon shortened by two days. The quickest run ever made was twenty-one
days.

This enterprise required more than a hundred Concord coaches, 1,000
horses, 500 mules, 150 drivers and 600 other employes. It led through
flaming deserts for nearly half the way, where the deadly sandstorm,
the torturing thirst and the sleepless enmity of Indians were a
constant menace to the traveler. The vast scheme was that of John
Butterfield, who did more than any other man in his peculiar conquest
of the West.

For upward of two years and a half this line was in operation. Then
came the Civil War, which compelled the course to shift farther north,
and combat the Arctic cold and snows. The new route was from St. Joe
to Placerville, the start being made from each of those points on July
1, 1861. The opening of the Pony Express was really intended to force
this change of route, so as to make it lead through Denver and Salt
Lake City. Ben Holladay had a stage route running tri-weekly to Denver
and weekly to Salt Lake. He secured the mail contract from the Missouri
River to Salt Lake, while the old southern route folks covered the run
between Salt Lake City and Sacramento.

As regards the freighting business, the figures are beyond
comprehension. The regular size of one of the freighting trains was
twenty-five “prairie schooners,” each with from six to twelve yoke
of oxen. The immense Conestoga or Pittsburg or Pennsylvania wagons
were often six feet deep and seventeen feet long, flaring out from the
bottom to the round covered top. They cost from a thousand to fifteen
hundred dollars apiece; the mules, which had to be of the best, ranged
from $500 to $1,000 a pair. Thus a ten-mule team was sometimes worth
$7,000 per wagon, without including provisions, salaries and minor
items. At one time, the single firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell had
in service 6,250 of these huge wagons, and 75,000 oxen, more than were
operating in all the rest of the United States.

Since our interest henceforward lies with the Pony Express, a few more
preliminary words must be given to that unique enterprise. It has been
said that the shortest time trip made by the Butterfield route was
twenty-one days between San Francisco and New York. The Pony Express
immediately cut this time in half, an achievement which ranks among the
greatest of the last century.[A]

[A] In 1859, Ben Holladay had sixteen large steamers running between
San Francisco and Panama, Oregon, China and Japan, operated 5,000
miles of daily stage coaches, with 500 coaches and express wagons, 500
freight wagons, 5,000 horses and mules with oxen beyond counting. His
harness alone cost $55,000 and his feed bill $1,000,000 annually. The
government paid him a million dollars each year in mail contracts. He
was greatly crippled in 1864–66 by the Indians, who burned many of his
stations and killed scores of employees. In the latter part of 1866,
Holladay sold out all his interests to Wells Fargo & Co.

In order to meet the demand upon the originators of the system it was
necessary to have nearly five hundred horses specially fitted for the
work. Along the long, dangerous route, one hundred and ninety stations
were established, and eighty sober, skilful, daring riders were hired.
They had to be of light weight, since every pound counted. At certain
stretches, where the danger was not great from Indians, the riders
carried only their revolvers and knives, in order to save the weight
of a rifle. The mail pouches, as has been stated, were not permitted
to weigh more than twenty pounds. The most famous of the Pony Express
riders was William F. Cody, or “Buffalo Bill.” This remarkable man was
found when weighed at a certain time to tip the scales at a hundred and
sixty pounds. This, according to regulations, debarred him from service
as a rider, but because of his fine qualities, an exception was made in
his case.

Each rider had to cover a third of a hundred miles on the average. He
used three ponies in doing so, but conditions often arose in which
horse and rider had greatly to exceed this amount of work.

In the month of May, 1860, a caravan of emigrants was slowly making its
way through what was then the Territory of Nebraska. It was following
the southern bank of the Platte River, and was still more than a
hundred miles from Julesburg, just over the border in Colorado. The
train was smaller than most of those which crossed the plains during
those years when the lure of gold still drew men and their families
from every quarter of the globe. The outfit consisted of six Conestoga
wagons, each with six span of oxen, no mules, eight horses and twelve
men, two-thirds of them with wives and from one to five children. In
addition to the men, two youths, not quite grown, rode with them. One
was Alden Payne and the other his African servant, Jethro Mix.

The head of the party, which was bound to California, was Abner
Fleming――a middle-aged man, with a wife, but no children. He was an old
acquaintance of Hugh Payne, the father of Alden, and willingly took the
two youths under his charge while making the long journey. They were
strong, willing to work, of cheerful minds, fine horsemen, and, as I
have said, each knew how to use a rifle.

During the months of waiting, after the departure of Mr. Payne, wife
and daughter, for the Pacific coast, our young friends had plenty of
time in which to prepare for the undertaking. Of course, they saw to it
that they had plenty of ammunition. Their rifles were muzzle-loaders,
with percussion caps, but they used the conical bullet, and Alden had
learned long before to shoot from the saddle with his horse on a run.
Jethro Mix did well while standing, but he insisted that it was too
“blamed bothersome” to hit anything when his horse was trotting or
galloping.

The extra clothing and few necessary articles were placed in the wagon
of Mr. Fleming, and, as was the custom, each vehicle carried quite a
lot of provisions, though the owners counted on shooting a good deal of
game on the way――an expectation that was not disappointed.

Among the men making up the company was only one in whom we feel
special interest. He was a massive fellow, six feet in height, of vast
frame and prodigious strength. His heavy beard was grizzled, but
under his shaggy brows the little gray eyes seemed at times to sparkle
with fire. He wore a sombrero, with a fringed hunting shirt, leggings
and moccasins, and rode a powerful, bony Indian horse, larger than
any animal in the train. The beast was not only tough and strong, but
capable of good speed and great endurance.

None of the acquaintances of this singular person had ever heard him
called by any other name than “Shagbark.” It was known that he was a
native of the Ozark region, and had spent years with the American Fur
Company, as trapper and hunter. From some cause he quarreled with those
above him, and left their employ three or four years before we find him
acting as guide for the emigrant train of Abner Fleming.

Shagbark had trapped many winters far up among the wild solitudes of
the Rockies, and was so familiar with the overland route that none
could be better qualified than he to lead a party over the plains. It
may seem odd that though he had spent so much time in the West, and was
there during the height of the gold excitement, he never passed beyond
Salt Lake City. Many of his old friends urged him to join them in a
trip to the diggings, but the stubborn old fellow shook his head. He
preferred to fight Indians and cold and hunger for the sake of a few
peltries, whose sale brought enough to support him in idleness between
trapping seasons.

Shagbark was a peculiar character. He was fond of smoking a brier wood
pipe, and often rode for hours without speaking a word to anyone, or
giving the slightest attention when addressed. Mr. Fleming had hired
him as a guide to Salt Lake, where it would be necessary to engage some
one to take his place. When the trapper was asked to name his charge he
growled:

“One hundred dollars a month in gold and found.”

“Very well; I am willing to pay you each month in advance.”

“I want it when it’s airned; ye’d be a fool to pay it afore.”

Nothing more was said on the subject. Shagbark crumpled up some dry
fragments from a plug of tobacco, in the palm of his hand, punched
them into the bowl of his pipe, switched a match along the side of his
buckskins, applied the tiny flame, and rode to the head of the company
without another word.

He always carried a long-barrelled rifle across his saddle in front,
with a formidable Colt’s revolver at his hip. A keen hunting knife was
an indispensable part of his equipment. Beyond telling Fleming and
his companions that they were sure to have plenty of trouble before
reaching Salt Lake, he made no further reference to the matter. He
generally kept some distance in advance of the company and maintained a
sharp watch of the country on all sides.

Shagbark was a man of moods. The second night after crossing the
Missouri, when the wagons had been placed in a circle, the animals
allowed to browse on the luxuriant grass, so well guarded that they
could not wander afield, he came back and sat down among the group that
were eating from the food spread on a blanket. He was so talkative that
all were astonished. He laughed, chuckled, and went so far as to relate
some of his strange experiences in the wild regions of the Northwest.
He took special notice of Alden Payne. Sitting beside him, cross-legged
on the ground, he asked the youth his name, where he was from and
how he came to be with the party heading for the other side of the
continent.

“I rather like yer looks, younker,” added the grim old trapper; “I hope
ye’ll git through right side up and scoop more gold than yer hoss can
carry.”

“I haven’t any idea of that,” replied Alden, proud that he should have
caught the pleased attention of this veteran of the plains.

The conversation went on with no particular point to it, and before it
was late, the guard was set for the night, while the others turned in
to sleep. Shagbark explained that they were not yet far enough out on
the plains to be in much danger, though he had had more than one scrap
with the redskins still farther to the east. But he insisted that a
strict watch should be set each night. The training was needed in view
of what was sure to come later on.

Having had so pleasant a chat with Shagbark, Alden naturally expected
pleasant attention from him. He waited till the man had lighted his
pipe and ridden a hundred yards ahead, when the youth twitched the
rein of Firebug and galloped up beside him.

“Good morning, Shagbark; it looks as if we shall have another fine day.”

The guide puffed his pipe without answering or so much as glancing at
the young man. Alden said a few more things, but he might as well have
addressed a boulder, for all the notice they received from the guide.
Mortified and resentful, the lad checked his mare and held her until
joined by Jethro and the others.

“He’s the queerest man I ever saw,” he said to the African; “I can’t
get a word out of him.”

“Ob course not; I found dat out de fust day, when I axed him how old he
was, what war de name ob his fader and mother, wheder he was married or
engaged and who he war gwine to wote fur as President, and some more
sich trifles.”

“I don’t wonder that he paid no attention to you. I shall let him alone
after this.”

Three nights later, however, Shagbark was overtaken again by one of
his genial moods, and won the good opinion of all by his jollity. He
chatted with Alden as if they had always been the closest of friends,
but the youth was alert. The next morning found the guide as glum as
ever. He took his place well beyond the train, with the blue whiffs
drifting first over one shoulder and then over the other, and Alden did
not intrude.

Thus matters stood on the afternoon of a bright day, when the company
was slowly making its way westward along the Platte River. The oxen
plodded on, easily dragging the heavy loads, for traveling was much
better than it would be found farther on. The country was level, and
every morning seemed to bring a deepening of color and an increase of
verdure. So long as this lasted the animals would not have to forage or
draw upon the moderate supply of hay and grain that had been brought
from the States.

Few of the men kept their saddles throughout the day. It was too
tiresome for horses and riders. The latter sometimes walked for hours,
or climbed into the lumbering wagons and rode behind the oxen. The
children, of whom there were more than a score of different ages,
delighted to play hide and seek, chasing one another over the prairie
and then tumbling into the rear of the vehicles, where their merry
shouts were smothered by the canvas covers which hid them from sight.

Alden and Jethro had tramped for two hours and were again in the
saddle, their horses on a walk. Alden was surprised when, as they
gathered up the reins, his companion heaved a profound sigh. He did
not speak, and a few minutes later repeated the inspiration. Glancing
across, the perplexed youth asked:

“What’s the matter with you, Jeth?”

“I wish I could tell,” he answered, with a more prodigious intake than
before.

“What’s to hinder you?” said the other, not a little amused.

“I’m carryin’ an orful secret.”

“Seems to weigh you down a good deal; do you wish to tell me?”

“Dat’s what I oughter do, but I hain’t got de courage, Al; it’s been
on my mind two, free times, and I started in to let you know, but I’se
afeard.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Ob _you_.”

It was hard for Alden to restrain his laughter. He had not the remotest
idea of what was in the mind of Jethro, and it must be confessed felt
little curiosity to know. Understanding the fellow as he did, he could
not believe that the “secret” which was bearing so heavily upon him,
was of any account.

“I’ll promise not to punish you, no matter what it is.”

“But you doan’ know what it am.”

“Of course; that’s why I’m inviting you to tell me.”

“But when I do tell, den what?”

“Haven’t I promised that no matter what it is, I shan’t punish you,
provided you make a clean breast of it.”

“You wouldn’t say dat if you knowed.”

“Have you killed anybody, Jethro?” asked Alden in the most solemn voice
he could assume.

“Bress your heart, no! what put dat sarcumflexous idee in your head?”

“Have you been stealing anything?”

“Neber stole even a watermillion in all my life.”

“Because, when you were round, the owners watched their property too
closely to give you a chance.”

Jethro’s eyes seemed to bulge more than ever. He said in a husky
undertone:

“Al, it am wuss dan dem two tings togeder.”

“Ah, I know, then, what it is.”

“WHAT?”

“You have been smoking cigarettes; you look pale round the gills.”

“Pshaw! what’s de matter wid you?” muttered Jethro disgustedly; “you
talk as if you didn’t hab no sense.”

“I am trying to suit my words to you. See here, Jeth, I am tired of
all this; if you wish to tell me anything, I have assured you there is
nothing to fear in the way of consequences from me. If that doesn’t
satisfy you, keep the matter to yourself.”

“If dat’s de way you talks, I’ll hab to wait a while; daresn’t unburden
my mind now; mebbe I’ll let you know to-night.”

“I don’t care enough to ask it.”

And yet, strange as it may seem, Jethro Mix _did_ carry a secret,
which, had he made it known to his friend, would have had a marked
effect upon his subsequent life.



                              CHAPTER IV

                           THE DANGER CLOUD


The emigrant train to which our young friends belonged ran into
bad weather, while crossing northeastern Kansas, and again before
reaching Fort Kearny, in Nebraska. A cold, drizzling rain set in
which made people and animals so uncomfortable that a halt of nearly
two days was made. The oxen and horses cropped the lush grass which
grew exuberantly, and their masters spent most of the time in the big
covered wagons, where they were protected from the chilling storm. Some
read the few books and newspapers brought with them, a number played
cards, smoked and exchanged reminiscences, yawned and longed for the
skies to clear.

During the whole period, Shagbark was in one of his grumpy moods, and
rarely passed a word with any one. One night he told Mr. Fleming the
weather would clear before morning. He proved to be right, as every one
expected, and the cavalcade resumed its plodding tramp westward.

Then for days the weather was perfect. The sun shone from the clear
blue heavens, unflecked except here and there by a rift of snowy cloud.
The air was bright and clear, with just enough crispness to make
walking or riding pleasant. The country was level or rolling. The eye,
wandering over every point of the compass, caught no misty mountain
range or peak, and the work of the patient oxen was play compared to
what it would be when they should have entered the rougher regions
farther toward the setting sun.

The course most of the time was in sight of the Platte River, which,
swollen by the melting snows near the headwaters and the recent rains,
was a broad, majestic stream. Yet there were times during the summer
drought, when one could pick his way across dry shod. More than once,
as the company went into camp, they saw the twinkling fires of another
party who had also halted for the night. Once these starlike points
glimmered to the south, once to the northwest and twice to the north,
on the other side of the Platte. When it is stated that more than
40,000 persons crossed the plains in 1849, and that later 500 wagons
were counted in one day as they lumbered past Fort Kearny, the wonder
is that more trains did not meet and mingle. This was often done when a
common danger threatened from Indians.

Jethro Mix and Alden Payne, with their ponies on a walk, were riding
side by side, and the colored youth had just made his decision not to
reveal at that time the secret which weighed so heavily upon him, when
his friend exclaimed:

“Helloa, Jeth! do you see that?”

In answer to his inquiring look, Alden, who had turned part way round
in his saddle, pointed to the rear. Far in the distance, a dark object
was seen, which was quickly recognized as a horseman coming with his
animal on a dead run. He was not in a direct line behind the train, but
a little to the south. If he kept to his course he would pass a couple
of hundred yards to the south.

On he came with his half-breed pony running as if a hundred lives were
at stake. He made swift, tremendous leaps, his thin neck outstretched,
his flowing tail streaming straight behind, with his nose extended, as
he strained every muscle to reach his destination without the loss of
a minute. His rider was a small man, weighing not more than a hundred
and twenty pounds, and his riding revealed a master of the art. He
leaned slightly forward in the saddle, the front of his hat standing
straight up as if plastered against his forehead, the ends of the
handkerchief looped about his neck fluttering in the gale caused by his
own swiftness, while he occasionally pricked the ribs of his horse with
his spurs, though such urgency was hardly needed.

As he flashed opposite, the rhythmic thump of the pony’s hoofs on the
sod was heard by the emigrants, all of whom were gazing at man and
animal. The former’s garments fitted so snugly that only the fringes
over and back of the shoulders, and those on the thighs quivered. The
trousers were thrust into the tops of his boots, whose heels were high
and pointed, and after the fashion among cowmen and plainsmen.

The watchers identified his character at once, and needed not the sight
of the broad flat flaps fastened across the saddle, one in front and
the other behind him. He glanced toward the train, and observing all
eyes upon him, raised a hand in salutation, but did not speak or make
any further acknowledgment of the cheers. In a twinkling the emigrants
were gazing upon his back, the ends of the fluttering handkerchief,
fringes of clothing, streaming tail and flying hoofs of the pony, which
flung chunks of earth into the air as he skimmed away on the wings of
the wind.

“A Pony Express Rider!” said Alden; “how he goes!”

“How long hab he been doing it?” asked Jethro.

“From the station five miles back, and he’ll keep it up till he reaches
the next station farther on.”

“What den?”

“He’ll shift his saddle and mail bags to a pony that is waiting, and
then gallop at the same headlong speed for ten or twelve miles more,
and change again unless that is the end of his run. This isn’t the
first time, Jeth, we have seen those men riding like mad, and we are
likely to see many more before we get sight of the Pacific.”

“I didn’t obsarve dat he carried a rifle.”

“He had none, but a few of the riders carry them; this one doesn’t
think he is likely to need any, and so he lightens the load of his
horse that much. Shagbark managed to say a few words to me last night,
and one thing he told me was that the Pony Express riders sometimes
miss it in not taking a rifle with them. They are so anxious to make
schedule time that they run into danger. It often happens that when
they most need a gun they haven’t it. I hope that fellow won’t be
caught in such a fix.”

“Gorrynation! don’t he trabbel? Why can’t we do de same ting, Al?”

“If we could change horses every ten or twelve miles, we might keep it
up for a day at a time, but we should have to have two or three hundred
horses waiting for us at the different stations,” observed Alden,
thinking to close the argument.

“How would it do fur us to ride ahead and fix it dat way? Den we could
come back and skim ober de kentry like a couple ob muskeeters.”

“After we had placed our ponies at the last station this side of
Sacramento, what should we gain by coming here and going over the
ground a _second_ time?”

Jethro lifted his well worn hat and scratched his head.

“Dat’s so; I didn’t tink ob dat; blamed queer how it slipped my
mind――what’s de matter wid Shagbark?”

Before the flying horseman vanished in the distance, the emigrant
train resumed its slow progress. The massive guide, on the back of his
gaunt steed, kept his place well in advance. Often he went for hours
without looking back to note in what order the company were following
him, but now he had turned like Alden did a few minutes before, and,
without checking his steed or shifting his course, was gazing fixedly
to the rear. His brierwood was between his lips, and from the thicket
of whisker and mustache the blue vapor issued as if from the funnel of
a small steamcraft.

At the moment the two youths looked at him, he raised one of his huge
hands and beckoned.

“His eyes are on us,” said Alden.

“He’s looking at me,” added Jethro; “he feels bad at de way he snubbed
me jest arter we started, and means to apolergize; he don’t want you;
notice now. Gee up, Jilk!”

The negro twitched the rein, and his pony struck a moderate trot. He
had not crossed a fourth of the intervening distance, when the guide
thundered:

“NO! I don’t want ye, ye black imp! Stay whar ye are! Young Payne is
the chap I meant; why don’t ye come when I tell ye to come?”

The laughing youth spoke to his mare, and hurried forward.

“Wal, if he ain’t the mos’ umbrageous rapscallion dat eber trod on two
legs,” growled Jethro as his friend passed him, hurrying to answer
Shagbark’s call.

Acquainted by this time with the moods of the old trapper, Alden did
not speak as he drew up beside him, but waited to learn what he had in
mind.

“I want ye to keep with me a while,” remarked Shagbark, who had checked
his animal and now resumed his progress on a walk; “I’ve something to
say to ye.”

“I’m listening.”

“Have ye obsarved anything ’tickler?”

Uncertain what was meant, the youth replied:

“I can’t say that I have: what do you mean?”

“Ye carry a telescope by a cord round your neck; ’spose ye use it.”

Still in doubt, Alden brought the binocular round in front, and held it
suspended with one hand.

“In what direction shall I look?”

“Anywhar ye choose, but thar’s no need of wastin’ time; p’int it ahead
and a little to the left away from the river.”

The lad raised the instrument and scanned a fourth of the horizon to
the right and left. At first he saw only the broad, level sweep of
plain, and was about to say so, when something caught his eye. What
seemed to be a half dozen or more specks flickered on the horizon, but
even with the aid of the glass he could not make them out clearly and
at first was in doubt.

Shagbark kept his keen eyes on the youth. He knew from the expression
on Alden’s face that he had discovered that which the other meant him
to see.

“Wal, what is it?” asked the guide.

“I am not sure, but I think a party of horsemen are hovering along the
bank of the river, a little way out on the prairie.”

“Zactly; are they white or red?”

“It is impossible to tell at so great a distance.”

“Onpossible fur _ye_; what good is that gimcrack of yers, anyway?”

“It shows me what I could not otherwise see.”

“I never use them things, but my eyes tell me a blamed sight more than
that can tell ye; them horsemen ye obsarved are Injins.”

“You have wonderful eyesight, Shagbark,” remarked Alden admiringly,
again lifting the glass to his eyes and peering through them.

“I can make out the horsemen quite plainly, but that is all.”

“I seed ’em two hours ago and have been watching ’em ever since.”

“That Express Rider that went by will run into them.”

“No, he won’t; he ain’t such a fool; he’ll make a big sneak to the left
and get past ’em; if it was among the mountains, he wouldn’t have half
the chance, but he knows what to do and he’ll do it, as sure as ye are
knee high to a grasshopper.”

“Why do they keep so far from us?” asked Alden.

“They don’t want us to see ’em, and they hain’t any idee that we do,
but,” chuckled the guide, “they don’t know old Shagbark has charge of
these folks.”

The old man seemed vastly pleased, and his massive shoulders bobbed up
and down for a minute, while he puffed hard at his pipe.

“Do you think they intend to bother us?” asked Alden.

“No; I don’t think; I _know_ it; we ain’t through with ’em; if they
don’t pay us a visit to-night, we shall hear of ’em to-morrer night as
sure as a gun.”

“Why don’t they make an open attack, as I have been told the Indians
often do?”

“A red varmint never takes chances when he has a show of getting what
he wants without it; there ain’t ’nough of ’em to ride up and open
fire; don’t ye see that if they hold off till darkness, believing as
how we haven’t an idee they’re within a thousand miles, and we ain’t
keeping a lookout, they believe they can play thunder with us?”

There was no questioning the truth of this theory. Alden slipped the
cord which held the glasses over his head and handed them to the guide.

“Try them; good as are your eyes, these will help you.” But the old
fellow shook his head.

“I don’t need any of your new-fangled notions; when my eyes go back on
me, I’ll resign and hike over the divide.”

Alden Payne was deeply interested in what he had been told. A crisis
threatened in which under heaven all depended upon the sagacity of
this veteran of the plains. The youth waited for him to explain his
intentions.

“Ye see now the sense of my making some of the men stand guard every
time we went into camp; they’ve been trained so they know how to do it;
ye’ve had to take yer turn with the rest of ’em.”

“And glad was I to do so; I hope you will use me to-night.”

“Which is ’zactly what I’m going to do; that’s all I’ve got to say now;
ride back to that thick-headed darky.”

“Shall I tell him what you have just said to me?”

“I hain’t any ’bjections; it’ll probably scare him half white, but ye
needn’t say anything to anybody else, ’cepting Fleming; tell him to
come up hyar for a little talk on bus’ness with me.”

Alden turned his mare about and galloped to where the leader of the
company was riding beside another man, and told him Shagbark wished
a few words with him. Fleming instantly moved forward, and was soon
engaged in earnest conversation with the guide.

“Wal, Al, did Shagbark ’spress sorrer fur the way he treated me?” asked
Jethro, as his friend joined him.

“Nothing of the kind; you may have noticed that I pointed my glasses
toward the prairie ahead?”

“Yas; I had my eye on you.”

“Well, some miles off is a large party of Indians on horseback; they
are keeping us in sight, but don’t think we know anything of them.”

“Gorrynation!” gasped Jethro; “you don’t say so; what am dey gwine to
do?”

“Quite likely they will attack our camp to-night.”

Jethro gasped again and nearly fell out of the saddle.

“W-w-what we gwine to do?” he stammered.

“Make the best fight we can; you can shoot pretty well, Jeth, and you
may have a chance to prove your marksmanship. Bear in mind, however,
that when a painted warrior raises his gun to shoot you, you must fire
before he does.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, the colored lad faltered:

“You’s joking, Al; you don’t mean it suah.”

“Very well, if you prefer to look upon it as a joke, do so, but it is
likely to prove a serious one to you and all of us.”

“Why don’t Shagbark turn de teams round and hurry back to St. Joe as
fast as he kin, or to Fort Kearny or some place whar we has friends dat
will took care ob us?”

“We should make a fine show with our oxen dragging the heavy wagons;
all the Indians are well mounted and can come up with us whenever they
choose to do so.”

“Let de oxen and wagons stay where dey am.”

“We haven’t enough horses to carry half the women and children.”

“Can’t dey run?”

Alden was silent a moment as if considering the suggestion of the sable
youth. Finally he shook his head.

“It won’t do, Jeth; they wouldn’t have half a show; the Indians would
overtake the women and little ones before they could go more than a few
hundred yards. No; we must stand our ground like men, keep cool and put
up the best fight we can.”

“’Spose de Injins lick us?” asked Jethro in a trembling voice.

Alden shrugged his shoulders.

“That will be the end; they won’t spare a man, woman or child; you are
the only colored member of the party and you know an Indian hates a
black man like poison.”

“Am you suah ob dat?”

“I have been told so by those who know.”

“Why do dey feel dat way?” asked the scared youth.

“I can’t explain it; they seem to have a deep prejudice against all
American citizens of African descent. I have met some white men who
feel the same way.”

“Can’t you manage to explanify to de red gemman dat dar ain’t no reason
for dar dislike ob us colored folks?”

“I am afraid that no explanation will help, Jeth; make up your mind, as
I said, to put up the best fight you can and if you have to go down, do
so with colors flying.”



                               CHAPTER V

                               ON GUARD


Shagbark kept continually scanning the horizon in all directions. It
lacked an hour of sunset when the flickering forms to the northwest
passed over the rim of vision. But the guide was not misled by the
fact. He thought it likely that some of the red men, whose tribe he did
not know, had galloped farther away, fearing they had been observed by
the emigrants. Even in those days, the dusky rangers of the plains knew
of the artificial eyes used by the whites, which enabled them to see
far beyond the unaided vision.

The trapper rode some distance out on the plain, and made complete
circuit of the camp. He studied every point of the compass and with
his permission, Alden Payne was his companion on the brief ride. The
company halted earlier than usual, and every preparation was made
against attack.

Alden with his glass was no more successful than the glum old fellow,
who used only the power that nature gave him.

“I can’t catch a glimpse of them,” remarked the lad when the circuit
was completed, and he lowered his instrument.

“Hooh! ye needn’t tell me that; if the varmints was to be seed I’d seed
’em.”

The six lumbering wagons were drawn up in a circle, the space inside
being about a hundred feet across. In the center of this a fire was
kindled from the driftwood brought from the bank of the Platte, where
all the animals were allowed to drink, after which a number of vessels
were filled and brought to camp. While the water was roiled and not
specially attractive in appearance, no one felt any objection to it. As
one of the men remarked, it “beat a raging thirst all hollow.”

Over the fire several of the women busied themselves boiling coffee and
cooking venison from the game that was shot that morning. As has been
intimated, the company carried a reserve of food, in the form of bread
and jerked beef, but it was not thought prudent to draw upon it until
no choice was left. There was an abundance of sugar, salt and various
spices, and enough tea and coffee to last the entire journey, provided
it was not lengthened beyond expectation.

When the fire had served its purpose it was allowed to sink. The night
was so mild that the blaze was not needed for warmth. Every one had
comfortable clothing, for they knew they would need it before reaching
the coast. Soon after the meal was finished the children were bundled
to bed. Three of the wagons were set apart for them and their mothers,
the others being given over to the male members of the party. The
parents were warned not only to keep the heads of the little ones below
the upper edge of the wagon bodies, but to make sure that they did so
themselves. So long as this caution was observed, they had little to
fear, for the thick wood was arrow and bullet proof.

It was comparatively early in the evening when Shagbark placed the
guards. His plan was that six should act as sentinels until midnight,
when, if nothing occurred, they would give place to the same number,
and retire to their quarters for the remainder of the night. As for
Shagbark, he said he would be on duty until daylight. If when morning
came, he found himself in need of sleep, he would lie down for a short
time in one of the wagons, but he didn’t expect to feel any drowsiness
unless he was robbed of slumber for two or three nights in succession.

Each of the six wagons was put under the charge of a single man, who
was warned to be vigilant through every minute while on duty. They did
not need to be told that their foes were the most cunning fighters in
the world who were sure to try every possible trick upon them.

“If ye see anything moving outside, shoot!” was Shagbark’s instruction
to each: “no matter if it is only a bunch of grass waving, bang away at
it and ye’ll find it’s the head of a redskin. If ye fall asleep when
you wake up ye’ll put your hand on top of your head and discover yer
skulp’s gone.”

Since the sentinels could not pace to and fro, as is the usual custom,
they were at much disadvantage in that respect, for we all know how
insidious sleep is and how in many circumstances it is impossible to
fight it off. Shagbark met this statement of the situation by Fleming
thus:

“Ye ain’t likely to begin snoring so long as ye keep on your feet. No
matter how much ye may feel like setting down or leaning up agin a
wheel or side of a wagon, _don’t do it_ for so much as a minute. Ye can
steal back and forth on the inside of the circle of wagons, fur that
will help keep yer peepers peeled, but ba’rs and beavers! no man’s wuth
shucks if he can’t stay awake till midnight, and them as comes on duty
then will have had ’nough sleep to last ’em till daylight.”

This sounded so reasonable that there was a general expression of
confidence that none would find any difficulty in keeping full command
of his senses.

Alden Payne felt complimented by the trust which the veteran showed in
him. He led the youth to one of the wagons in which some of the mothers
and their children had lain down. While approaching it, they heard the
murmured prayers of the parents and the little ones. A tiny girl, known
for her remarkable sweetness of voice, sang softly a hymn that she had
learned at her mother’s knee. The words could not be distinguished, but
when the soft tones, like those of an angel hovering near reached the
couple, the trapper abruptly stopped and listened. The voice ceased the
next minute and he sighed. Neither he nor Alden spoke, but the soulful
strains must have awakened some childhood’s remembrance in the breast
of the old hunter. Alden even fancied when he raised his hand, that it
was to brush away a tear from the eyes that were unused to weep. If so,
Shagbark did not know his companion had noticed his action.

“Hyar’s where ye’ll stand,” said the guide, lowering his voice, so as
not to disturb anyone within the wagon; “I don’t have to tell ye that
the favorite spot for them varmints to strike is where there’s only
women and children; a good deal depends upon ye, younker.”

“I shall do my duty,” quietly replied Alden.

“You needn’t tell me that; a feller’s got only to look at ye to see the
sort of stuff ye’re made of; I like ye, younker.”

Never had Shagbark uttered so pointed praise, and it sent a grateful
thrill through the youth, who could not doubt the sincerity of the
words.

“Now ’bout that darky,” added the guide; “it won’t do to put any
dependence on _him_.”

“He means well, but I shouldn’t advise you to trust him too far.”

“No fear of that, but he such a big, hulking chap and eats so much that
he oughter be made to do _something_; I’m going to put him on tother
side of this wagon and make him b’leve it’s the most important post of
all, and that if he drops asleep, the whole shebang will be wiped out
by the redskins. Mebbe he’ll be able to stay awake but I don’t b’leve
it.”

Shagbark walked as silently as a shadow to the middle of the circle,
where the fire had sunk to smouldering embers. He had seen Jethro there
some minutes before and as he expected found him sitting on the ground,
upon which he had spread his blanket. The spot attracted the dusky
youth, for it was farthest removed from the wagons, and was the safest
place except the interior of the vehicles. He would have cuddled down
there among the sleepers, had not Shagbark notified him that he had
work for him to do.

Jethro did not hear the soft footfall, but hastily climbed to his feet
when the guide gruffly spoke to him:

“Wal, younker, be ye ready?”

“Ise allers readdy to do my dooty; what is it you want, Mr. Shagbark?”

“Ye know how ticklish things is to-night; we must all take turns in
watching fur the redskins that will be sure to try to steal in among
the wagons and skulp us all; ye are to stand guard till the middle of
night, when some one else will take yer place,――that is if ye _live to
give ’em a chance_.”

Jethro’s teeth rattled at these awful words.

“Do you think, Mr. Shagbark, dey’s gwine to pitch into us?”

“That’s what Injins seem built for; ye can feel powerful sartin that if
we give ’em the chance they’ll grab it.”

“Yas, sir,” replied the youth, as he gingerly followed the guide to the
wagon where he had placed Alden Payne a short time before; “I wish I
felt better.”

Shagbark stopped abruptly and turned upon him.

“What’s the matter with ye?”

“De fac’ is, Mr. Shagbark, I doan’ feel very well dis ebening: I hain’t
felt well all day,――sorter ob a big pain in my innards.”

He leaned over, pressing his hand against his side and groaning.

“I observed that ye eat as much as me and young Payne together; don’t
seem to affect yer appetite any.”

“Dat’s de way it allers takes me; sometimes I kin stop de pain――Oh!
oh!――by swallering all de food I kin git hold of.”

“Ye won’t think anything about yer pain, when ye see a big Ingin
stealing up out of the grass and making ready to skulp ye; come on.”

Jethro dared not refuse to obey the terrible fellow, and kept at his
heels until they reached the wagon, where Alden grinningly awaited them.

“Younker,” said the hunter in his rumbling voice; “being this the most
dangerous p’int, I’m going to put two of ye here.”

“A good plan, Shagbark; I never knew a fellow with better eyesight and
ears than Jeth; between him and me, the red man will find it hard to
steal upon us unawares.”

“Whar――whar am I to stand?” faltered the negro.

“Ye will stay right whar I place ye,――alongside of the left hand wheel
of the wagon; the younker will hold his position clus to the right
wheel; ye two will then have only the breadth of the wagon between ye;
neither of ye must stir from the spot till I come round to bring some
one else to take yer place. Do ye understand?” he demanded of the
terrified Jethro.

“Yas, sir; I’ll do de best I kin; nobody can’t do no better dan dat.”

“And nobody asks you to do any better; wal, I reckon I’ve said ’nough.”

And the guide moved away with his noiseless tread melting from sight in
the gloom.

It must be said of Jethro that although scared almost out of his
senses, he was resolved to do his duty so far as it lay within him to
do it. Even in his panic, he saw an advantage over the other sentinels.
A wagon guarded by two persons must be twice as well protected as one
under the care of a single person. Alden was so watchful that he could
be counted on to detect any approach of danger. Jethro was in the
position of a man who had a reliable support in an enterprise involving
great peril.

The two stood so near each other that it was easy to converse in under
tones. Within the Conestoga, all was still. The mothers and their
children were sleeping, feeling secure in the protection of heaven and
the strong and brave hearts around them.

“Say, Al, am you dar?” asked Jethro in a husky, half-whisper, as he
peeped round the rim of the wheel at the figure dimly visible in the
shadow, and almost within arm’s reach.

“I couldn’t well be anywhere else,” replied his master.

“What do you think ob things?”

“I think you and I have got to keep our eyes and ears open to-night,
Jeth.”

“Dat’s what I’m doing; do you think de Injins will come?”

“You heard what Shagbark said; he knows a hundred times more about such
matters than we do; he and I certainly saw a party of them a few miles
away on the prairie, and I haven’t any doubt that they are a good deal
nearer to us now and coming nearer every minute.”

“Gorrynation! Al, why didn’t you and me stay home?”

“Because we came with Mr. Fleming and his company; you were as eager as
I to cross the plains, and you were told all about the Indians.”

“Blame it all. I didn’t b’lebe dat stuff.”

“I guess you believe it now, but, Jeth, I don’t think Shagbark wishes
us to talk while we are on post.”

“Nobody can’t hear us.”

“It distracts our attention from our work; better give your whole mind
to the business we have in hand; if you see anything that doesn’t look
right, let me know.”

“Berry well.”

Now, you do not need to be told that one of the hardest things to do,
is to stand still for an hour or two at a stretch. Even though you
shift the weight from one foot to the other, the strain soon becomes
unbearable, whereas a rugged man can find pleasure in pacing regularly
to and fro after the manner of sentinels.

“A feller mought as well be comfor’ble,” mused Jethro, leaning his
rifle against the side of the wagon body, where he could snatch it up
the instant needed. He next placed his elbow on the highest point of
the broad tire of the large hind wheel, and rested his head upon his
hand. His pose was made still easier by swinging one foot in front of
the other ankle, and supporting it on the toe of his shoe.

This posture was so agreeable that he was sure he could hold it for
several hours without fatigue; but it is such poses that irks one the
soonest. He changed the position of the feet, but found that rather
awkward, so long as his elbow remained on the tire. By turning his
body round so that his back was toward the open plain, he could use his
other elbow and the relief was pleasant.

“Big idee,” he muttered to himself; “bime by when I git tired, I’ll
swing round agin.”

It certainly was a strange pose for a sentinel, deliberately to turn
his back away from the field from which danger threatened. Yet that is
precisely what Jethro Mix did and his self explanation was not without
some force:

“If any ob de Injins try to sneak up, Al will be sure to see ’em; he’ll
let me know in time to whirl ’bout and lambast ’em or――git out ob de
way myself.”

The neglectful guard found some comfort in another fact: he was gifted
with an unusually keen sense of hearing, and believed his ears would
tell him as much as his eyes. In the circumstances, however, when it
is remembered that absolute silence is one of the features of Indian
subtlety, this was the gravest of mistakes.

By and by, Jethro swung back and resumed his first position, shifting
his feet again as before. He stood so well toward the front that he
could not see his friend, except by leaning forward and peering round
the tail of the wagon. He took care to keep a position that shut him
from Alden’s sight.

“It’ll be jes’ like him to kick when he sees me standing with my back
toward de Injins, and dere ain’t any use ob habing any quarrels at a
time like dis.”

When Jethro pivoted to the front for the third time, he held the
position longer than usual. The situation was one which impressed even
his dull nature. The moon near its full, had risen and shone upon the
silent earth below. Ragged, white clouds swept slowly across the sky,
like moving mountain peaks of snow. The orb was forever groping among
these feathery masses, some of which were attenuated while others had
enough body to eclipse the orb for a few minutes. This dodging into
view and out again made the light uncertain. The shadows ran swiftly
over the ground and whisked out of sight, then came a brief space of
gloom, and then the illumination revealed objects with diminishing
distinctness, for a hundred yards out on the plain.

It was a night favorable for Indian cunning to do its work. The spring
grass was tall enough to allow a warrior to steal through it while
lying flat on his face, with little fear of detection, until he came
close to the foe whom he was seeking to slay. If ever a sentinel needed
all his wits it was on that night when more than half a dozen of them
were guarding the emigrant train plodding its way to the distant
Pacific coast.



                              CHAPTER VI

                          ABORIGINAL CUNNING


Suddenly through the tomblike stillness brooding over camp and
plain, came the dull sounds of rifle firing. Two shots were in quick
succession, a third followed, then two more, after which all was as
silent as before.

The reports were apparently a half-mile to the northwest. Every one of
the sentinels listened closely, but nothing further reached them.

Jethro Mix snatched up his gun with a gasp and held his breath. Then he
moved on tiptoe around the rear of the wagon to where Alden Payne stood
tense and motionless as a statue.

“Did you hear dat?” asked the negro in a husky whisper.

“Of course.”

“What do it mean?”

“I can’t tell; we shall soon learn.”

“Listen, Al!”

The two did so for a few seconds, and then Alden said in an undertone:

“I didn’t hear anything more; did you?”

“Yas.”

“What did it sound like?”

“A hoss’s hoofs; wait a minute.”

Jethro dropped on his knees and pressed an ear to the ground. He had
done the same thing in different circumstances, and knew what help it
was to the hearing.

The next instant he sprang up.

“De Injins am coming! I hear dar hosses!”

Alden imitated the action of his companion and then quickly rose.

“It is a single horse, and he is coming this way on a run; I don’t
think the Indians are near or we should hear more hoofs; I wish
Shagbark would show up.”

But the guide did not appear for some minutes. Still standing the two
noted the sounds made by the hoofs of a pony traveling at the highest
speed. The sounds rapidly grew more distinct, and the two were quickly
able to locate the horseman. It was toward the point whence came the
rifle reports, and the fugitive must have had something to do with
them.

“Dar he is!” whispered Jethro trembling with excitement; “shall I shoot
him?”

“No; wait till we find what it all means.”

Just then the drifting clouds swept from before the face of the
moon, whose rays streamed down upon the prairie. From out this misty
obscurity shot a horse and rider, the animal with outstretched neck,
tail streaming and straining every nerve to carry the man who was
leaning well forward, beyond the zone of danger. The same rhythmic beat
that had fallen on their ears that afternoon greeted them again. The
pony was running for all that was in him.

Just as the rider flashed opposite the group of silent canvas covered
wagons, he seemed to catch sight of them. Without drawing rein or
checking the desperate speed of his horse he shouted:

“Look out for Injins! they’re close onto you!”

And then man and animal plunged into the night and disappeared, though
the fast diminishing thumping of hoofs was heard for some seconds later.

“He’s a Pony Express rider,” said Alden; “and is making for the next
station as fast as his horse can carry him.”

“Ye’re right, younker,” remarked Shagbark, who appeared at the side of
the two with no more noise than that of the flitting shadows on the
plain.

“Did he fire any of those shots?” asked Alden.

“He couldn’t; he don’t carry a rifle.”

“He has his revolver.”

“It’s easy to tell the difference atween the barking of a revolver and
a big gun; there warn’t any pistol used. He run right into the hornet’s
nest afore he seed it, and the varmints opened on him; he must have
throwed himself forrard on his hoss and the animal scratched gravel as
them ponies know how to do. Every shot missed ’em both; I reckon that
rider will carry his gun after this, even if it adds to the weight of
his load.”

“It seems to me,” said Alden, “that if those Indians intended to attack
us they wouldn’t have fired at the express rider.”

“Why not?”

“Because it warns us of _our_ danger.”

“Thar’s a heap of sense in what ye say, younker; that would have been
the way of it, if the rider hadn’t dashed into ’em afore he knowed
it, and afore they could slip out of his way; so they tried to shoot
him from his saddle; beats all natur’ what poor shooters most of the
varmints are.”

Shagbark glanced at the two.

“I’m powerful glad to see you both awake; I’m going to sneak out a
little way on the perarie where I kin see furder than from hyar. So
don’t shoot off yer guns ontil ye’re sartin it ain’t me but a redskin.”

Having given these instructions to each of the sentinels, Shagbark
set about the task he had in mind. It certainly was risky, for, while
he might count upon avoiding any collision with the red men, it was
quite likely that some of the sentinels in their nervousness would fire
upon the first glimpse of him. Be that as it may, the thought gave him
little concern.

Jethro Mix stole back to his place on the other side of the wagon. A
big scheme had flashed upon him, and he wished to turn it over in his
mind.

“Wish I war dat Pony Expressman,” he muttered; “he’s gwine so fast dat
de Injins won’t get de fust glimpse agin ob him. I’d like to be one
ob dem riders, if I could allers keep riding toward St. Joe. What’s to
hender me sneaking Jilk out from de oder critters an going like blazes
fur de Missouri riber?”

That was the thought which had taken possession of him.

“Ef I kin git a good start dere ain’t any animal in dis crowd dat could
ketch us, and when I arroves at St. Joe, it’ll take a double team ob
horses to pull me away again.”

A few minutes’ reflection, however, showed the young colored man that
his plan was impossible. He could not withdraw his pony from the group
within the circle without being seen by the sentinels who would permit
nothing of that nature. Moreover, Shagbark was likely to return at any
moment from his reconnaissance and it would be just like him to shoot
down Jethro.

“I doan’ think he lubs me much anyway; he’s been onrespectful in his
remarks when he spoke to me afore others. Guess I’ll hab to wait till
we gits to Salt Lake, where we’ll change guides and I’ll be mighty glad
ob it.”

It must be deemed fortunate for Jethro Mix that he did not attempt
the wild scheme in his mind, for the consequences must have been
disastrous to himself.

Having little or no faith in the fellow’s courage and vigilance, Alden
Payne acted as if he were wholly alone in guarding the wagon in which a
number of the women and children were asleep, unconscious of any danger
that might be stealing upon them. He had not long to wait when he made
a disquieting discovery.

For most of the time the stillness was profound. The oxen had lain down
within the enclosure and were either chewing their cuds or sleeping.
Two or three of the horses kept their feet, but most of them were also
lying down. Occasionally the stamp of a hoof sounded dully, but nothing
else disturbed the watchers. In all directions on the level plain
reigned the silence of the grave. The wide sweeping Platte, though not
far off, coursed between its banks with no ripple or eddy that could
be heard a hundred yards away. It was hard to believe that men were
abroad in this silent world, hunting for a chance to slay their fellow
creatures, but such was undoubtedly the fact.

The ever shifting shadows as the clouds tumbled past the moon,
tantalized Alden. Much would he have preferred that the sky should be
darker or lighter, provided it remained the one or the other.

It was not anything he heard which gave him his first thrill of fear.
He caught no sound, but it suddenly occurred to him that there was a
movement in the grass a few rods out. At first he could not define
its nature. It was as if some reptile, possibly a rattlesnake, was
stirring at that point. The disturbance was so slight that a moment
later he felt sure he had been deceived. The face of the moon cleared,
and a silver flood of light bathed the grassy plain. The spot which had
roused his suspicion stood out almost as at midday, when the sky is
partly cloudy.

“Could I have been mistaken?” he asked himself, motionless and peering
into the obscurity. “Shagbark warned me to be on my guard against
_everything_, but I can’t make this out.”

If a serpent had been disturbed and was zig-zagging through the grass,
he had nothing to fear, for it would not molest him.

The occasion was one in which Jethro might be able to give help. Alden
called cautiously to him, but there was no answer. He stepped softly
around the rear of the wagon, but before he discovered the big fellow
lying on the ground, he noticed his heavy breathing.

“Asleep,” muttered his master disgustedly; “I wonder that he kept awake
so long.”

Without returning to his former position, Alden again scrutinized the
plain spread out to view. In the flickering illumination, he could not
descry anything out of the usual order of things.

“It must have been a mistake but I don’t understand――helloa!”

A ragged cloud again swept past the moon, whose full rays descended
upon the earth. Could Alden Payne believe his eyes?

Barely a hundred yards away stood an Indian warrior. He seemed to be
looking at the youth himself, though that was impossible because Alden
must have been invisible to the keenest of eyes while wrapped in the
shadow. The red man was as erect as a statue, a rifle in one hand which
rested at the side below his hip. The youth noted even the feathers
which projected from the crown of his head, the naked chest, the sash
around the waist and the handle of the knife thrust behind it. A
glimpse could be caught of the leggings below, most of them with the
moccasins being hidden, however, in the grass.

The whole thing was beyond explanation. It looked as if the Indian
while crawling over the ground and hidden by the grass, had changed his
mind and deliberately risen to his feet, where he must have known he
would be in full view of the vigilant white men. What could it all mean?

The next moment, while Alden was staring at the strange sight, he
recalled the orders of Shagbark.

“The minute ye’re sure it’s a redskin, _shoot_!”

Nothing could be easier than for the youth to bring his rifle to
a level where he was screened by the darkness, and bring down the
Indian as he would bring down any other game. But he could not do it.
The thought of shooting a human being, even though an enemy probably
seeking the life of the youth himself, was intolerable. It would have
been a crime for which Heaven would hold him accountable and for whose
commission he could never forgive himself.

“I shan’t let him get out of my sight; he can do no harm so long as he
stands there; if he attacks, I’ll shoot. Shagbark will laugh at me,
but I prefer he should do that rather than offend my Creator.”

How long the Indian would have held his pose is doubtful, had not an
unlooked for interruption occurred. Alden was trying to discern the
countenance more clearly. He thought it was striped and daubed with
paint, but the view was not distinct enough to make sure. Without
intending to venture into the moonlight, the youth stepped softly aside
and back a single pace in the effort to obtain another angle of view.
In making the movement, he placed his foot directly over the mouth of
Jethro Mix, and rested most of his weight on it before he could check
himself.

“Gorrynation!” gasped the African, catching the offending shoe with
both hands and struggling to free himself, “who frowed dat house on top
of my head?”

“Shut up!” commanded Alden as he flirted his foot; “Why are you
sleeping when you were placed here to watch for the Indians?”

“Who’s sleeping?” demanded Jethro, climbing heavily to his feet; “I war
jest setting down to tie my shoestring when you come along and stepped
on my head so it’s bent out ob plumb.”

“Look over the plain and tell me what you think of _that_,” said Alden
impressively.

Startled by his words and manner, the African rubbed his eyes and did
as directed, but failed to discover anything.

“I doan’ see nuffin,” he growled.

Nor did Alden. Everything was as when Jethro lay down. The sound of his
voice must have been heard by the Indian, who vanished as suddenly as
he had appeared. It was easy for Alden to understand that, but he could
not comprehend why the redskin should have shown himself at all.

It was necessary to give some explanation to Jethro, but his young
master had no purpose of telling everything.

“I saw an Indian out there a few minutes ago and stepped across to tell
you about it, but you were asleep and didn’t know any more than you do
when you are awake. The best thing for you to do, Jeth, is to lie down
and keep on sleeping.”

“Do you mean dat?” eagerly asked the other.

“Of course I do.”

“All right; if you finds you have to do any trampin’ bout I’ll be
obleeged if you doan’ step into my mouth agin. If you do I’ll bite
your foot in two.”

Alden without noticing the fellow walked back to his first position. He
did not give Jethro a second thought.

Despite the self-evident cause of the disappearance of the skulking
warrior, the youth was ill at ease. He decided to await the explanation
of Shagbark, who would probably join him ere long.

But worst of all, the proof had been given that the redskins whom
all dreaded were prowling near the camp. One of them would not have
ventured alone to the neighborhood. There might be a dozen, a score, or
half a hundred who were formulating if they had not already formulated
a plan to surprise and massacre every one of the whites. As to what
that plan was he was as ignorant as the slumbering Jethro Mix.

All that Alden could do was use his eyes and hearing. No fear of his
falling asleep, even if he did lean against the thick spokes of the
wagon wheel. He knew better than to confine his attention to the spot
where the warrior had appeared and vanished. The fact of his having
done so would prevent his repeating the trick. He would aim to strike
his next blow from another point. And that such was the fact became
apparent a few minutes later when a fluttering disturbance similar to
the first caught his eye, though from a point well to the left.

It was so far over indeed that, without any hesitation the youth moved
a rod or more in that direction, keeping so far as he could in the
shadow of the Conestoga, but the change of position carried him into
the moonlight, and he crossed half the interval between his wagon and
the one next to it. The fewness in number of vehicles compelled their
wide separation, for the circle was large.

There was no call for him to go any farther, since the sentinel there
must be as vigilant as himself, and it was not wise to leave his own
charge unguarded even for a few minutes. Still further, Shagbark had
warned every one against abandoning his post.

Because of all this, Alden halted just beyond the shadow thrown out by
the huge wide cover of the Conestoga. His nerves were at the highest
tension, and the feeling was strong upon him that some frightful danger
was stealing upon the camp.

With the suddenness of lightning the truth flashed upon him. The second
disturbance in the grass was for the purpose of drawing him away from
his post, so as to leave that particular wagon and its precious load
unguarded!

Not only was such the purpose of the Indian but the daring plan
succeeded!



                              CHAPTER VII

                             JUST IN TIME


At the instant of turning, Alden saw a form rise from the grass, less
than two rods from the wagon, and glide with incredible swiftness
toward it. The Indian was crouching, a rifle in his left hand and a
knife in his right. Through an unexplainable instinct he knew where
some of the women and children were sleeping, and he intended to bound
in among them, strike right and left with venomous fierceness, slaying
the sleepers with lightning-like quickness, and then dart away in the
moonlight.

Half the intervening space was passed when the youth brought his gun
to his shoulder and in the same instant fired. The interval was too
brief to miss. The warrior emitted a rasping screech, flung up his arms
and dived head foremost, so close to the Conestoga that he slid like a
sleigh over the ice beyond the hind wheels and lay motionless on his
face.

Alden was on the spot in a twinkling. Aflame with rage, he looked down
at the lifeless form and bitterly exclaimed:

“I couldn’t fire on you a few minutes ago, but I never felt more
pleasure than in doing so just now!”

It was a proof of the excellent training of the sentinels by Shagbark
that, startling as was the episode, not one of them abandoned his
station. Each knew that to do so would be to invite an attack from the
undefended quarter. All held their ground, alert and ready to fire the
instant the chance offered.

The crack of the rifle and the shriek of the red man roused more than
one sleeper. Three of the men caught up their guns and scrambled out of
the wagons. They were bewildered and at sea for the moment. The youth
saw the terrified face of a mother peering out of the open space in the
canvas at the rear of the Conestoga.

“What does it mean, Alden?” she asked, failing to see the feet of the
redskin who lay under the axletree.

“I fired at an Indian,” replied the youth; “keep out of sight for the
bullets may be flying any minute.”

The face vanished, for the woman was sensible even in her fright. Her
two small children had not awakened, and she lay down between them, an
arm over each, while a prayer went up to the only sure refuge in time
of peril.

Alden was sure that the report of his gun and the outcry of the victim
would bring Shagbark to the spot and he was not mistaken. The lad was
watching the plain for him when he came silently forward from the rear
and spoke:

“Good for ye, younker! I won’t need ye many years under my care to make
a fust-class hunter and trapper of ye. How was it?”

His youthful friend told what had occurred.

“Have ye loaded yer gun?”

“Not yet; I didn’t think of it, and have hardly had time.”

“When ye shoot off yer piece, the next thing is to load up ag’in, for
ye’re likely to need it mighty sudden; ’tend to that while I take a
look round.”

The rifle used in those days was not the modern breech-loader, though
they were beginning to come into use, but Alden’s weapon, like those of
his friends, carried but the single charge which entered the muzzle.
Screening himself in the shadow cast by the wagon, he proceeded to ram
a charge down the barrel, while the guide did as he said he would do.
He passed from one guard to another until he had made the round. He
told the three who had been roused from sleep to go back and wait until
he called them.

Mr. Fleming was stationed at the Conestoga which stood opposite and the
farthest from the one in which his wife and others lay.

“I don’t like it,” he said curtly to Shagbark; “I ought to guard my own
family.”

“Could ye do any better than that younker done?” asked the guide.

“I don’t believe I could; none the less, I feel that my right place is
there.”

“I tell ye that younker is a hummer; not yerself nor any man in the
crowd is better than him at a time like this; if his father and mother
don’t want him I’m going to adopt him. In two or three years among the
Rockies he’ll make the best kind of a hunter or trapper, instid of
wasting his time larning larning which ain’t no good to nobody. But I
say, Abner, if ye really want to change places with him, ye can do so.”

“I do wish it.”

“Come on, then; it won’t do any hurt to leave yer post for a minute,
’specially as them varmints don’t seem to be in a hurry to tackle us.”

As soon as the couple joined Alden he hastily crossed the open space
and took his station beside the other wagon.

“Somehow or other,” he mused, “I suspect that the next move will be
against this point; the redskins have learned that Fleming’s wagon is
well guarded and they won’t try it there a second time. I shan’t be
caught asleep again.”

He shuddered, as he recalled that it was his own desertion of post
which caused the warrior to risk an attack upon the wagon. He had
successfully maneuvered to draw the youth away, in order that he might
commit the crime. Alden said he was sure he would have seen the Indian
when, after completing his awful work, he leaped from the rear of the
wagon to make off.

“Which is jes’ what he wouldn’t have done; he would have sneaked from
the front, and whisked out of sight afore anyone could know what he’d
done; and,” grimly added the guide, “more’n likely he’d knifed one or
two others on his way to the perarie agin.”

Although the veteran knew Alden had disobeyed orders when he moved from
his station, he made no reference to it at the time nor afterward. Had
the offender been anyone else, he would have been called down with an
emphasis that he never would have forgotten.

It will be recalled that a short while before the incident related,
Shagbark had started off on a reconnaissance of his own. Assured as
he was that the Indians of whom he had caught glimpses during the
afternoon, and the reports of whose guns he had heard not far away,
were drawing near the camp with the most sinister designs, he set out
to checkmate them so far as it was possible. He could not trust all
his sentinels as he would have liked to trust them, and he hoped to
anticipate the attack of their foes.

Shagbark dreaded that they might rush the camp――that is, dash right in
among the wagons and animals and slay on every hand. This was giving
them credit for a courage which the American Indian rarely shows;
but if the dozen whom the hunter had seen were the advance of a more
numerous party, it was by no means impossible that this risk would be
taken.

Another policy to be feared almost as much was that the warriors would
gallop up and fire into the camp, circling off again until they could
reload and repeat their attack. The discharge would be quite sure to
kill or wound some of the oxen and horses. It was not improbable, too,
that, despite the protection of those on guard, the whistling bullets
would find some of them.

The guide thought that by venturing out on the plains he might get a
glimpse of their enemies and penetrate their plans. Could he do so,
possibly he might take steps to baffle them. Several ways presented
themselves to his fertile mind.

The situation was one which called for all the woodcraft of which he
was master. Naturally gifted in this respect, he had been educated in
the best of all schools――experience. Those who had trapped and hunted
with him agreed that he had no superior, and never was he more anxious
to succeed than now.

Leaving the wagon on the north, he walked toward the Platte, which
flowed only two or three hundred yards away. He stooped low and moved
slowly, halting every few paces, peering round in the moonlight and
listening intently. Instead of being bothered by the shifting light, he
was aided by it. When the moon was obscured he hurried forward, taking
care to pause and stoop before the full light streamed out again.

The course of the hunter was diagonal to that of the river, and
gradually took him toward it. He was still fifty paces away, when his
keen hearing told him something. It was such a plash as is made by a
fish leaping above the surface and falling back again. That probably
was the cause, and yet it was possible it had more significance than
that.

Upon hearing the slight noise, Shagbark instantly sank flat upon the
ground, where the grass hid him from the sight of any one passing
within a dozen feet. He did not raise his head, until a second faint
rippling, different from that caused by the sweep of the stream, came
to him. Then he removed his sombrero, and cautiously lifted his eyes
until he could see all the way to the low level bank. With one hand he
parted the vegetation, and kept as far down as he could and still see.

An Indian warrior having swum the stream, stood for a moment on the
shore. He was afoot, a fact which surprised the watcher, who knew that
none of his race wandered far in that country without a pony to carry
him. Standing thus, the redskin emitted a soft bird-like call which the
listening ear could hardly detect. The response was in the form of a
second Indian, who came into sight from some point up stream. The two
met and talked in voices which were only the faintest murmur to the
eavesdropper.

Shagbark formed a daring plan as he thus lay in the grass, with his
eyes upon the couple, who sometimes faded from sight and then stood
out in relief, when the light of the moon was unclouded. He decided to
wait until the shifting positions of the two brought them within direct
range and then fire and bring both down.

And incredible as it may seem, that is what he would have done but for
the occurrence already described. With nerves of steel he brought his
rifle round in front, drew the hammer back, and paused until the orb
of night should show they were in the right relative position. Thus
matters stood when the report of Alden Payne’s weapon and the death cry
of his victim rang out with thrilling clearness in the still night.

It would be hard to say which party was most startled. The Indians,
standing on the bank of the river, whisked out of sight, and halting
only a moment, Shagbark turned and ran with all speed to the camp.
There was the call for him, and he could not lose a second. It has been
shown that he arrived in time. Neither Alden nor any of the others
suspected the experience through which the guide had passed, nor did
they learn of it until long afterward.

The sagacity of Shagbark told him that the incident was the best
thing that could have occurred for the emigrants. Beyond a doubt the
surrounding warriors were forming their plans of attack, counting much
upon a surprise, when the death of the most daring of their number told
them their mistake. In order to rush the camp they must reckon upon
losing several of their number. The certainty of such a penalty has
prevented many an Indian assault.

As Shagbark and Abner Fleming stood by the wagon which had escaped the
dreadful peril, the latter shuddered.

“What’s the matter?” asked the guide.

The other indicated the inanimate form that still lay on its face under
the Conestoga.

“Can’t we get rid of that, Shagbark?”

“Nothing is easier; obsarve.”

Leaning his rifle against the tailboard, the hunter stooped, seized
each ankle, and raising his hands so that they were at his own hips,
and with a moccasin on either side, he ran fifty yards out on the
plains. Then dropping the feet, he turned about and dashed back, with
the cool remark:

“We may as well keep his gun, fur he won’t need it any more.”

“Shagbark, that was risky on your part; even where it lies it is much
closer than I like, for we shall all have to see it in the morning.”

“No, you won’t; it’ll be gone afore sunup.”

“Will they dare come near enough to take it away?”

“Keep yer eyes peeled.”

Leaving Fleming to himself, the guide made another cautious visitation
of the sentinels. It was now not far from midnight and the change of
guard must soon be made.

Alden Payne was left for the last before returning again to Fleming.
Shagbark had formed a strong liking for the youth, and this feeling was
deepened by the last exploit of Alden.

“Wal, younker, have ye diskivered anything new?” asked the man, in his
low voice, which could not have been heard twenty feet away.

“Nothing at all; how is it with you?”

“The same way; ye obsarve the Injins knows that one of the sentinels
keeps his eyes open all the time and they ain’t taking any chances they
don’t have to take.”

“But I have been shifted to this side,” replied his young friend,
as if he accepted the compliment in all seriousness; “some of them,
therefore, ought to show up here.”

“That’s jest the p’int; the varmints knows we ’spects something of that
sort, and have moved ye over to _this_ side, where ye’ll give ’em the
same kind of welcome ye did afore.”

“Come, now, Shagbark, that’s enough,” protested Alden; “it happened
to fall to me to pick off that wretch, but anyone else in my position
would have done the same.”

“P’raps,” grunted the guide, and that was the utmost he would admit.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Alden excitedly, turning to his companion;
“that beats all creation!”

“What do ye now mean?” inquired the veteran.

“What’s become of Jethro?”

Strange that during all this time no one had noticed the absence of the
colored lad, but he had been missing for more than an hour.

“What do you think has become of him?” asked Alden.

“Dunno, and can’t say I keer; the best use we kin put him to is to slip
a yoke over his neck and let one of the oxen take a rest.”

There may have been some justice in these rough sentiments, but Alden
could not dismiss the matter thus. Despite Jethro’s cowardice, his
master felt a strong affection for him. They had been companions from
early boyhood, and the African showed a dog-like regard for his master.
He would willingly go hungry or suffer pain for his sake, though he
drew the line at Indians.

Noticing the distress of the youth, Shagbark, with more consideration
in his voice, asked:

“When did ye see him last?”

“A few minutes before I fired; I think I left him asleep near the other
wheel of the wagon where I had been standing. Fact is, I know he was
asleep.”

“And he warn’t thar when ye come back, which was powerful soon
afterward?”

“I didn’t think of Jethro, but I must have seen him if he had stayed
where he was.”

“What do _ye_ think become of him?”

“He must have run away; I never saw a person so scared as he when he
learned we were likely to be attacked by Indians. I am afraid he has
scampered off over the prairie.”

“Couldn’t have done that very well without some one seeing him; more’n
likely he crawled in among the hosses and oxen where he thought he’d be
safer. Hark!”

From the interior of the wagon near which they were standing sounded
the heavy snoring of some person.

“I’ll bet ye that’s him,” chuckled Shagbark.

“He isn’t the only one that puts on the loud pedal when he sleeps.”

Shagbark stepped on the tongue of the vehicle and peered inside. It was
too dark to see anything. In fact, two other men were breathing less
stertorously, but he located the point from which the chief racket
came. Feeling about with his hand, he gripped the shoulder of the
sleeper, and bracing himself with one foot against the front board, he
drew out the elongated form of the offender.



                             CHAPTER VIII

                              THE ATTACK


It looked to Alden Payne as if Jethro was eight feet long, when the
guide was dragging him out of the front of the wagon by the nape of
the neck. Like many persons, he was slow to regain consciousness, and
was not fully awake until he was stood upon his feet. Even then he
staggered uncertainly and was bewildered by the situation.

“What’s de matter?” he mumbled, spreading his feet apart and steadying
himself.

“Whar’s your gun?” demanded Shagbark.

“In de wagon; I didn’t feel wery well and went in dere to lay down.”

“Get your gun and help shoot Injins,” was the startling order.

The flurry awoke the women in the Conestoga, and the excitement roused
the whole camp. Dark forms appeared from the interior of the wagons,
and hearing the voice of the guide, most of them hurried to him to
learn what they were to do.

Shagbark quickly explained the situation. The emigrants were about to
be attacked, for there could be no doubt that their enemies were near
at hand. Every man was needed, for much depended upon the vigor of the
defense. Dividing the force so as to guard every point, the hunter
cautioned the defenders to shield themselves as best they could, and to
fire on the instant the least chance offered to do so with effect.

Once more the result of his training showed. The oxen and horses were
in the middle of the open space, as far beyond danger as was possible;
the women obeyed orders by keeping themselves and children behind the
bullet-proof sides of the Conestogas. No more sleep for the mothers
so long as the peril threatened. They listened, peered out and put up
their prayers to heaven.

This tension had lasted but a few minutes, when the grass surrounding
the camp became flashes of flame. From a score of places, representing
so many different points of the compass, rifles gushed fire, the sharp
cracks of the weapons rang out in the stillness, and the thud and
pinging of rifle balls were everywhere. In two instances the escapes of
the defenders could not have been narrower. Abner Fleming felt the zip
of a bullet which grazed his forehead, and one of his neighbors on the
other side of the circle was scraped by a pellet of lead which abraded
an arm.

Not an assailant could be seen. Leaving their ponies at a distance,
the Indians had crept through the protecting grass to the nearest
point prudent, and, crouching low or lying on their faces, fired into
the camp. In the same moment the guns began popping from behind and
alongside the wagons. Each man aimed at the flash nearest to him, for
the instant illumination was his only guide. Then as quickly as the
redskins could reload, they fired again, but always from a different
point. They were using the trick common among white rangers of rolling
aside the instant after pulling trigger. In the briefest conceivable
time the whites discharged their weapons, but in that flitting
interval, their enemies had shifted their position, and the bullets
whizzed harmlessly past in the grass, or buried themselves in the
earth. Inasmuch as each party rarely saw a member of the other, it was
inevitable that most of the shots went wild.

Matters were “humming” thus, when the last person in the world that
would have been believed capable of anything of the kind, did something
so clever that it brought a compliment from Shagbark himself. That
person was Jethro Mix.

When he recovered his gun, he leaped out of the wagon. The rear of
the latter faced outward. Alden stood close to the body, and used the
broad-tired wheel as a partial protection. No other man was near, they
having been sent to different points. Instead of remaining in the
vehicle and firing over the tailboard, where only his head would have
been exposed, Jethro stood in the open――that is, directly in front of
the cumbersome structure. He had not the benefit even of shadow, but
must have been in plain sight of one or more foes in the grass.

“Don’t do that, Jeth!” called his young master in a guarded voice.
“You’ll be shot.”

“Git out!” replied the negro, with his rifle at his shoulder, and
alert for his opportunity. “I’m as safe as you is; ’tend to your own
bus’ness.”

It is hard to explain the mood of the African. He had earned the
contempt of his friends by his timidity, but now none showed more
intrepidity than he. Possibly he was so scared as to be unable to
distinguish between danger and safety. That may be the right theory,
but it cannot make clear what he did within the following three minutes.

Inevitably a painted redskin lying low in the grass took a shot at the
dusky form and came startlingly near hitting him. It was a critical
moment, but in the brief interval Jethro recalled one of Shagbark’s
reminiscences, in which he told of dodging every return bullet during
a night attack by rolling aside the instant he fired his gun. The
circumstances now were precisely the same as in the former instance,
except the position of the contending parties was reversed: the Indians
were the assailants.

“It’s _dem_ dat will flop over like a buckwheat cake de minute dey
fires,” reflected Jethro, “but how de mischief ken I know which way de
rapscallions will turn? Mos’ folks am right-handed, and I guess dat’s
de way this sarpint will flop. If I’m right I must shoot to his left,
’cause he am facing me.”

It was the blindest kind of theorizing, but strange as it may seem,
Jethro Mix was absolutely right in his conclusion. And the wonder
of it all is that he reached it within a dozen seconds after the
redskin’s bullet whizzed by his temple. Not only that, but he reasoned
that the Indian would not shift his place for more than two or three
feet, before reloading and trying another shot. Accordingly, having
located his target by guesswork, Jethro sighted as best he could in the
moonlight and pulled trigger.

And he got his man, too. A cry from the grass left no doubt on that
point. He had hit the redskin as fairly as Shagbark could have done
had the foe been standing on his feet with the sun shining overhead.
And then like a veteran, Jethro, without stirring in his tracks, began
reloading his gun.

Shagbark hurried forward. He was whisking from point to point, keeping
the men keyed up and instructing them what to do. The shots still came
from different points, but the firing was desultory and blind. The
enemy hoped to hit man or animal, but there could be no certainty of
doing so.

“Come back hyar,” said the guide sternly; “git behind this wagon if ye
don’t want to git riddled by the varmints.”

“Yas, sir,” replied Jethro, suspending the reloading of his weapon and
meekly obeying.

“Younker, was it ye who plugged that redskin?” asked the guide.

“No; it was Jeth.”

“How’d ye do it?” demanded the hunter.

“Ef you wants to larn how to tumble over one ob dem sarpents, Mr.
Shagbark, I’ll tole you and you can try it yourself. I knowed dat de
minute he pulled trigger he’d roll ober so dat when my bullet arobe he
wouldn’t be dere to welcome it. So I aimed at de left side from here,
and I reckons I got him.”

“B’ars and beavers!” exclaimed the guide, “ye’re the only one in the
party that knowed ’nough to do that. Whar did ye larn it?”

“I heerd you tell how you done it once.”

“Wal, wal, it gits me; ye ain’t such a big fool as ye looks to be; keep
on doing that thing, but don’t let ’em cotch sight of ye, if ye can
help it.”

Shagbark’s admiration was not lessened by the fact that he knew the
exploit of Jethro Mix was a piece of luck rather than real skill. By
no possible means could he have known to which side the warrior would
turn, but fortunately he guessed the right one, and the result was all
that could be hoped for. None the less, Jethro had displayed a bravery
and coolness in inexplainable contrast to his previous actions.

The grim irony of the situation was increased by what followed. Alden
Payne did not forget the object lesson of a few minutes before. He knew
that another shot would soon come from the grass in front, for the
reports were heard on the other sides of the camp. He stood behind the
wheel of the wagon, with gun leveled and alert for his chance.

He did not have to wait long. A spout of flame gushed from a point
within a rod of where the former had appeared, and a thud told him the
bullet had buried itself in the heavy timber of the Conestoga. Shifting
his aim slightly to the left of the spot where the flash had shown, he
let fly.

No outcry followed. The enemy had slipped in the opposite direction and
was not harmed. Jethro had not quite finished reloading, and by the
time he was ready, it was useless for him to fire. He therefore held
his shot.

Meanwhile, Shagbark had moved to the wagon which Abner Fleming was
guarding. Explaining the singular incident on the other side of the
circle, he said:

“We’ll git our man sure, for the minute he blazes away, I’ll shoot a
little to his right and ye do the same to his left: that’ll settle him.”

Hardly were the words spoken, when a flash appeared directly in
front. The bullet went wide, but Shagbark had his weapon leveled in a
twinkling.

“Now let him have it!”

The two reports sounded like one. To the amazement there was no cry.
Evidently the enemy had not been touched.

“Which side did ye fire, Abner?” asked the puzzled guide.

“To the left――that is, to the Indian’s left.”

“Thunder! that’s what _I_ done; I meant to the left as we’re standing.”

“You ought to have explained clearly.”

“It’s too late now; be ready for the next show.”

But it did not come. The assailants were so discouraged by the vigilance
of the emigrants that they abandoned the plan of rushing the camp. The
desultory shots ceased and when a half hour passed without a sound, it
looked as if the Indians had withdrawn altogether.

Shagbark, however, was not misled. The stillness might be meant to
deceive the defenders and cause them to cease their watchfulness. The
guide allowed the men who had stood guard the first half of the night
to retire to rest in the wagons, while the relief took their places. As
he intended from the first, he did not sleep, but moved from point to
point, and made sure that none was neglected.

Alden Payne and Jethro Mix, acting on the advice of the veteran, lay
down and despite the exciting incidents of the night were soon asleep.

The long hours dragged past without bringing any alarm. Shagbark kept
moving around the camp, pausing at different points to talk with the
sentinels, and twice he crept out from the wagon circle and pressed an
ear to the ground. He was almost certain the Indians had withdrawn and
nothing more would be heard from them.

When at last the increasing gray in the east told of the approaching
day, the camp was astir. The light was an unspeakable relief, for brief
as had been the hours of slumber, no one felt any disposition to stay
inside the wagons after it was safe to venture out.

Before the sun rose, Shagbark had scanned every part of the horizon. No
sight of the redmen was seen. The warriors must have gone back to their
ponies, and leaping upon them, skurried off in quest of more inviting
prey.

Beyond a doubt two or three of the assailants had fallen, but, as is
the custom among Indians, their former comrades carried them away.
Hardly a trace of the attack remained.

The women busied themselves in preparing the morning meal, a fire
having been rekindled, and all ate with appetites such as come only to
those who live in the open. A feeling of profound gratitude filled the
hearts of all, for their deliverance was markedly providential.

“We’ve been a good deal luckier than I expected,” said Shagbark during
the meal.

“We had more than one close call,” remarked Fleming; “I had something
of the kind myself.”

It was found that three others had escaped by chances fully as narrow.

“That warn’t what I war most afeard of,” continued the guide; “we all
had such good kiver that there never was much danger of being hit, but
there’s one thing I don’t yet understand.”

In answer to the inquiring looks, Shagbark explained:

“With all them bullets whistling round us some of ’em oughter reached
the hosses and oxen, but there hain’t one of ’em been so much as
scratched.”

“Was not that because all were lying down?” asked Fleming.

“That had a good deal to do with it, but some of the hosses kept
gitting on their feet and I had to watch ’em close and make ’em lay
down agin; there warn’t any such trouble with the oxen, fur they was
glad ’nough to lay down and chaw their cuds.”

“If we had lost a pony or two,” suggested Alden, “it would not have
been so bad, for we could get on without them.”

“That ain’t what I’m driving at, but if a hoss had been wounded or
killed, he would have kicked up such a rumpus he’d stampeded all the
others; they’d have scattered over the perarie and upset things so
promiscuous that we’d never got ’em agin. More’n that, thar would’ve
been such times in camp that the varmints would have sailed in, and if
we’d managed to stand ’em off, a good many of ye wouldn’t be left to
talk about it this morning.”

The listeners shuddered at the picture brought up by the words of the
grizzled guide. None of them had once thought of the terrifying peril
named, but they saw that it had been real and beyond the power of
exaggeration.

The most complacent member of the company was Jethro Mix. Shagbark and
Alden had taken pains to tell of his exploit, and if the fellow had
been capable of blushing, he would have turned crimson, but that being
beyond his power, he affected to make light of it all.

“Pshaw! dat ain’t nuffin,” he said when the wife of Abner Fleming
complimented him; “I ’spects to do de same thing a good many more times
afore we gits across de plains; de fac’ is, I’m on to dem Injins and
dey’ll find it out; when dey wokes up Jethro Mix dey wokes up de wrong
passenger and dere’s gwine to be trouble in de land.”

“I never heard of firing at a spot where an enemy is not supposed
to be,” ventured Richard Marvin, another member of the company, and
somewhat of a wag.

“Who ’sposed he warn’t dere?” demanded Jethro. “I knowed he was dere
’cause he wasn’t dere――so I aimed at de spot where he wasn’t ’cause I
knowed he was dere. Doan’ you see?”

“I’m glad to have so clear an explanation,” gravely replied the
gentleman; “but it seems to me there must have been a good deal of
guesswork, for there was no way by which you could know of a certainty
which way――the right or the left――he had moved.”

“No guesswork ’bout it,” loftily remarked Jethro.

“Could you see him as he lay in the grass?”

“Ob course not.”

“You certainly couldn’t _hear_ him.”

“Ob course I couldn’t; who said I could?”

“Then how could you know where he really was?”

“I’m ’sprised at your discomfuseness, Mr. Marvin; de way I knowed
whar he was, was dat I knowed it; I _felt_ he had flopped ober to de
left, so I knowed jes’ de p’int to aim at; dat’s de skience ob de hull
bus’ness.”

“I haven’t anything more to say, Jethro; you’re a wonder; I see
Shagbark is getting ready to move on again and needs us.”



                              CHAPTER IX

                           OLD ACQUAINTANCES


The next look we take of the train under the guidance of Shagbark,
the veteran of the plains, is several weeks after the incidents just
described. The route which they in common with thousands of emigrants,
including the Pony Express riders, followed, led due west up the Kearny
valley to Julesburg, a distance of two hundred miles. Here it crossed
the South Platte, trended northwest to old Fort Laramie, passed thence
over the foothills at the foot of the Rockies to South Pass, and by way
of Fort Bridger to Salt Lake.

You must bear several facts in mind. Colorado at the time of which I am
writing had not yet been formed into a Territory, nor had Wyoming. The
oldest white settlement in the latter section was Fort Laramie――since
abandoned――which was made a trading post in 1834, rebuilt by the
American Fur Company two years later, and sold to the United States
and garrisoned as a fort in 1849.

In speaking of the great overland trail, which was used for a score of
years after the discovery of gold in California, one is apt to think
of it as of comparatively slight width. Yet, although it narrowed to a
few miles in some places, there were others where the ground traversed
was fifty or a hundred miles across. Thus it happened that trains which
were following parallel routes were often out of sight of one another
for days, and perhaps weeks. The breadth of the famous South Pass, the
gateway of the Rocky Mountains, is so great that parties of emigrants
frequently did not know for a long time that they were really traveling
through it.

Although there were many incidents worth telling, we must skip them and
come to the time when our friends were plodding some distance beyond
the straggling town of Cheyenne, which was to attain importance during
the building of the transcontinental railway eight or nine years later.
They were heading for Fort Laramie, on the western slope of the spur
known as the Laramie Mountains. Far ahead the crests could be seen,
tinted with a soft blue, as they raised their summits into the clear
spring sky. The ground was more rolling and undulating, and streams of
varying depth and volume had to be crossed. The greater elevation gave
a sensible coolness to the air. Although summer was near at hand, the
nights were chilly and the warmth of blankets and the roaring camp fire
was grateful to all alike.

Indians had been descried many times, and Shagbark expected an attack,
but since the affair many miles to the eastward, not a hostile shot
had been heard. He was inclined to think this was due to the vigilance
of the emigrants. No matter how tranquil everything looked, all the
adults took turn in mounting guard each night. The redmen more than
once rode up within two or three hundred yards and seemed to meditate a
closer approach, as if for barter. But with good reason they distrusted
the white men, who knew their treacherous nature. Occasionally these
warriors waved their blankets and made tantalizing gestures as if to
draw a shot, but Shagbark would not permit any to be fired.

“Thar’s no use of throwing away powder and ball,” he said; “we’re
likely to need all we’ve got afore we see Salt Lake, and them insults
don’t hurt.”

Several times our friends had seen the Pony Express riders as they
skimmed across the country with the speed of the wind. A wave of the
hand from the flying horseman, without the slightest pull of rein, was
the only acknowledgment made to the salutations of the emigrants. The
majority of these headlong riders were not seen, for, always hunting
the speediest route, they were generally well north or south of the
trail of the ox teams.

A goodly part of the journey was over, and yet the train had suffered
no serious accident. In crossing a rapid stream, where the animals had
to swim, Jethro Mix performed another exploit which won the praise
of his friends. One of the oxen, stupid as the species always is,
became entangled in his yoke and would have been drowned had not the
African urged his pony alongside, where with a swift, powerful wrench,
some shouting and a savage blow or two with the butt of his gun, he
straightened out matters and saved the valuable animal.

More than likely any man in the company would have done the same thing
had circumstances equally favored, but Jethro was the nearest to the
endangered animal, and seconds were beyond estimate. His promptness was
what won.

Despite this service and the remarkable exploit on the night attack by
the Indians, Shagbark never showed any special liking for the African.
It may have been because of his race, but, although he could not have
been induced to harm the dusky youth, he preferred to have as little to
do with him as possible.

Alden Payne had become the favorite of the guide. At his invitation
the young man frequently rode with him. When the nature of the ground
permitted, the two kept side by side. If this was not practical, Alden
dropped to the rear, pressing forward again when the chance offered.
Shagbark had his silent moods, but not so often when the two were
together. A peculiar result of nature and training shown by the veteran
amused Alden. The guide never lost his habit of eternal alertness.
No matter how deeply interested the two were in what was being said,
Shagbark kept glancing ahead, on each side, and frequently behind
him. Even when sitting on the ground or eating with the others this
bird-like flitting of his eyes was kept up. It seemed impossible for
such a man to be caught off his guard.

There had been stormy skies and the train lay by for most of the day,
but on the whole the weather continued favorable. The guide said more
than once that the best of luck had been with them from the very day
they left St. Joe.

“It can’t continner,” he added, “so we must make the best of it while
we’ve got it; we’re getting into the mountains, and though it’s about
summer, we’ll catch some squalls that’ll freeze the nose onto yer
faces.”

“It strikes me, Shagbark,” said Alden, “that that train two or three
miles ahead of us have kept almost the same distance for the last few
days.”

“Ye’re right, younker.”

“What do you make of it?”

“That we both happen to be tramping at the same rate. If they went a
little faster they’d draw away from us, or if we went a little faster
we’d overhaul ’em.”

“How large do you make out the party to be?”

“’Bout the same as ours; they’ve got an extra wagon and a few mules,
but I don’t think thar’s more men and women.”

“Wouldn’t it be well for us to unite and travel together? It would be
much safer in case of attack by Indians.”

Shagbark shook his head.

“’Twon’t work; they’ve got thar guide and we’ve got ourn; which one
would be the boss in them sarcumstances?”

“You, of course.”

“The other chap, whoever he might be, would have something to say
’bout that, and like ’nough him and me would have a fout to settle
the question. Our folks are all good friends and git along powerful
pleasant; ’tain’t likely we could do that if we took in a lot of
strangers that we’d never heerd of afore. No, sir.”

And Shagbark puffed hard at his pipe, which had nearly died out during
the conversation.

That night the train went into camp on the western bank of a stream
fifty yards wide, but comparatively shallow. There was no difficulty in
fording it, the women and children riding in the wagons without getting
wet. The current was clear and so icy that it was evident it had its
source in the mountains.

The wagons were ranged as usual in a circle with the animals surrounded,
where there was enough grass for their supper. Some trouble was met in
getting all the wood needed, but enough was obtained to serve for the
preparation of supper. By that time the air had become so chilly that
the blaze was carefully nursed in order to reinforce the blankets. The
effort, however, was not very successful.

The fact that no Indians had been seen for the last two or three days
did not affect the watchfulness of the company. The usual guards were
stationed, and it again fell to the lot of Alden Payne to act as one
of them. Jethro Mix was placed at the wagon which stood next to his,
the duty of both being to serve until midnight. Shagbark, who seemed
to sleep only now and then, for brief intervals, decided by and by, to
take a long rest. He never occupied any of the wagons, but wrapping his
heavy blanket around his shoulders, lay down near the smouldering camp
fire, with the animals grouped on all sides. It was always understood
that if anything occurred he was to be roused at once. The men had
learned much during the long journey thither of the ways of the plains,
but he never fully trusted them.

The steady tramping, riding and the dragging of the heavy Conestogas
made the rest welcome to men, women, children and to the animals. By
nine o’clock everything was in the form it would be two hours later,
provided no disturbance took place.

Night had hardly shut in, when a mile or so to the westward the lights
of another camp twinkled through the darkness. All knew it came from
the party that had been traveling near them for several days past.
Shagbark had spoken of riding forward with Alden and making a call upon
the emigrants, but decided to wait a while.

The night was similar to that of the Indian attack. Perhaps there
were more clouds drifting across the sky, but the moon near the full,
plowed through the snowy masses and made the illumination fitful and
uncertain. Sometimes one could see objects for a hundred yards and
more, and then the view was shortened to half that distance.

Alden was leaning against a wheel of the vehicle, in his favorite
attitude. Now and then when he felt a faint drowsiness stealing over
him, he moved about for a brief space until he felt fully awake. Then
he listened to the heavy breathing which came from some of the wagons,
to the stamping of the horses, some of which were still on their feet,
with an occasional murmur of voices from those who had not yet drifted
into forgetfulness.

Suddenly through the stillness, Jethro Mix called in a husky undertone:

“Helloa, Al, am you dere?”

“Of course I am; what do you want?”

“Dere’s somebody out dere, and not fur off, too!” was the startling
explanation of the hail. “Haben’t you seed him?”

“No. Is it an Indian?”

“Dunno; he’s on de back ob a hoss; come ober here and take a look fur
yourself.”

Alden knew the objection to leaving his post, but he thought the
circumstances justified him in joining his friend for a few minutes. He
hastily crossed the intervening space.

“Where did he show himself, Jeth?”

“Right in front ob us; wait till dat cloud passes and you’ll see him
suah.”

The surprise came the next moment, when the clearing sky disclosed not
one, but two horsemen, a few rods away. They had halted their ponies
and were sitting side by side, evidently studying the camp as if in
doubt whether to venture nearer. The first sight showed they were not
Indians, but white men. Two equestrian statues could not have been more
motionless than they.

Placing one hand as a funnel, Alden called in a low voice:

“Helloa, neighbors! Why don’t you come forward?”

By way of reply the couple twitched their reins and rode to the edge of
the camp. Neither dismounted. Alden noted that one was a large, bearded
man, while his companion was a youth of about his own age. The two wore
broad brimmed hats, which partly hid their features, but when the elder
spoke, Alden fancied there was something familiar in his voice.

“Good evening, friends,” he said. “We meant to call earlier, and it has
grown so late that we shall defer it to-night. I presume all except the
guards have turned in?”

“They did so some time ago; it will not do for us to leave our
stations, but we shall be glad to welcome you at any other time. You
belong to the company that has gone into camp a little way from here?”

“Yes; we have been in sight of each other for several days; had the
situation become threatening because of Indians, I should have proposed
that we unite, but everything seems to be peaceful.”

“Have you had no trouble with them?”

“None whatever, though we have seen many parties at a distance.”

“We were attacked one night some weeks ago along the Platte, but drove
them off without harm to us.”

“How was it with _them_?” asked the man significantly.

“We got several who were too venturesome.”

Jethro could not restrain himself any longer.

“Yas, and de fust warmint dat got soaked, _he_ done it――suah as you’s
born!”

“I congratulate you on your success; doubtless it had much to do with
repulsing your enemies.”

“Jethro told you the incident so as to force me to say that he picked
off another of the redskins. Incredible as it may sound, it is true.”

The man in the saddle looked down with renewed interest upon the burly
African, who had set the stock of his rifle on the ground, folded his
arms over the muzzle, and assumed a lolling attitude, as if the matter
was of no concern to any of them.

“Dat ain’t nuffin,” he said airily; “de sarpint furgot dat I was on de
lookout fur him and as soon as he fired and missed, why, I plugged him;
’tain’t wuth speaking ’bout.”

“Fortunate is that company which has two such sentinels as you,”
commented the man, with something like a chuckle; “if we run into
danger from Indians, shall we be able to borrow you two, or if your
friends cannot spare both, can we have one?”

“Who would be your choice?” asked Alden, entering into the spirit of
the moment.

“Jethro, as you call him; of course he’s the most valuable.”

“Dunno ’bout dat,” said the African with dignity; “de wimmin folks and
de children will blubber so hard when dey find I think ob leabin’ dem
dat Shagbark won’t be likely to allow it; howsumeber, I’ll think it
ober.”

“Thank you; you are very kind.”

During the conversation, which continued for several minutes longer,
with nothing of moment said, the youth who accompanied the elder caller
did not speak a word. He seemed to be peering from under his hat at
Alden, as if studying him.

“Well,” said the man, “we shall ride back to camp now and doubtless
shall soon see you again. I need not assure you that you and your
friends will be welcome at all times. My name is Garret Chadwick, and
I have charge of the other company. My friend here is my nephew, Ross
Brandley.”

“Very glad to have met you. I am Alden Payne, and I am on my way from
St. Joe to join my father, who left for California some months ago.”

As Alden spoke he made a military salute to the two. The elder returned
it, but his companion slightly nodded without speaking or saluting. The
two then wheeled their animals and rode off at a walk.

The incident showed there was nothing to be feared from hostiles for
some time to come. Alden, therefore, did not scruple to linger for a
few minutes with his sable friend.

“Jeth, there was something familiar in that man’s voice.”

“Ob course dere was; doan’ you remember him?”

“No; do you?”

“You hain’t forgot dat splendid fout you begun wid dat chap in St. Joe
when he butted into you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Wal, dat’s de gemman dat pulled you apart.”

“And that fellow with him is the one who struck me?”

“Suah’s you’s born; he knowed you, if you didn’t know him; I seed him
watching you mighty sharp, as if he was achin’ to get another chance at
you; he’d done it, too, if his uncle hadn’t been wid him.”

“If the chance ever does come, he’ll find me ready,” said Alden,
compressing his lips, for the memory of the insult rankled. “I remember
he called him ‘Ross’ in St. Joe, but forgot it a minute ago.”

“Why doan’ you ask him to come alone and wisit us?”

“If he called here it would be as my guest, and that would never do: it
would be a breach of hospitality.”

“Den go ober and wisit him.”

“That would place him in my position as it is now. No; we shall have to
meet on common ground. He must have thought I recognized him,” added
Alden with a thrill of disgust, “and wanted to make friends with him.
I hope we shall come together pretty soon, where nothing can prevent a
settlement of our quarrel.”

“And dat ’minds me, Al, dat I haben’t tole you my big secret yit.”

“I don’t care anything about your secret,” replied his master
impatiently, for he was in anything but an amiable frame of mind.
“Attend to your duty and I will attend to mine.”

With which the youth walked back to his own wagon and resumed his task
of sentinel while most of the company slept.



                               CHAPTER X

                                A HUNT


Since there was no call for haste, the progress of the emigrant train
sometimes ceased altogether. This was the case on the morning following
the incident just related. The cause of the stoppage was to permit
Shagbark to go a-hunting. They had entered a region some time before
where game abounded, and his policy was to use as little of the reserve
supplies as possible. The day was likely to come when they would have
no other recourse. It was not practical to carry much fodder for the
animals, but even that scant supply was hoarded against the inevitable
“rainy day.”

Although the American bison or buffalo has been virtually extinct for
years, the animals were numbered by the hundred thousand on the western
plains at the time we have in mind. The droves seen in the distance
seemed often to cover a fourth of the horizon, and their dark, shaggy
backs as they cropped the herbage and hitched continually forward, were
like the fretted waves of the sea. Shagbark had shot a number, and
twice he took Alden and Jethro with him on the excursions. A nearly
fatal result to Alden followed the attempted slaying of an enormous
bull by shooting him in the head instead of just behind the fore leg,
but the mistake was not repeated. Jethro showed his natural timidity,
and kept as close as he could to the veteran, while Alden indulged in
spurts of his own which more than once brought results.

Shagbark, however, was not partial to buffalo meat, which many of his
friends found coarse and tough. They preferred venison, which was not
always tender, and they were able to obtain considerable quantities of
it. He regarded the antelope with more favor than either. So it came
about on the morning referred to, that he and the two youths set out to
shoot some of the timid creatures. Occasionally Mr. Fleming and some of
his friends took part in the hunts, but they preferred to stay in camp
on this day and let the trio prove their prowess.

The effect of this halt was to increase the distance between the
party and the one in advance, to which Garret Chadwick and his nephew
belonged; for the latter company moved at an early hour and were many
miles distant before nightfall.

Antelope hunting has been too often described for me to dwell upon
this particular venture. When the three rode over the plains to the
northwest in the direction of the towering Laramie Mountains, not one
of the animals was in sight, nor had the guide seen any on the previous
day. He had been over the region before, however, and knew he would not
have to hunt long.

He first headed toward a ridge which rose two hundred feet or more
above the prairie, showing few boulders and rocks, and no trees. Beyond
it stretched a beautiful valley to the foothills of the mountain
range. This space was several miles in width, and a small, clear
stream meandered through the valley, on its way to the Sweetwater, and
thence to the North Platte. Shagbark gave it as his belief that some
of the animals would be found in the valley, and, as usual, he was not
mistaken.

The American antelope or pronghorn is a native of the plains near
the Rocky Mountains. Nearly always the upper parts of its body are
yellowish brown in color, while the under parts, the sides and the head
and throat and the buttocks are white. It sheds the bony sheath of its
horns every year. It may be worth noting that this creature is known
also by the names of prongbuck, pronghorned antelope, cabrèe and cabut.

The most peculiar trait of the antelope is its curiosity. But for this
weakness, it would be almost impossible for a hunter to get within
range of the game. Lying in the grass, where his body is invisible,
the man lifts his hat or a handkerchief on the muzzle or ramrod of his
rifle. The moment the animal sees it he bounds off in a panic, but does
not go far before he halts and looks back. The odd sight has roused his
curiosity, and he gingerly draws near, ready to dash away again in the
instant danger shows himself.

All the hunter needs to have is patience. The creature is sure to come
within reach of his gun and fall a victim to the infirmity that had
proved the undoing of many a human being. It is hard to understand this
singular failing of the antelope.

At the base of the ridge Shagbark drew rein and his companions did the
same.

“Don’t stir from hyar,” he said, “till I give ye the word.”

Dismounting, he walked briskly up the slope until near the top. There
he slackened his pace, stooped low, and reaching a favorable point,
removed his hat and peeped cautiously over. Alden and Jethro, who were
watching him, saw him remain stationary for a minute or two. Then he
crouched still lower, donned his hat and hurried back to them.

“Thar’s three of ’em,” he said, “and we oughter bag ’em all.”

“I shall be glad to do my part,” replied Alden.

“Which de same am likewise de fac’ as regards myself,” added Jethro.

The guide explained his plan, which, it may be said, caused Alden mild
surprise, inasmuch as it gave the African the post of honor. Shagbark
had described so often the method employed in hunting the antelope that
the youths understood it theoretically. It remained for them to prove
that they had a practical knowledge also.

Shagbark remarked that everything was in their favor. The slight
breeze came directly from the animals, so it could not carry the scent
of the hunters to them. In the circumstances, with the protection of
the grass, it ought to be easy to steal within gunshot of the game,
provided their inquiring nature was turned to good account.

Jethro was to move along the slope parallel with it, until he had gone
an eighth of a mile, when he was to creep over the crest with the
utmost caution and sneak into the grass on the other side. Once there
he must advance slowly and with the utmost care toward the antelope. If
they took the alarm, which they were almost certain to do, he should
cease moving, lie flat and raise his hat on the ramrod of his gun, one
end of which was to be thrust into the soft earth.

Then the old performance would follow. One or more of the animals would
begin a timid, hesitating approach, frequently bounding or circling
away for some distance, halting and advancing again, hypnotized by the
singular sight whose nature they could not fathom without a closer view.

“All ye’ve got to do is to lay still with yer gun p’inted and yer
finger on the trigger till he comes within reach. Then let him have it.”

“What will become of de oders?” asked Jethro.

“We’ll ’tend to them.”

“Am de antelope a wery savage critter, Mr. Shagbark?” asked Jethro,
with so much misgiving as to rouse the waggery of the trapper.

“He stands next to the grizzly b’ar: he kin use them horns and sharp
hoofs and chaw up a wolf while ye’re winking an eye.”

“Yas, sir,” said Jethro, swallowing a lump in his throat, as he set out
to obey the directions of the guide.

Shagbark and Alden had little to do for an indefinite period except
to watch the course of the African, who had every reason to look
for success, since all the conditions, as the hunter had said, were
favorable. In addition, it has been shown that the dusky youth was a
fair marksman.

He kept below the crest of the ridge and walked fast, until he had gone
even farther than told to go. Finally he crept up the slope, and like
his director, removed his hat and cautiously looked over the summit of
the ridge.

He as well as the antelope was in sight all the time, and Shagbark
and Alden did not allow any of his movements to escape them. They saw
him pass slowly over the top of the elevation and down the other side,
where it was not so easy to trace him, because of the abundance of
grass which screened the amateur hunter.

“Sometimes I think he isn’t such a big fool as he looks,” said the
guide, after Jethro had begun worming his way through the vegetation.
“I couldn’t do any better than he’s done so fur, but it’s best to wait
to see how he makes out.”

“That is my opinion――helloa! what’s up now?”

The largest of the animals, evidently a buck, was cropping the grass a
few yards nearer the negro than were the other two animals. The three
remained thus employed for some time after Jethro had left the base of
the ridge. That which caused the exclamation of Alden was the action of
the buck. He suddenly stopped grazing, threw his head high in air and
stared in the direction of the invisible hunter.

“He seems to be alarmed over something; it can’t be he has scented
Jethro.”

“I might think so, for it’s easy to do that with _him_, if it warn’t
that the wind blows the wrong way. But they’re mighty cute critters,
and the buck is scared over something. Now’s the time when the darky
oughter stop.”

“He seems to have done that. He is half hidden by the grass, but I
don’t think he is stirring.”

From their elevation the couple by using care could peer over the crest
without drawing the attention of the game to themselves. Looking down
on the colored youth, as he was partly revealed, it was evident he had
noticed the action of the prongbuck. Jethro had ceased moving, and sank
so flat on the ground that the game became invisible to him.

Waiting thus a few minutes, he slowly raised his head, parting the
spears in front until once more he saw the game.

The two had not stopped grazing for a moment, and the buck now lowered
his head and resumed feeding. If he had been alarmed his fears quickly
left him.

Jethro resumed his painstaking progress and kept it up until within two
hundred yards of the group, no one of which raised a head. The distance
was too great for a shot, though he might have succeeded in his aim.
Seeming to think he had gone far enough, the youth now resorted to the
usual trick, which has been described. Drawing his ramrod from its
place under the barrel of his rifle, he placed his hat over one end
and pushed the other down in the ground so hard that it stood upright
without aid from him. That which followed was beyond the comprehension
of either Shagbark or Alden.

The signal had hardly been set in place, when the buck flung up his
head again. What induced him to do so cannot be told, unless it was
that mysterious “sixth sense,” which some believe belongs to men and
animals alike. There had not been the slightest noise, and it has been
said that what little breeze was blowing could not carry the scent
across the space.

But the first glance of the buck was at the hat on the upright stick.
Almost immediately he wheeled and ran a dozen paces, his companions
following. Then he paused, stared and walked toward the scarecrow, as
it may be called. He did not go much nearer than before, and when he
turned, ran round in a large circle, halted once more and repeated the
movement described.

This peculiar performance continued until the buck was no more than a
hundred yards from the dusky hunter lying low in the grass. Then his
halt and stare were longer than before. His companions now caught to
some extent his excitement. They discerned the cause, trotted here and
there and back again, and looked and acted as if they wished to leave
the spot, but could not shake off the attraction which drew them to the
danger point.

It was noticeable, however, that the females did not approach the
signal so near as their leader. They were as content for him to take
the main risk as he was to take it upon himself.

“Why doesn’t Jethro fire?” asked Alden impatiently; “the antelope is
within easy range, and he can bring him down dead sure.”

“I’ve been wondering over the same thing,” said Shagbark; “he can shoot
from the grass or stand up and pick off the critter afore he turns.
That’ll send the others this way and _we’ll_ pick ’em off. What’s the
matter with the chump?”

Jethro had partly risen from the ground and was seen more clearly by
his friends. From his position the shot would have been an easy one.
Shagbark had expected from the first that the African would make such
an attempt. The plan, as has been shown, would have bagged all three of
the antelope.

Jethro was seen to rise higher, though still stooping, and grasp his
gun, which, however, he did not bring to his shoulder. Then he suddenly
wheeled without firing a shot and ran at headlong speed directly away
from the buck!

The most forcible exclamation that Alden Payne had ever heard from the
lips of Shagbark was uttered at the astounding sight. The terrified
buck had turned and dashed off with the speed of the wind in the
opposite direction, running so swiftly that he drew away from his two
charges.

“Don’t stir,” whispered the guide; “I’ll take the buck and you the one
next to him; don’t fire till I give the word.”

The two were lying on their faces with their guns pointed over the
crest of the ridge. The three animals in their panic came not straight
toward the couple, but took a diagonal course which promised to bring
them within easy range. Their extreme sensitiveness to scent and sound
was familiar to Shagbark, and he knew they would turn aside before
coming very near.

The buck detected his danger a minute later. In running from one of the
ogres that strode through the country on two legs, he was leading his
charges directly upon another.

In the same instant that the new peril flashed upon him, he veered
abruptly to the right, still skimming the prairie with amazing speed.

“Now!” whispered Shagbark, pressing the trigger of his weapon.

There was only a second or two between the reports, and it is enough to
say that each shot was perfect in its way. Like all their species, the
antelope ran quite a distance after being mortally smitten.

The third was far beyond reach before either could reload his piece.
Jethro would have fired had not the new turn of affairs thrown him out
of range of all the animals. Seeing the two fall, he trotted forward
with a huge grin on his ebon countenance. Allowing the carcasses for
Shagbark to look after, the angered Alden turned upon the servant and
exclaimed:

“Of all fools that I ever saw you’re the champion!”

“How’s dat?” asked Jethro, still smiling.

“When you had the best chance in the world to bring down that buck why
didn’t you do it, instead of running away from him?”

Jethro shook with exulting laughter.

“You can’t fool dis chile; I reasoned out de whole thing. Mr. Shagbark
tole me how dem critters chaw and stomp and bite a feller; I knowed dat
if I brunged down dis one, it would make de oder two so mad dey’d come
at me afore I could load up ag’in, and you wouldn’t hab any Jeth any
more. So I luft; dem antelopes am wery rewengeful――wery rewengeful――and
I’se too smart to gib ’em de chance dey wanted to lambast me.”



                              CHAPTER XI

                           A DISAPPOINTMENT


No argument could be held with such intelligence as this. Shagbark,
with a queer expression on his bearded countenance, looked at the
grinning Jethro, but did not speak. Possibly he felt that he was
blamable in the matter, for it had been his awful words that caused the
senseless panic of the colored youth, and made him flee from before a
harmless antelope, when the lad had a loaded rifle in his hands and
knew how to use it.

Alden was so amazed that at first he suspected his dusky friend was
jesting, but there could be no doubt of his earnestness. Jethro was
confident that he had saved his life by his own brightness.

“It’s too much for me,” commented Alden with a shake of his head.

When all three were in their saddles, they rode out to where the two
carcasses lay at the foot of the slope. Shagbark compelled Jethro
to dismount and help sling the body of the buck across the back of
the pony and balance in front of the saddle. Since the animal weighed
nearly as much as the African himself, the veteran ordered him to walk
beside his horse and hold the burden in place until the party reached
camp. The female which had been shot was so much lighter that Shagbark
took it on the back of his powerful steed with him. The burden was
weighty, but the distance was not far, and all moved at a moderate walk.

At the moment of starting, the sun was shining from a clear sky. Ten
minutes later the radiance turned a dull leaden hue, and all three were
wrapped in the swirl of a furious snow squall. The millions of big
flakes, eddied and spun around and so filled the air that they could
not see one another, when they were barely ten feet apart. Shagbark
called to the two to fall in line behind him and not stop. They bent
their heads and pushed on, leaving the direction to the ponies.

Presto! the squall ended as quickly as it began. At the close of
fifteen minutes not a flake was in the air. The ground was covered with
a thin white sheet which speedily melted in the warm rays of the sun.
The radius of the curious flurry was so slight that it was speedily
left behind them.

Jethro led his pony alongside of Alden’s mare. The guide, as was
his custom when riding with the emigrant train, kept a brief way in
advance, looking straight ahead and paying no attention to the two
behind him.

“Say, Al, what’s de matter wid Mr. Shagbark?” asked Jethro, lowering
his voice.

“Nothing; why do you ask?”

“What’s he gwine back to de ridge fur? Does he wanter shoot some more
antelopes?”

It seemed to Alden that the hunter had turned from the direct course,
but the youth knew he had good reason for doing so.

“If you will look to the right you will see that he isn’t riding toward
the ridge.”

“Don’t make no difference; we’ll neber git home if we trabel the way
he’s gwine now.”

“If you think best, you might point out his mistake to him.”

“Gorrynation! he’s too touchy for _me_ to put in my oar; you am de one
to set him right.”

“I must first know that he is wrong; wait until then.”

Accordingly Jethro held his peace, though he often muttered to himself.
He was silent, however, when the circle of Conestogas, with the men,
women and children moving outside and among them came in sight.
Shagbark had kept to a bee line from the last starting point to the
emigrant camp.

The forenoon was not half gone, but Shagbark decided that the party
should rest until after the midday meal. As has been explained, there
was no need of haste, and the occasional halts did the oxen and horses
good. They could crop the grass at their leisure, and though capable of
long continued strain, the cessation was none the less grateful to the
patient, plodding animals.

Shagbark dressed and roasted the two carcasses. No chef could have done
the work better. The odor of the broiling meat whetted every appetite
and the meal was one of the most satisfying of which they had partaken
since crossing the Missouri. Enough “fragments” remained to serve quite
well for a lighter feast, and they were carefully laid aside for that
purpose. It was about two o’clock when the yokes were adjusted to the
necks of the oxen, the horsemen swung into their saddles, and the
cavalcade headed for Fort Laramie, on the other side of the mountain
spur which bears the latter half of that name.

From the saddle, Alden Payne scrutinized the country to the north, the
west and the south. He was searching for the company with which his
enemy Ross Brandley was traveling. His one regret was that the antelope
hunt had lessened the probability of meeting that combative young man.
Like many a mistaken youth, Alden was sure he could not be happy until
he had evened up matters between them.

“He nearly knocked me over in the first place,” reflected the youth
for the hundredth time, “and when I protested, he insulted me, put up
his fists, and got in a blow. What roils me,” added Alden to himself,
with a flash of the eye and a compression of the lips, “is that he must
have taken my politeness last night for fear of him. If I had only
known who he was, I should have said something that would have made his
cheeks tingle. It will be strange if we miss each other, for we are
both anxious to meet, and, after all, there can’t be so very many miles
between us.”

Far ahead towered the Laramie range, the peaks, softened by the
intervening miles, gradually taking on a clearer view, as the
separating distance was lessened. To the northward country was
undulating or level, mostly covered with the billowy, succulent lush
grass, which makes the region one of the finest grazing grounds in the
world.

Halting Firebug, so that his gait should not interfere with his sight,
the young man studied the outlook in that direction. He was thus
employed when Shagbark drew rein beside him.

“Wal, younker, what do ye make of it?”

“It seems to me,” replied Alden, lowering the binocular, “that I can
see a faint, bluish shadowy outline of something in the horizon. Is it
a mountain range?”

“That’s what it is,” said Shagbark; “ye’re looking at the Medicine Bow
Mountains, which lay a good many miles south; afore long they’ll fade
out of yer sight; see anything else?”

Alden raised the glasses again and studied the section.

“I see the white tents of an emigrant train well to the southwest and
several miles behind them, other wagons, both slowly pushing westward.”

“Ye’re right; I wonder how many hundred of ’em there is atween St. Joe
and Sacramento?”

“It isn’t possible, Shagbark, that either of those trains is the one to
which Mr. Chadwick belongs?”

The veteran guffawed.

“Ef it war Jeth that asked that tom fool question I shouldn’t be
’sprised, but I didn’t look for anything like it from yerself, younker.
How could the company ye’re speaking off, which war a purty long way to
the northwest swing round into that part of the world, ’specially when
there ain’t any reason for them doing so?”

“It wasn’t a sensible question, Shagbark, but it was caused by my wish
to meet that chap who visited us with his uncle last night.”

The hunter looked curiously at his young friend, but said nothing. The
simple minded fellow was not without a natural share of curiosity, but
he asked no question. What may be called a rude delicacy restrained
him. If Alden chose to tell him more, he would listen, but it rested
with the young man himself.

The latter was on the point of describing that affray on the streets of
St. Joe, but a curious feeling of shame restrained him. He was not sure
how the veteran would view it. He might discourage the resolution of
Alden, though the probabilities were the other way.

“He can’t dissuade me, but I don’t want him to try. If I let him know
I am eager to meet that fellow again, he will do all he can to help,
without my saying anything further.”

The two resumed their riding in advance of the company, and after a few
minutes’ silence the guide, speaking with his briarwood between his
lips said:

“Thar’s one thing that may comfort ye, younker.”

“What’s that?”

“Most of the companies that’s tramping ’cross the plains do as we
done,――that is they don’t hurry, which ain’t never a good thing unless
thar’s no help fur it. Them folks that ye want to see will stop to rest
while we’re pushing on, jest as we done.”

“That being so,” said the pleased Alden; “we stand a fair chance of
coming up with them between here and Salt Lake?”

“Yas; long afore we get that fur.”

“I am glad to hear you say that.”

“And I’m mighty glad that ye are glad,” grimly commented Shagbark, who
proceeded to explain that the Laramie Range would be crossed some fifty
miles to the south of Fort Laramie. A depression there made an easy
passage through the rugged spur, whose western slope would be followed
northward to the military post named. The same direction was to be held
before turning westward again. This was the route of the trains and
Pony Express riders, who followed the line of the least resistance as
may be said.

By that time they would be well into the prodigious mountainous region
which would confront them for a thousand miles or more, for it is the
foothills of the Rockies. The present state of Colorado is traversed
by the main axis or continental divide of the Rocky Mountains which
there finds its greatest northern development. The culminating crest of
the main range is the Wind River Mountains in the west-central part of
the State, which is traversed by numerous other ranges, including the
Big Horn in the north-central section, the Laramie Mountains already
mentioned, the Medicine Bow in the south; north of them the Sweetwater
and Rattlesnake ranges, and in the west the Teton, Shoshone and Gros
Ventres mountains. The extreme northeast is penetrated by the Black
Hills from South Dakota. The loftiest peak is Fremont’s in the Wind
River Mountains, two and a half miles high, with others of almost as
great elevation.

The Wind River Mountains display that remarkable fact which is probably
familiar to our readers. Rain falling in a comparative brief area
divides so that some of the drops flow westward and find their way into
the Columbia and thence to the Pacific. Another part of the rainfall
or melted snow winds its way ultimately to the Colorado and into the
Gulf of California, while a third gropes to the Missouri and finally
into the Gulf of Mexico. The southeastern part of the State, through
which our friends were journeying, is drained by the North Fork of the
Platte and its affluents, including the Laramie and Sweetwater rivers,
the Lodge Pole, Rock, Poison Spring, Medicine Bow, Horse and Rawhide
creeks. It may be added that that grand national playground known as
the Yellowstone Park covers a wide area in the northwestern corner of
the State.

One of the most deceptive things is distance on the plains and among
the mountains. Alden Payne was certain of reaching the base of the
Laramie range before the company went into camp at nightfall, but as
the afternoon drew to a close, the wild region seemed as far off as
ever.

“If all goes well we shall strike ’em by to-morrow night,” commented
Shagbark; “howsumever ye have observed that another company has camped
two miles off on the same creek that we’re going to use.”

“Is there any possibility of its being the one that Mr. Chadwick is
with?” asked Alden.

“Shouldn’t be ’sprised, but thar ain’t no way of telling without making
a call.”

“I think I shall ride over just before dusk and find out.”

“Nobody’ll object to that; will ye go alone?”

Alden hesitated. His first intention was to ask Shagbark to accompany
him, but the uncertainty of his sentiments caused the youth to decide
otherwise. He would take Jethro, for companionship, rather than for any
help he could give. Shagbark made no comment on the decision, and it
is not likely he cared one way or the other.

Sometime later, Alden dropped back to the main body, where he turned
over his pony to the care of Jethro, and entered the wagon in which
Mrs. Fleming and several of the women were riding. He apologized for
intruding, though he was ever welcome. He explained that he wished to
do some writing.

Seating himself with his back against the side of the Conestoga, as it
lumbered easily over the plain, Alden drew out his note book, sharpened
his lead pencil and framed the following:

    “Ross Brandley, Sir,――I did not recognize you when you called
    last night with Mr. Chadwick. Had I known at the time who you
    were (my colored servant told me afterward), you would have
    heard some plain words from me, though coming as our guest,
    I should have treated you with politeness which probably you
    would not have appreciated. Fearing that a similar restraint
    may be upon you when I return the call, I hand you this note.

    “I ask you to ride after me as I return, until I reach a point
    midway between our camps. I shall wait there for you. We shall
    then be upon neutral ground and I challenge you to a finish
    fight with fists as weapons. This would have been the case in
    St. Joe had not your relative, fearing you would suffer harm,
    carried you away, though it was plain to me that he did not
    have much trouble in getting you beyond my reach.

                                                  “ALDEN PAYNE.”

Alden read this belligerent message and smiled. He was pleased with it.

“Those last words will hit him hard. A fellow would rather be called
anything than a coward. I can’t say he showed any sign of wishing to
sneak out, and when I remark that his uncle didn’t have any trouble in
lugging him off, I suppose I exaggerate, but I want to make sure the
scamp doesn’t find an excuse for dodging a square, stand up fight. I
don’t think I can improve the letter.”

He folded the paper and wrote the name of Brandley on the outside,
after which he placed the slip between the pages of his note book which
was shoved into the inner pocket of his coat. Without consulting the
women around him or letting them know what was in the wind, he sprang
out of the wagon to the ground.

A few minutes later the halt for the night was made. Alden told Jethro
he intended to visit the camp in front and wished him to go along.

“I ’spose you’ll wait till after supper?” inquired the servant.

“Of course; I know how much it would hurt you to miss a meal.”

“I’m allers ready to take keer ob you, Al,” remarked the servant in an
aggrieved voice.

What a fatality often attends small things! Jethro had no suspicion
that the company in advance was the one from which the two visitors had
come the night before. Alden did not aim to hide the fact from him,
but simply omitted to mention it. Had Jethro known the meaning of this
evening call, he would have forced his master to hear the momentous
secret which the dusky youth had been carrying for weeks. And had that
secret been revealed, Alden Payne would have made a most important
change in his programme.

Since it was not so to be, the two after the evening meal, cinched
their saddle girths and rode out on the plain. They took a course
almost due west. The camp fires of the other party twinkled like stars
in the horizon, and the space was covered in less than half an hour,
the horsemen riding at an easy gallop.

As he drew near, Alden was struck by the resemblance of the camp to his
own. The eight wagons were ranged in a similar circle and the emigrants
seemed to number nearly the same. They had mules, however, in addition
to oxen and horses. All were cropping the grass, while a small stream
of icy water flowed within their convenient reach.

The guards had not yet been placed, though such a precaution would not
be long delayed, for it was unsupposable that any company of emigrants
should have penetrated thus far on their journey to the Pacific without
learning the lesson which Shagbark had impressed upon his charges from
the day they crossed the Missouri.

Little or no notice was taken of the two horsemen until they rode up to
the nearest wagon. The animals were guided to one side where the big
camp fire threw out its rays, which were reflected from the ponies and
their riders.

“I’ll stay on Jilk and wait fur you to come back,” said Jethro; “I
doan’ think any ob dem folks keers ’bout seeing me.”

Alden did not object, and had hardly swung out of the saddle to the
ground, when two men came forward to greet him. One was unusually
tall, the other of medium height and both wore heavy beards. The youth
scanned them closely, in the partial obscurity, but neither was Mr.
Chadwick. They cordially greeted the visitor and invited him to go
forward and join in their meal. Most of the group were gathered around
the “festal board,” which happened just then to be their blankets
spread on the green grass.

“I thank you,” replied Alden, “but my servant and myself partook just
before leaving our own camp. This is really a business rather than a
social call.”

“In what way can we serve you?”

“I have a letter which I shall be glad if you will hand to a member of
your party.”

Alden drew out his note book and took the folded paper from between the
pages.

“Perhaps it will be better if I give it to Mr. Chadwick and ask him to
hand it to his nephew Ross Brandley. I owe a call to Mr. Chadwick.”

The two men glanced in surprise at Alden. He of the shorter statue was
about to reach out his hand to take the missive but refrained.

“I do not recognize the names you mention.”

“The elder is Garret Chadwick and his nephew, who I judge is nearly my
own age, is Ross Brandley. The note is for the younger.”

“Sorry, but I never heard of them before.”

“Then,” said the disappointed Alden, “they cannot be members of your
party.”

“They are not; we have never met either.”

“I beg your pardon for my mistake; you will excuse me for not
remaining. I thank you for your courtesy, and you and your friends
have my best wishes for a pleasant journey to the other side of the
continent.”

The trio exchanged military salutations, after the men had repeated
their invitation for the visitor to go forward and meet other members
of the company. Alden put his foot in the stirrup and sprang into the
saddle.

“Too bad,” he muttered, “but I shall meet that fellow before many days.”

He was right in his surmise, but little did he dream of the
circumstances which were to attend that memorable meeting.



                              CHAPTER XII

                        A NOT UNCOMMON INCIDENT


It would be interesting to trace the progress of the emigrant train
westward for the following weeks, but, there would be a certain
monotony in the narration. The routine went on for days with little
variation. Making their way through the Laramie range, they went
northward along the western slope, over the course of the Laramie
River, after spending a night in camp near the old fort where they were
hospitably treated by the garrison. Where the Laramie River rushes
eastward through the mountain range, they turned in the opposite
direction toward the famous South Pass, that wide gateway through the
great Rocky Mountains. Beyond that they were to travel southwest and
past Fort Bridger to Salt Lake City.

It was the glad summer time, but the travelers suffered little from the
heat which is often unbearable in the deserts and valleys. Most of the
country is so elevated that the climate is delightful throughout the
warm months. Despite the season, however, they were caught in more than
one terrific snow storm while groping through the foothills, and once a
driving rain and sleet seemed to chill men and animals to their bones.
But for the big fires that were kindled and kept vigorously going,
Alden Payne believed some of them would have perished.

“As fur dis chile,” chattered Jethro, with his thick blanket wrapped
about him to his ears; “I shan’t get warm fur sebenteen yeahs.”

“Ye must have patience,” remarked the grim Shagbark; “yer turn will
come after ye cross the Big Divide.”

The African failed to catch the point of this significant remark,
though it caused smiles on the part of the other listeners.

Shots had been exchanged with prowling Indians fully a score of times.
It was extraordinary that although there were many narrow escapes
on the part of the white men, not one had been so much as wounded.
Shagbark was confident that he picked off one or two dusky prowlers.

One afternoon he was riding alone in front of the train, which was
then making its laborious way through a series of foothills. He was
in one of his moods when he wished to have no companion,――not even
his favorite “younker,” Alden Payne. Suddenly from the cliffs on his
right rang the sharp report of a rifle. There could be no mistaking
the target, for the bowl of his briarwood pipe was shattered and sent
flying into space, leaving only a stump of the stem between his lips.

It may be doubted whether any incident in his stormy life had ever
thrown the guide into such a rage as this occurrence. He turned his
head like a flash and glared at the point from which the shot had come.
He detected the faint blue wreath curling upward from behind a huge
boulder and was off his horse in a twinkling. His friends saw him dash
up the cliff and pass from sight. They did not check the train, but
since they were following a well marked trail, were confident he would
soon return. When night closed in, however, and they went into camp he
was still absent.

The guards were placed with the usual care and every man was on the
alert. It was about midnight, when Fleming the leader heard a soft
whistle from somewhere among the rocks which towered on their left. He
recognized the signal and answered. The next minute Shagbark emerged
from the gloom, made a few inquiries and waited until the change of
the watchers took place. Then he lay down in his blanket and slept
until daylight. He had not said a word about what had taken place while
he was away, nor did he refer to it afterward. Alden Payne and his
friends, however, noticed one peculiar fact: the hunter brought back
another pipe with him. It was very different in structure from his
former briarwood, being made of a species of clay baked red, and had
a long reed for the stem. This he shortened to five or six inches and
it served quite well as a substitute for the one destroyed. Alden was
tempted to question him as to the means by which he procured it, but he
had too much respect for the moods of the man to ask him any questions.

The long journey through the wild mountainous regions was so free
from real danger that it gave some of the company an undue sense of
security. They advanced with much caution and were well guarded day and
night. They believed the red men as they peered out from their hiding
places were afraid to attack them. Beyond a doubt this was largely
true, but Shagbark warned his friends against placing too much reliance
on the fact. He reminded them that the “varmints” were as patient in
waiting their chance as a pack of wolves on the track of a wounded
buffalo or worn out deer.

Among all there was none fonder of hunting than Alden Payne and his
servant Jethro Mix. With the consent of the guide, they sometimes went
out with him, but oftener ventured afield without his company. The
colored youth proved his proficiency by bringing down some animal,
generally of a species that served as an addition to the provision
supply. In the course of these hunts, the youths secured between them
specimens of the coyote, puma, wild cat, wolverine and in one instance
a black bear.

Jethro in the last occurrence insisted that their prize was the largest
grizzly bear that ever infested the Rockies and the mountainous
neighborhood; but, since the specimen could not have weighed more than
two hundred pounds, the youth was forced to admit his mistake.

“If ye run agin a grizzly,” said Shagbark, when the incident was told
him, “ye won’t have no doubt of it. Besides you hain’t reached the
region yet where ye’re likely to tumble over them little playthings.”

Alden naturally was anxious to shoot a grizzly and hoped he would do
so long before reaching Salt Lake. Jethro’s ambition at times was
the same, but he was often in doubt. Shagbark told so many appalling
stories of that monarch of the western wilds, that the negro thought it
would be just as well in case they met a grizzly not to pick a quarrel
with him.

Now and then they caught glimpses of a Pony Express rider. Twice these
coursers of the plains passed so near the camp that they exchanged
greetings with the emigrants but neither did more than rein his pony
down to a walk. The minutes were too precious to indulge in gossip, and
after a few unimportant words they were off again and thundered from
sight.

On a certain delightful afternoon in summer, Alden and Jethro were
several miles from the train, engaged in one of the hunts of which they
had become very fond. They had left their friends two or three hours
before, and although they saw deer and a few buffaloes, in no case
could they get near enough for a shot.

“This is the worst luck we have had for over a week,” commented the
dissatisfied Alden.

“Dere’s no saying what we’ll git afore we goes back to camp,” replied
Jethro; “I has a sort ob feeling dat we’re gwine to run into a flock ob
grizzlies.”

“Suppose we do, what is your plan?”

“Jest load and fire as fast as we kin till we’ve tumbled ’em all ober
on dere heads, and den scoot fur camp.”

“I think you’ll do the scooting before you bring down a grizzly, but
Shagbark told us that we are not in a section where we are likely to
meet any of those animals.”

Being well convinced on this point, Jethro could afford to pose.

“It gibs me a big pain to larn dat, ’cause I’se been reckoning on
getting one ob de biggest of dem critters in de hull West.”

“It may be Shagbark is mistaken, in spite of what he told us!”

Jethro who was riding beside his master, looked in a scared way at him.

“You doan’ think dat kin be so!”

“He is an old hunter, but not too old to make a mistake now and then.
Sometimes too wild animals leave their habitats and wander far afield.”

This high sounding sentence was framed purposely for the mystification
of Jethro, who repeated wonderingly:

“What am a _habitat_? Do you mean a rousing big grizzly?”

“The habitat of an animal is the region where he makes his home:
sometimes a wild beast takes it into his head to stray a good many
miles from where he has been brought up and educated. There would be
nothing wonderful in our meeting a grizzly bear this minute.”

“Gorrynation! You doan’ say so!” exclaimed Jethro glancing on each side
and behind them.

“Won’t you be glad to bag one of the monsters?”

“O yas, I ’spose so, but Mr. Shagbark spoke about another kind ob bear
dat he said was almost as bad as de grizzly.”

“What is its name?”

“He called it a _nutmeg_ or _clove_ bear――I disremember which.”

Alden broke into laughter.

“You mean a _cinnamon_ bear; yes I have heard they are ugly customers
to drive into a corner.”

“’Spose dey dribe _you_ into a corner, eh?”

“That would be worse, but we have a gun apiece and know how to use it.”

“Dat am so, but Mr. Shagbark said as how it sometimes took a dozen
shots to bring down one ob dem grizzlies.”

“That must be because the aim was poor. One bullet sent right will drop
an elephant.”

“Am we likely to see any elufunts?” asked the amazed Jethro.

“Hardly, unless he is an estray from some menagerie, and there isn’t
any temptation for menageries to visit unsettled countries,” said the
amused Alden.

At the time of this conversation the young men were riding through a
pass or cañon, which had a varying width of two or three hundred yards
to two or more times that space. During the spring thaw, or when there
was a cloudburst, it must have been swept by a tumultuous torrent which
carried everything before it. Enormous boulders, scattered here and
there, had been rolled from considerable distances, while others had
been carried still farther down the ravine.

The trail followed the right of the gorge and was broad enough to allow
any emigrant train to move freely without stringing out to a dangerous
degree. The slope was steadily upward for a fourth of a mile, when
it reached a nearly level plateau, and wound in and out among rocks,
stunted pines, gnarled cedars, and ravines, interspersed with valleys
and comparatively smooth stretches, with now and then a mountain
torrent across which the travelers made their way with difficulty.

Alden and Jethro still rode with their ponies side by side, for the
space was abundant. The incline compelled them to walk their animals,
although such would have been their pace had the ground been level.
There was no call to hasten their horses, while it would have involved
considerable risk.

As they rode each glanced from side to side. The same thought was in
the minds of both. If they were under the eyes of any prowling Indians,
the two were at their mercy, for hiding places from which their enemies
could fire without the slightest risk to themselves were beyond
counting.

Since the afternoon was drawing to a close and the train was several
miles to the rear, Alden was on the point of suggesting that they make
their way back to their friends, when both were startled by the noise
of a horse’s hoofs behind them. They looked round at the same instant.

“A Pony Express Rider,” said Alden, “and he’s coming our way.”

Such was the fact. Despite the slope, the man’s horse continued on a
gallop until he came alongside the couple. Then he reined up and rode
with them.

“I can’t well afford to wait,” he explained, “but it won’t do to push
my pony too hard. I am glad to have company a little way.”

“And we are glad to have you,” responded Alden.

The man who addressed them looked no older than themselves, but he
was more than twenty years of age. His face was smooth shaven, his
complexion clear and his eyes bright. His weight could not have
been much above a hundred pounds, and a glance revealed his perfect
horsemanship. Alden noted the mail pouches strapped one in front of his
knees and the other behind him, and each secured by a lock. He carried
a rifle in his left hand and a revolver showed at his hip. He was a
fine specimen of the superb Express Rider, temperate, brave, alert, and
with extraordinary powers of endurance.

When Alden had explained the cause of himself and servant being so far
in advance of the train, the rider said:

“I passed them two or three miles back. If you will permit me, I advise
you to lose no time in returning to them.”

“Why?”

“You are approaching a dangerous region; I have had two scrimmages with
Indians within the last month.”

“Gorrynation!” muttered Jethro, eager to turn back without advancing
another step.

“I thank you for your advice, but it is so pleasant to have your
company we shall ride a little farther with you.”

“My name is Dick Lightfoot,” announced the genial stranger.

Alden gave his own and that of Jethro and then asked:

“How far have you come?”

“From the last station eight miles back; I have more than twenty miles
to go.”

“Not with that pony?”

“No; it would be too great a strain on him; our stations are some ten
miles apart and at each we change horses. I ride ten or a dozen miles
more, then change again and keep on to the second station which is the
end of my run. There I meet the return rider and another chap takes my
place for the next thirty miles.”

“How do you like the life?” asked Alden.

The eyes of the young rider sparkled.

“It suits me down to the ground. It stirs one’s blood to dash over the
plains, through the mountain files and across plateaus at headlong
speed; we have to make an average of over twelve miles an hour. I’m not
doing it now, but when the chance offers, I shall even matters by going
at a rate of twenty or twenty-five miles.”

“That is almost railroad time,” replied Alden admiringly.

“It beats the railway trains in many places.”

“But you are always in danger.”

“That’s what adds to the fun; the speed itself gives a man a thrill and
the possibility of ambush, a treacherous shot or an open attack sets
the blood tingling.”

“And you keep at it all the time?”

“That has to be done; rain, snow, hail, cold, heat, night, day,――makes
no difference. This,” added Dick Lightfoot in his cheery voice and with
his pleasant smile, “is the _rush line_ across the continent.”

“Do you never lose your way?”

“Impossible; every horse knows his route; this animal that has my
name――Dick――knows the path better than I, and that means the whole
thirty-odd miles. When it is so dark that I can hardly see his ears, I
let the lines lie loose, and he never goes astray; I wouldn’t trade my
job for that of President of the United States.”

There could be no mistake as to the young man’s enthusiasm. During the
brief conversation his pony, like the others, kept walking briskly.
At the top of the incline the rider waved a good bye to his new
acquaintances, and the horse of his own accord struck into a gallop
which speedily carried him out of sight around a sweeping curve in the
trail.

Jethro Mix had taken no part in the chat, for he had no right to do so,
but he did not allow a word to escape him.

“I say, Al, now’s a good time to turn back, don’t you think?” he
anxiously suggested.

“We’ll ride a little farther; we have plenty of time to make camp
before dark.”

“Dere ain’t no sense in doing dat,” growled Jethro, who dared not leave
the side of his comrade and master.

Less than fifteen minutes later the two rode round the bend in the
path. Alden passed slightly ahead of his companion, but his pony had
taken less than a dozen steps, when he sharply drew the rein with a
startled exclamation.

He did not need to add anything by way of explanation. No more than
a hundred yards distant the pony of Dick Lightfoot was standing
motionless, with his head upraised and staring in alarm at the opposite
bluffs. Not ten feet from his hoofs lay his master on the ground face
downward. An Indian arrow projecting from his back, the feathered end
pointing toward the sky, told its dreadful story.



                             CHAPTER XIII

                        “THAT’S JUST LIKE HIM!”


Alden Payne and Jethro Mix stared in silence for several seconds. Then
the terrified negro gasped in a husky voice:

“Let’s run like blazes!”

The appeal roused his master. He glanced from the pony and the prostrate
rider to the opposite bluffs, and at every hiding place of an enemy in
his field of vision. Since the tragedy had taken place within the last
few minutes, the criminal could not be far off.

There was the vast, precipitous gorge along the side of which wound the
broad path that had been traversed by hundreds of men and animals, and
along which the Express Riders had galloped at headlong speed times
without number. There were scores of places among the towering rocks
and piles of stone that would hide a host of miscreants from sight.
The fatal arrow might have been launched from any one of them, and the
youth could not guess which. At any rate no dusky head showed itself.
The weapon that had been used gave out no sound and whether there was
one assassin or a dozen must remain unknown to Alden.

The feeling which succeeded the first horrifying shock was one of
profound pity for the victim. Young, vigorous, full of bounding life
and hope, his cheering words lingered yet in the ears of the couple,
and here he lay on the ground his life driven out by the arrow launched
by a demon in wantonness, for Dick Lightfoot had never harmed a hair in
the head of one of his kind.

Jethro was almost speechless, for he expected other deadly missiles
to hurtle through the air at him and his companion. The chances as
the negro viewed them were a hundred to one that the two would never
leave the spot alive; at any rate they would not do so if they tarried
another minute. But he dared not go of his own accord and knew better
than to protest to Alden.

Some idea of what had taken place must have passed through the
intelligent brain of the Express Rider’s pony. He had stopped suddenly
when his master fell from the saddle, and one could almost fancy
his reproving grief when he looked around in quest of the cruel
slayer. Seeing no one, he walked slowly back to the senseless form,
and lowering his nose began snuffing at it, as if he did not quite
understand it all.

Without a word, Alden Payne slipped off his horse and stooped over the
body. “Dick” did not notice him, but kept up his snuffing as if begging
an answer. Alden reached down and grasping the shoulder, carefully
turned over the still warm body. An Indian arrow driven with infernal
force and accuracy, had done its work. The point had passed clean
through, piercing the heart in its passage. Dick Lightfoot had died
instantly.

“Poor fellow!” murmured Alden; “a lightning stroke could not have
brought you down more suddenly. In the few minutes we were together I
learned to like you, and this is the end.”

In the shock of the sorrowful occurrence Alden Payne could not forget
the perilous situation of himself and companion. It was foolhardy to
stay where they were, for beyond doubt they were exposed to the same
danger. Alden’s delay was caused by the question whether he could do
any service in the circumstances. His first thought was of lifting the
body to the back of his horse, and either riding or walking beside it
to camp. Then he feared that such action would call down an attack on
him and Jethro and defeat its purpose.

“I’ll leave the body here till our folks come up, when they can give it
burial; or Shagbark and several of us will come forward and bring it
away to-night.”

The probability of such purpose failing led Alden to search the
clothing. He took out a small gold watch, several letters and a trifling
amount of money which he carefully placed in his own pockets. The sad
duty finished he straightened and was on the point of remounting beside
his trembling companion, when a thought flashed upon him.

“Jeth, I’m going to take his place!”

The stare of the African showed he did not understand.

“We’ll bofe take his place if we wait here any longer!” he stammered.

“I’m going to ride his pony to the next station and deliver the mail
for him.”

Even then Jethro was bewildered by the words of his companion.

“W-what you driving at, Al? Talk English, won’t you?”

Knowing that in this case actions were clearer than words, Alden spoke
gently to Dick, rubbed his nose, patted his neck, and then placing the
toe of his foot in the stirrup swung himself into the saddle. The mail
pouches had not been disturbed, and the new rider was ready to take up
the duty of Dick Lightfoot where he had laid it down forever.

“You doan’ mean dat _you’s_ gwine to try to ride to de next station on
dat horse!” exclaimed the astonished Jethro.

“I shall try it, Jeth; you will take Firebug to camp and tell Shagbark,
Mr. Fleming and the rest what I have done.”

“You can’t mean it, Al! What’s de matter wid you; I knowed you war a
fool but nebber thought you was such a big one as dis.”

The situation did not permit any offense. “You doan’ know de way!”
added Jethro desperately.

“You heard Lightfoot say his pony knows every foot of it; I shall leave
that part of the business to him.”

“But――but,” sputtered the African, “what’s gwine to come ob _me_?”

This after all was the crucial question. Jethro was alarmed more for
his own safety than because of anything else.

Despite the tense situation, Alden lost patience.

“You have a better chance than I; I’m going into danger and you are
going out of it; off with you without another word!”

Alden turned the head of Firebug down the trail and slapped his haunch.
The animal started away at once on a brisk trot, knowing what was
required of him. Then his master handed his rifle to Jethro. He had
picked up the weapon from the ground near the body, but did not take
the revolver of the fallen man.

“That gives you two guns; this one is better than mine and I’ll use it.”

Without another word, he jerked the reins sharply and spoke to the pony:

“Now, Dick, show what you can do!”

Everything was clear to the sagacious animal, who sped away like an
arrow for the station miles distant.

“Ob all de disprobous treatment dis am de wust I eber had,” growled
Jethro, who started Jilk down the trail after Firebug, who was now
a number of rods distant. That the dusky horseman was in a state of
terror need not be repeated. He forced his animal to a pace that
quickly brought him beside the other.

“Go it, Firebug!” he called, and the pony changed his trot to a gallop
which carried him swiftly down the incline, with Jilk at his heels. “I
’spose our folks am ’bout sebenteen thousand miles back somewhere and
it’ll take me a week to find ’em if I got de chance.”

It was like running the gauntlet, when the endangered one expects a
fatal blow at every step and is pretty sure to receive it. Jethro
glanced to the right and left, over his shoulder and in advance.

The incline made the traveling easy. After reaching the level, there
was no reason why the headlong pace should not be kept up for the
remainder of the distance to the train.

Amid the fluttering hope and dread, the African nearly pitched from
the saddle, when several whoops rang out in the stillness. He was so
terrified he could not tell the direction whence they came, but he
thought it was from the rear. He drove Jilk to his highest speed and
Firebug increased his pace correspondingly.

The next instant the whoops sounded again, but they came from the front!

“Gorrynation!” gasped Jethro drawing on his bridle rein; “dey am on
ebery side; de only way out ob dis muss is for Jilk to climb up de
sides ob de rocks.”

Could he have believed he was not in plain view of his enemies, Jethro
would have leaped from his saddle and hidden himself. He thought of
doing it as matters stood, but dared not.

The quick glances to the right and left of the gorge failed to show him
any one of his enemies, but he knew they were there. Had there been any
doubt as to that it vanished the next moment when an arrow flitted like
a swallow between him and the streaming forelock of his pony.

“I’m a goner!” he wailed, throwing himself forward so as to be as flat
as possible on the back of his animal.

He reflected that the missile had passed in front of him, so that it
looked as if he were placing himself nearer the path of other similar
missiles. But he was going all the time, and the next one would
possibly go behind, or more likely through him.

It will be remembered that he had a loaded rifle in either hand. Had
he carried out his first idea and dashed for refuge behind one of the
nearest boulders, he ought to have been able to put up a good fight and
stand off the redskins until the sounds of firing brought Shagbark and
his friends to his relief, but Jethro lacked courage to try the scheme.

So long as the authors of the yells did not appear in the gorge in
front, he had a faint hope of being able to get through to camp. It
must be done, however, by forcing the speed, which he proceeded to do.

Aside from the horror of being struck, was the dread that Jilk might be
disabled. If that calamity should befall, Jethro would then skurry to
some hiding place and make the best defense he could. So long as his
pony was capable of running, he was not spared.

Firebug was naturally fleeter than Jilk, and having no burden to
carry, easily held his place some yards in front. He was traveling
with a speed which caused mane and tail to stream out, while the loose
stirrups dangled and flew about against the ribs of the animal.

Jethro’s hopes rose with every rod passed.

“Dem sarpents hain’t got any critters dat can trabel like ourn, and
bime by, Jilk, we’ll be out ob de woods ef dere ain’t more ob ’em
waiting down de gorge――”

A sharp twinge in the back thrilled him.

“_I’m hit!_” he exclaimed faintly; “dey hab sarbed me de same way dat
dey sarbed dat Express Rider; dey’re after my scalp but I’ll stick in
de saddle till I reaches Mr. Shagbark, ef I doan’ die afore.”

In the ecstasy of terror he glanced down his breast, for he had partly
straightened up a moment before he felt the pain. He expected to see
the pointed bit of flint sticking out in front, but did not.

“It didn’t go cl’ar frough, but it’s jest as bad; I can’t lib more dan
a few minutes; go it, Jilk!”

Once again the tremulous whoops sounded above the clumping of the
ponies’ hoofs, but they came this time from the rear. Except for that
sudden twinge in his back, Jethro would have felt a renewal of hope. At
the same time he could not be certain he would not run into a score or
more of his enemies.

A half mile was speedily passed and not another throbbing yell reached
his ears. Jethro sat upright in his saddle, and a few minutes later
shifting the two guns to his left hand, reached his right around to
grasp the shaft of the arrow and draw it forth.

To his amazement he could not feel it. He was able to grope with the
hand, from between his shoulder blades to the saddle. Especially the
spot where the twinge had been felt was examined. He touched naught but
the smooth back of his coat.

“It must have drapped out,” he muttered with a wild hope; “dat’s mighty
qu’ar,” he added; “de pain ain’t dere any more but has gone inter de
big toe ob my right fut.”

In his whimsical mood he glanced down at the shoe in the stirrup.
Nothing was the matter there.

“I hain’t been hit at all!” he exclaimed with a new thrill this time of
unalloyed bliss; “it must hab been de rheumatics dat shifted to my toe.”

Certain it was that he had not been so much as grazed by any of the
arrows that the prowling redskins had discharged at him.

Ten minutes later as he swept round another turn in the gorge, he saw
Shagbark riding a little way in front of the train. Inasmuch as the
emigrants and Jethro were approaching each other, the distance had
been considerably shortened thereby.

Shagbark the veteran never showed more amazement and fear, than when
he caught sight of the riderless Firebug galloping toward him with the
negro close behind. He stopped his horse, threw up his head and stared.
Before Jethro could check his pony, the hunter demanded:

“What’s the matter? What does it all mean; whar’s the younker?”

“Dead!” was the fearful reply.

“How did it happen?”

Abner Fleming and several others caught sight of the African and rode
hurriedly forward.

Jethro had halted his panting animal and replied:

“Ain’t sartin he’s dead, but dere ain’t much doubt ob it.”

“What bus’ness have ye to be here if anything went wrong with the
younker?” thundered the hunter, with a dangerous glitter in his eyes;
“why did ye leave him?”

“He made me come back wid Firebug, Mr. Shagbark,” explained the servant.

Finally, after a score of questions, Jethro made plain what had
happened. Every one listened with breathless attention. When it was
understood, Shagbark chuckled:

“So the younker took the place of the Express Rider, eh? Wal, he’ll git
through all right, but I say that’s jest like him; there’s good stuff
in _that_ chap.”



                              CHAPTER XIV

                         AN ALARMING SITUATION


Meanwhile Alden Payne had entered upon the most stirring experience of
his life.

In a twinkling, as may be said, he was transformed from an emigrant
plodding his way across the continent to a Pony Express Rider, whose
sole effort was to skim over the dangerous ground at the topmost
speed to which his swift pony could be forced. “Get ahead in spite of
everything,” was the motto of those daring fellows.

It was a sudden impulse that led the youth to make this perilous
venture, but it is almost certain that, had he been given hours in
which to consider the plan, he would have done precisely what he did do.

It is in the momentous crises of a person’s career that he often
becomes sensible to trifles which would pass unnoticed at other times.
The moment Alden set off with the small rifle of the stricken rider
grasped in his left hand and the reins held loosely in his right, he
noticed several things. He knew he was twenty or thirty pounds heavier
than Dick Lightfoot. The saddle, although of the same kind as his own,
still felt a little different. The stirrup straps were an inch or two
shorter than those to which he was accustomed, but he decided to waste
no time in shifting the buckles. The rifle was lighter than his weapon,
for we know those men sacrificed everything possible to gain lightness.
If an anxious correspondent offered a big price to the carrier to
accept a thin missive after the pouch had been made up, he was refused
and obliged to wait for the next messenger.

The riders of course used spurs though they were not often necessary.
The animal knew what was expected of him and gave it willingly. Covered
with foam and dust, with his sides heaving, he thundered up to the
station where rest was awaiting him, after which he was ready to bound
away on the wings of the wind again. Often his master passed through
the most frightful perils without shouting a command to his pony. A
pressure of the knee, the gentlest pull on the rein, or perhaps a
soft exclamation was enough: he obeyed with unerring instinct. As Dick
Lightfoot declared, the animals came to know the routes better than
their riders. When Theodore Rand covered the 110 miles between Box
Elder and Julesburg, he always did it by night.

It made no difference whether the sun was shining overhead or the stars
twinkled faintly or not at all. The rain might descend in torrents,
hail, snow and sleet might batter horse and rider like fine birdshot,
and the temperature might drop below zero, or throb with heat, still
rider and horse who were like one creature must plunge on and ever on,
so long as muscle and nerve could stand the terrific strain.[B]

[B] One of the Express Riders made the run from St. Joe to Denver,
625 miles, in two days and twenty-one hours. Within five miles of
Guittard’s Station, Will Bolton’s horse was disabled. He abandoned
the animal and with the mail pouches slung over his shoulder, trotted
to the next station, remounted and completed his run with only a
small loss of time. J. H. Keetley, now a prosperous merchant of Salt
Lake City, was an Express Rider from the opening to the close of the
service. He once rode 300 miles in twenty-four hours, stopping only
to change horses. Robert Haslam, remembered through the West as “Pony
Bob,” is a genial, prosperous citizen of Chicago, associated in the
management of the Congress Hall organization. In his younger days he
performed many astonishing feats as an Express Rider. He was twice
wounded by Indians, made the speediest 190 miles on record, and for
six months covered daily the run between Reno, Nevada, and Virginia
City, a distance of twenty-three miles, well within an hour. He used
fifteen horses on each run. How those old timers could ride and if
necessary fight! I add the following extract from an interesting letter
received by me from Mr. Haslam:

                                         “CHICAGO, Dec. 28, 1908.

    “Very few of the old Pony Express Riders ever carried a rifle
    of any description from start to finish. I once purchased a
    Spencer from a deserter from Fort Bridger, paying him $20. This
    was in 1861. The weapon was a breech-loader with seven shots. I
    always carried a Colt’s revolver with two cylinders, and often
    had to use both of them. I made sure that the pistol was fully
    loaded when I started. Caps were employed, and the revolver was
    loaded by means of a ramrod attached to it. After the Spencer
    came the Sharp, seven-shooter, repeating breech-loader with
    cartridges. My Spencer weighed about seven and a half pounds,
    but I never used it on the Express. When I was messenger from
    Salt Lake to Denver in the service of Wells Fargo & Co. I
    carried a short double-barreled shotgun with buckshot and later
    a Winchester 16-shooter. When in the government service in
    Porto Rico and the Philippines, all the weapon I carried was a
    Colt’s improved double action revolver.”


Now Alden Payne would not have had a tithe of the sense with which we
have credited him all along, if he had forgotten for one moment the
peril which he faced from the moment he came up with the inanimate form
of Dick Lightfoot. The turning back of Jethro Mix, and the shift from
one saddle to the other had taken only two or three minutes. In the
mean time, if there was any danger of thoughtlessness, it was removed
by the sight of that feathered shaft protruding from the back of the
poor fellow who lay on the flinty earth.

The reasonable supposition was that the redskin who had discharged
the missile was in a position to drive others with equal deadliness
and that he would do so. In all probability there were more than one
of them. Why the African youth was permitted to ride away unmolested,
and Alden Payne to climb into the saddle without harm would be hard to
explain, but such was the fact.

Alden kept looking across the gorge and at all the points from which a
missile might come. He saw nothing which was not strange, but before
he could give the word to Dick an arrow whizzed in front of his face
so close that he blinked. Rather curiously the emotion roused by this
occurrence was that of flaming rage. We know Alden had a quick temper.
Had it been otherwise, he would not have dared to do what he did the
next minute.

When he glanced across the ravine, he saw his man, or rather two men.
The warriors had risen from behind an immense rock, the head and
shoulders of one showing while the other stood fully revealed in the
open. It looked as if he despised the youth and was challenging him to
do his worst.

That one quick glance showed Alden that the redskin thus exposed was
fitting another arrow to the string of his bow. His companion seemed to
be acting the part of spectator.

“Two can play at that game!” muttered Alden, bringing the rifle of
Dick Lightfoot to his shoulder and sighting at the miscreant. He had
noticed the straggling black hair of his foe, which dangled about his
shoulders, his naked chest and deerskin shirt. He was of squat form,
sturdy and enduring of frame, and a foe not to be despised by anyone.

Thus it came about that he and Alden Payne were aiming at each other
at the same moment. That which followed was unprecedented in its way.
The youth pulled trigger an instant before the other let fly. Had Alden
possessed his own gun, he would have brought down the redskin, for the
distance was not great, and we remember he was a fine marksman, but
the new weapon did not feel precisely like the one to which he was
accustomed. The two had not become fitted to each other.

As it was, the bullet struck the forearm of the Indian and inflicted a
sharp wound. It was the arm which was grasping the middle of the bow,
and the hurt caused an involuntary twitch that spoiled the aim of the
archer. The arrow, instead of speeding straight for the heart of the
youth, whizzed high in air, circled grotesquely over and struck a rock
fifty feet away from him. It was a lucky escape, and Alden lost not a
second in taking advantage of it.

Throwing his head forward on the neck of his pony, he yanked the reins
and called:

“Go it, old fellow!”

The creature understood. He leaped twenty feet, as if he had been
hurled from a springboard and away he sped.

It is more than probable that the second Indian launched an arrow after
the skurrying horseman, though Alden Payne had no means of knowing. A
grim fancy came to the youth that if his enemy had done so, the pony
outran the missile.

A brief dash carried Alden beyond sight of his enemies, though he was
likely to encounter others. He partly straightened up in his saddle
and looked to the right and left. With relief unspeakable, he suddenly
debouched from the broad gorge he had been following, into a wide
plateau. On the right, it wound to the foothills a long distance away
and stretched as far as the vision could reach to the left. Some three
or four miles straight ahead, the comparatively level plain swept until
it entered the hills again, beyond which could be seen the snowy peaks
of a lofty mountain range.

The plateau must not be looked upon as a smooth plain, for here and
there it took a rolling form with arroyos and occasionally boulders
that had to be skirted, but, compared with most of the country to the
rear, it was an ideal course for a horse and his rider.

And how the pony did go! With a snort he flirted his head, as if he
would shake off everything that held him back as easily as he blew
aside the fleck of foam that alighted like a snowflake on the knee of
his rider. With nose outstretched, mane and tail flying, and the play
of each muscle like the working of a splendid machine, he flung the
miles to the rear with a rapidity that was almost incredible.

Almost in the same instant that the pony’s hoofs hit the plateau,
the graceful limbs struck an astounding speed. Alden had no means of
knowing the rate attained, but it must have been twenty-five miles an
hour. It seemed more than bone and muscle could hold, and yet such was
the animal’s perfection of form that he showed no apparent increase of
effort. The still air was fanned into a gale which cut the face of the
rider and made him contract his eyelashes and catch his breath. He did
not try to restrain the peerless steed, for the animal, not Alden, was
now the master.

“I can understand what poor Dick Lightfoot meant when he said he
enjoyed this life more than anything else in the world,” thought Alden
as his blood danced. “What delight this would be if the pony could keep
it up for hours.”

And he would have done it had the ground continued favorable. It was
through such seizure of chances that the wonderful system of the Pony
Express Riders amazed the country throughout the months the service
lasted, until the telegraph and afterward the railway put it out of
business.

Alden kept up the policy of leaving everything to the pony. The reins
dangled loose upon the moist satin neck, and the rider did not speak.
Looking down at the stony ground he now and then caught glimpses of
hoof prints, showing that others had traveled the way before him.
Generally the path as it might be called was so wide that only now and
then did the ponies travel in one another’s footsteps.

Alden reflected that the distance from his starting point to the next
station westward was eight miles or so. He calculated that it would
be covered in the course of the next half hour, always provided no
“obstacle” was encountered.

“No matter how fast we go, this mail must be late; there is no making
up the time already lost.”

Obeying that instinct which often touches reason in the horse, Dick
slackened his speed of his own accord, as he approached the boundary
of the plateau where the ground not only became rougher but inclined
upward at a rather stiff grade. Still his gait was a run, and swifter
than is often seen. So long as he could maintain it he would do so.

The long summer afternoon was drawing to a close, but Alden ought to
reach the station well before sunset. As he figured it he would change
horses there, cover another run of about a dozen miles, change again
and complete his task at a point something over thirty miles from where
Dick Lightfoot had begun it.

This was on the supposition that the men connected with the service
would permit the youth to finish the task he had voluntarily taken upon
himself. It would seem that they would forbid the innovation, when
all the circumstances are remembered, but that remained to be seen.
Sufficient unto the hour was the work before him.

With the slackening of pace, Alden scanned the ground in front. The
course did not lead between cliffs and high precipices, as was the
case where he began his journey, but it was as if the same plateau had
taken an upward slope and gained many more boulders and masses of rock
in doing so. A horse might keep straight on or swerve to the right or
left. There seemed to be any number of routes.

For the first time the youth interfered with the pace of his animal.
Certain that he would exhaust himself by running up the slope, Alden
pulled gently on the rein. The pony flirted his head impatiently and
refused to put on the brakes.

“Your nerve will kill you,” said the rider, resigning the attempt for
the moment.

The incline grew steeper. Alden pulled harder and the pony dropped to a
walk, but plainly he did not like it.

“No use, Dick; I shan’t let you kill yourself; you forget that I’m
heavier than your late master and it is cruelty to allow you to gallop
up hill.”

The rocks became so plentiful that the rider could not see far ahead or
on either hand. He reflected that the neighborhood must be a tempting
one to redskins or road agents, for the latter class of criminals was
one of the pests of overland travel in the early days.

Less than half a mile to the left and in advance, rose a range or spur
to the height of several hundred feet. It swept round to the northward,
so that if the rider kept straight on, he must cross it, or make a long
detour to the northeast.

With Dick on a walk, Alden scanned each point of the compass, not
forgetting the instruction of Shagbark always to look to the rear, for
in that part of the world, danger comes from one direction as often as
from the other.

While scrutinizing the ridge which showed a considerable growth of
dwarfed pine, Alden was startled to observe a thin column of smoke
issuing from a point on the crest. The bluish vapor climbed straight up
into the clear sky, where it slowly dissolved. Its course showed that
not the slightest breeze was blowing.

“It looks like an Indian signal,” he thought; “I wonder if it has
anything to do with _me_.”

He brought his binocular to the front and raised it to his eyes. Little
resulted from the action. The fire which caused the vapor was burning
behind a rock, beyond reach of the glass. He could not catch the
faintest sight of it.

The natural supposition was that if this finger of smoke was a signal
from one party of red men to another, something would show in the
nature of a reply. He swept every point of the horizon with the
instrument, but that which he dreaded to see he did not discover. Still
this fact might signify nothing.

Alden could not rid himself of the fear that the signal referred to
him. Its precise meaning was beyond guessing. Shagbark might have
solved the puzzle, but his young friend could not.

“There may be a party of Indians camping on my trail and this is to let
them know where they will find me. Perhaps it tells them they needn’t
bother, for those in front have fixed things so as to gather me in; or
possibly――but what’s the use?” he demanded impatiently, realizing that
it was worse than useless to launch out upon such a sea of speculation.

The pony showed a wish to resume his gallop, even though the incline
continued, but his rider would not permit.

“I may be wrong,” he reflected, “but I’m too merciful――”

To his amazement, Dick at that moment suddenly came to a full stop.
Not only that, but he threw up his head, thrust his ears forward and
snorted. He had made some alarming discovery. What could it be?

The startled Alden glanced ahead. The rocks and boulders still cut
off his view, and he could not see clearly for a hundred yards in any
direction.

The signs of alarm on the part of the pony increased. He snorted louder
and began backing, showing an inclination to whirl about and dash off.
Alden patted his neck and spoke soothingly, but could not quiet him.

“He knows a good deal more than I do,” said the youth to himself.

Then, yielding to an impulse natural in the circumstances, Alden deftly
slipped from the saddle and ran a few paces to the nearest rock behind
which he crouched. The pony thus relieved of his burden, swung around
as if on a pivot and dashed toward the plateau.

“He scented a party of Indians; they will be here in a minute or two.
Heavens! how came I to overlook it?”

The exclamation was caused by the discovery that after firing at the
dusky archer in the ravine, he had neglected to reload his rifle, a
piece of forgetfulness for which Shagbark never would have forgiven him.

Alden drew a bullet from his pouch with which to repair the blunder,
and then when he tried to force it down the muzzle, he made a
terrifying discovery. He had failed to take the pouch from the body
of Dick Lightfoot. His own bullets were too large for the bore of the
smaller weapon, which was of no more use to him than a stick of wood!



                              CHAPTER XV

                       NOW FOR THE MAIL STATION


No wonder Alden Payne was rattled. Who wouldn’t be thrown into a panic
by the discovery of his helplessness in so dangerous a situation?

Moreover, Dick Lightfoot’s revolver was with his body. Still the
youth had his own small weapon which he carried at his hip, where he
could draw it the instant needed. Besides this he had his hunting
knife, which would be of little help in the circumstances. He might
do something in the way of defense with his pistol, but of what avail
against a party of Indians armed with rifles, or possibly bows and
arrows? All they would have to do would be to remain beyond his range
and “snipe” him at their leisure.

The only desperate hope which flashed upon him was that the red men had
not seen him leap from the saddle and dash for the boulder. But even in
that case, they could not fail to notice that the pony was riderless
and they would understand why.

He tried to force the bullet down the barrel of the gun. In vain; then
he savagely strove to chew it down to the right size. If he succeeded
with one missile before he could compress a second into shape the
crisis would be upon him.

He had just inserted the metal between his molars in the despairing
effort to reduce the size of the same, when his hair almost lifted the
hat from his head. From the direction of the trail came a guttural
whoofing sound, its repetition showing that the cause was drawing
nearer.

Before he could guess what the curious noise meant his eyes told him
the truth. An enormous bear, dark in color, came swinging forward from
the direction of the ridge. His waddling, lumbering gait, and his vast
bulk left no doubt of his identity. In any circumstances he would have
been a most formidable foe to meet.

“It’s a grizzly!” whispered Alden, shrinking behind the boulder so low
that only by taking off his hat was he barely able to peer over.

In one sense the discovery was a relief, for it explained the panic of
the pony. Better a dozen grizzly bears than half as many Indians.

Alden’s belief was that the monstrous animal would keep on with his
ponderous gait in the grotesque attempt to overtake the fleet footed
horse which was safe beyond his reach; but to the consternation of
the watcher the brute halted at the very spot where the fugitive had
landed when he dropped from the saddle. He snuffed the ground as if he
suspected the truth.

“By gracious!” gasped Alden, who now lowered his head and peeped round
the side of the boulder, “he has scented me.”

It did have that look and dropping his rifle, he drew his revolver.

“I wonder if he will mind a little thing like this. Shagbark said it
took several rifle bullets to slay a grizzly. If that’s so, he’ll laugh
at my weapon, but he’ll have to move lively if he beats me dodging
round this rock.”

The scent of the _ursus_ species is by no means as fine as that of
many other animals, but this one unquestionably was on the track of
_something_ and it looked very much as if that something was an
American youngster crouching behind a boulder a few rods off and scared
almost out of his wits.

The bear suddenly raised his head and dipped his snout forward in
several directions one after the other, snuffing as if he knew
something was in the wind. Back and forth the huge front swayed until
in a minute or two it remained pointed directly at the boulder! It
suggested an immense canine that had flushed its game.

“No use; he’s after me!” decided Alden, who now glanced about in quest
of a tree which he might climb. Afraid even to peer around the edge of
his hiding place, lest he should betray himself, he drew back, grasped
his revolver and held his breath as he listened with all the intentness
at his command.

For a few seconds he did not hear the slightest sound. His heart
fluttered with renewed hope. The beast must be moving off. Probably he
had caught sight of the pony and was making after him.

“He can’t know I’m here; all I have to do is to wait.”

Uneasy over the stillness, Alden slowly straightened up until he could
once more look over the top of the boulder. Could he believe his eyes?
The bear was not ten paces distant and swinging straight toward him!
The fact that just then he emitted another of his whiffing grunts made
it appear that he had seen the youngster and was congratulating himself
upon the certainty of a dainty tidbit for supper.

Alden had to decide quickly, for in another minute the gigantic brute
would be upon him. His decision was to wait until only the breadth of
the boulder separated them and then blaze away with all the chambers of
his pistol in instant succession. He would aim at the eyes and head,
and would not miss with a single bullet. That would check him for a
few moments if the discharge did not bowl him over. The interval thus
gained would be improved by the young man to the utmost. He would make
a lightning-like change of base in the hope of securing a better refuge.

It was a splendid pose that the youth took in the same minute. The
rifle lay on the ground, and his right arm rested on the surface of the
rock which was as high as his shoulders. The main weight of his body
was supported on his right foot which was advanced like a runner about
to start on a race. The left arm hung to his hip while the other lay
on the top of the rock, and was extended full length, the hand closed
around the butt of a revolver which was leveled at the mountainous
brute, lumbering heavily forward with his head swinging from side to
side. His piggish eyes were fixed upon the brave lad who saw the horrid
front, the great red jaws parted, the slobbering tongue lolling out and
the teeth showing. He had discovered his prey and was going for it with
unshakable resolution.

The next instant it was _bang_, _bang_――five times in succession, and
the metal cones buried themselves in that bulk as if it were a colossal
cushion. That the missiles did harm was beyond question, but they did
not stop the advance of the bear. The wounds would likely prove mortal
sooner or later, but not soon enough to save Alden Payne.

He was on the point of wheeling and dashing off, with no clear idea of
the direction to take, when another report rang out. It was that of a
rifle, whose bullet went straight to the seat of life. With a snarling
growl, the bear reared on his hind legs and clawed at the wounds made
by the revolver bullets, as if he thought they were splinters which he
tried to pluck out.

It was the rifle ball that settled the business. He sagged over on
his side, struck and kicked for a few seconds and then the prodigious
carcass lay still, for he was as dead as Julius Cæsar.

From the same direction that the bear had come, advanced a Pony Express
Rider, with smoking rifle in hand. He had arrived in the nick of time
and could not have asked a fairer target than that presented by the
brute. The man, however, did not know whom he had saved, until Alden
Payne came from behind the boulder and confronted him. Then he reined
up and looked wonderingly at the youth.

“Who the mischief are you?” he asked, as Alden appeared.

“A young fellow in need of the help you gave.”

“How comes it you’re on foot and in this fix?”

Alden hastily explained.

“So Dick Lightfoot’s dead, eh? Too bad; where did you leave him?”

“Two or three miles back; he was shot from his pony by an Indian arrow.”

“Where’s his pony?”

“He made off when I sprang from the saddle and hid here.”

“Umph! never run from a bear like that.”

“I never met a grizzly before.”

“And you didn’t meet one this time: only an ordinary black bear. Why
didn’t you use your rifle?” asked the rider, with a glance at the
weapon on the ground.

“My bullets don’t fit.”

The horseman scrutinized the gun.

“Why it’s Dick’s; you didn’t think to take his bullets; I can let you
have a few; you may need ’em before you reach the station.”

He deftly extracted a half dozen which he passed to the grateful Alden.

“Don’t lose any time in reloading, which reminds me.”

And he proceeded to recharge his own weapon.

During this brief chat, it struck Alden that the man resembled in looks
and voice the rider who lay on the ground several miles away. The alert
manner and crisp way of speaking were the same.

“You are about the weight of Lightfoot and have much his appearance.”

“Umph! I ought to; I’m his brother.”

He snatched out a small watch and glanced at it.

“I’ll be hanged! I’ve lost six minutes; I must be off; bye-bye.”

He touched the flanks of his pony with his spurs, and the animal
bounded away at full speed. Almost immediately he disappeared.

To put it mildly, Alden Payne was surprised. Here was a man who
received the news of his brother’s death without a sign of emotion, and
yet doubtless he felt it deeply. But it was all a part of the game. The
living brother might pass over the Great Divide in a brief while and
join the other. Such was the life of the Pony Express Rider.

Alden would have liked to ask the man more questions, had time
permitted. He would have turned over the possessions taken from the
fallen man, had he thought of it. He wished to ask him about that
signal smoke which still stained the sky in front and the rider could
have given him valuable suggestions.

It was too late now. The opportunity was gone and the youth must think
for himself. Six or eight miles remained to be traversed through a
dangerous country and he was on foot. The pony had fled and he doubted
whether he could be recovered.

“He has the mail with him and may take it into his head to go to the
station without me,” was the thought of Alden, as he turned back over
the trail. The hoof prints left by the animal showed clearly in the
ground and it was easy to follow them.

A little way and he came to where the open space broadened. His vision
widened and the first survey showed him Dick quietly cropping the
grass, as if nothing unusual had happened to him. His side was toward
Alden, who whistled.

The pony lifted his head, with the blades of grass dripping from his
jaws, and looked questioningly at the youth, who whistled again and
walked in his direction.

It would be interesting could we know what whims passed through the
brain of the animal which was one of the most intelligent of his
species. The Express Riders used so many horses and were forced by
circumstances to shift so often from one to the other, that not often
was any special affection formed between the human and brute. In other
instances, the fondness was deep and the two stuck to each other
whenever and wherever it was possible to do so.

Dick in his own way must have mourned the loss of his master when he
tumbled from the saddle, but he accepted the substitute in the minute
that he appeared, and yielded the same obedience to one as to the
other. Brief as had been the pony’s service, he like his companions,
had imbibed the fact that his one duty in life was to carry the mail
pouches with the highest speed at his command, and that such service
was to be performed under the guidance of the man who sat on his back.

When Dick, therefore, heard the whistle and recognized the youth, he
paused only long enough to make sure there was no mistake, and then
with a neigh of pleasure, he trotted toward him. As the two met, Alden
patted the animal’s nose and spoke affectionately:

“Good Dick! you’re worth your weight in gold; I should be in a bad fix
without you.”

He sprang into the saddle. He had hardly settled in his seat when the
pony broke into a trot, which quickly rose to a gallop, though it was
not a dead run. That would come very soon.

The observant Alden noted one fact: the horse did not take the course
which he was following when alarmed by the approach of the black bear.
He veered well to the left, thus leaving the carcass out of sight in
the other direction. His kind dread a dead bear almost as much as a
live one.

The action of Dick confirmed what his new master had suspected from the
first: the route to the station was not over a single, narrow trail to
which the riders confined themselves, but covered an area that gave
wide latitude. That he took the path which was taken by the man who
saved him from the bear was one of those providential occurrences that
are more common in this life than most people believe.

The emigrant trains were disposed to keep to certain paths, where the
face of the country compelled a closing in, but in other sections the
respective courses were separated by miles, and, as has been shown
the parties plodding across the plains, even though their routes were
parallel, were often so far apart that for days they saw nothing of one
another. Even the twinkle of their camp fires were too far over the
“convex world,” to be visible.

Alden Payne could not free himself from the belief that it was safer
to hold Dick down to a moderate pace than to give him free rein. The
mail was already hopelessly behind time,――a fact which did not concern
him――though he was determined to deliver it at the station if it were
possible for him to do so. This could be done before dark with the pony
on a trot or walk.

The feeling of the young Express Rider was natural. When drawing near a
point where danger is suspected, we prefer to do so at the most guarded
pace. With all of Dick’s sagacity he was more likely to go wrong when
on a run than when on a walk.

The animal must have felt much as did the trained dog, who, having
pointed a bird, was picked up by his new and sympathetic master and
carried off the field, under the belief that he had been suddenly taken
with cramps. Dick gathered his hoofs several times and broke into an
impatient gallop, only to be drawn down again to a trot which finally
dropped to a rapid walk. He gave up the dispute in disgust and by his
action said:

“All right; if you think you know more than I do, you may run things.”

It did not add to Alden’s serenity of mind to notice that the course
was gradually shifting to the left, and finally led directly toward the
brush of smoke which still stained the blue tinted sky.

All manner of thoughts crowded upon him. The one hopeful truth was that
the living Lightfoot had come over the route unharmed within the last
hour. It would seem that Alden ought to be as fortunate as he. Ah!
if he had only had time to question the rider who might have passed
through a brush with the redskins!

Another fact gave basis for vague hope: a scrutiny of the whole horizon
showed no answering signal. When Indians resort to such telegraphy, as
they often do on the plains and among the mountains, there are calls
and replies. It is on record that on one occasion the news of the
signing of an important treaty at Washington affecting the Sioux was
known to that tribe before the telegraphic messages could reach the
army officers at the reservation. It was carried westward by Indian
telegraphy which none of us fully understands, except that it seems
to be through signal fires from elevated positions. But in that case,
there must have been smoke or blaze visible at different points, as we
know was really the case.

But Alden Payne saw only the shadowy wisp of vapor in front of him, and
must wait to learn its full meaning. That knowledge could not be long
in coming.



                              CHAPTER XVI

                           CAUSE AND EFFECT


Alden was convinced from a study of the signal smoke that it was
gradually fading, as if the fire which caused it was not replenished.
What this signified, as well as the meaning of the display itself, was
beyond him.

When the interval between him and the danger point had dwindled to an
eighth of a mile, Dick did an almost incredible thing. Until then he
had shown no sign of seeing the warning. Suddenly he stopped, raised
his head, thrust his ears forward and looked steadily at the thin
column of vapor for several minutes. The reins lay on his neck and the
rider did not touch them.

The animal wheeled abruptly to the right and broke into a gallop. His
action showed that he read the signal smoke aright. Indians were there
and he must avoid them.

“I shall not interfere again with you,” said Alden admiringly; “you
know a hundred times more than I do of these matters.”

None the less, our young friend was uneasy. With all the pony’s
sagacity, it would not have been strange if he was outwitted. The dusky
enemies must have believed it was an experienced Express Rider who was
coming from the east, and it would seem likely to them that he would
direct his pony as the animal was now directing himself. If so, the
precaution could hardly be of avail.

The ground rapidly changed in character. Before Alden looked for it the
incline increased, and he was riding among boulders, rocks and dwarfed
pines. He felt a coolness too in the air, though the ridge did not rise
anywhere near to the snow line. Looking down at the ground he saw no
signs of others having passed the way before him. He was the pioneer in
that dismal solitude.

He was glad when the pony of his own accord dropped from the gallop to
his rapid, graceful walk. It was impossible for him to progress in a
straight line, and he was forever turning to the right or left, rarely
following a direct course for more than a few rods.

Alden could not help smiling when it looked for a moment as if Dick
had suddenly reached the end of his rope. He came opposite a mass of
rocks, amid which the twisted pines pushed out in all directions,
though ever striving to reach the vertical with their tops pointed
toward the zenith. To the right and left, the flinty boundary extended
beyond sight.

Without hesitation Dick turned to the left and walked briskly for a
dozen rods. The barrier still interposed. He stopped, wheeled about and
retraced his steps. He was searching for an opening or small pass, and
was not satisfied to approach any closer to the Indian signal.

Within less than the distance named, to the right of his first turn, he
found that for which he was looking. A gap showed and he entered it as
if it were a stable door that had been opened for him.

“What’s the use of placing a rider on your back, Dick?” asked the
delighted Alden. “Better to give you the mail pouch and tell you to
deliver it at the next station. But then mighty few ponies know as much
as you.”

How far this path led remained to be seen. But it had not been followed
far when Alden met an experience that was as unique as unexpected.
The appearance of the gorge suggested that a torrent of water poured
through it, when the snows melted or the floods descended. Its width
varied from fifty feet to two or three times that extent, and the
irregular walls rose on each side almost as many feet. If the course
lasted, it could not be more favorable.

The bottom of this peculiar ravine was broken at intervals by stones,
and then only pebbles showed. It would have been easy for Dick to dash
through on the gallop which seemed to be his natural gait, for it was
comparatively level, but he chose of his own accord to walk. He was
traveling round instead of crossing lots, as he had been accustomed
to do, and the incident promised to prove another illustration of the
proverb.

And then came the surprise. Dick had turned one of the many corners,
his head dipping with each vigorous step, when he flung up his nose
and snorted. The alert Alden in the same instant saw an Indian warrior
coming toward him.

The redskin was a duplicate of the one who had launched an arrow at
the youth several miles back. He had the same squat, sturdy figure,
the coarse black hair dangling about his bare shoulders, and growing
low upon his forehead, the naked chest, the frowsy hunting shirt of
deerskin, with leggings and dilapidated moccasins. He carried a knife
in the girdle about his waist, and his right hand grasped a heavy bow
as long as himself. Behind his left shoulder the feathered tips of a
number of arrows showed where he carried his quiver.

Neither the countenance nor chest displayed any of the paint of
which the American Indians are fond. It may be doubted whether the
vari-colored daubs would have added to the hideousness of that face,
which was broad with protuberant cheek bones, an immense mouth, low
forehead and piercing black eyes.

Never was a meeting between two persons more unexpected by both.
The Indian emitted a startled “_hooh!_” and stopped short, as if
transfixed. As late as the days to which I am referring hundreds of the
western red men used the bow and arrow instead of the rifle. This was
generally due to the difficulty of obtaining the modern weapon, but
in many instances it was choice on their part. It may be questioned
whether in the majority of cases, one was not as effective as the other.

The particular red man in whom we are now interested had a formidable
bow at command, and no doubt was an expert in its use, but before
discharging an arrow, he must snatch it from behind his shoulder, fit
it to the string and aim. Ere he could do all this the white youth
could bore him through a dozen times had he possessed that number of
guns. He had one which in the circumstances was as good as the larger
number.

Dick at sight of the redskin had also stopped. Thus he and the savage
faced each other as if the two were carved in stone. Alden was
quickwitted enough to bring his rifle to his shoulder and aim between
the ears of his pony. There was no mistake about it: he had “the drop”
on the other fellow.

And that other fellow knew it. He had been trained never to give or ask
quarter, and he did not ask for it now. Instead, he whirled about and
dashed off in a wild headlong flight. There was something grotesquely
comical in his performance, for instead of running in a straight line,
he leaped from side to side, stooped, dodged, and then straightened up
for a few seconds, during which his speed was amazing. He did not utter
a sound, but no miserable wretch ever strove more desperately to escape
the doom which he expected with every breath he drew.

Alden read the meaning of the odd actions. It was intended to distract
his aim. Few Indians are fools enough to resort to the trick, but the
Digger tribe sometimes do so.

When the warrior made off, Dick with a faint snort did the same. He was
in pursuit, and since no man ever lived who could outrun a good horse,
little chance was left for the fugitive.

Alden could have brought him down within the same moment that he
stopped. Most men in his situation would have done so, but the whole
thing was abhorrent to the youth. Only in self-defense would he shoot a
human being, as he had proved weeks before.

“I don’t want your life; if you will get out of my path I won’t hurt
you,” was the thought of Alden, who lowered his gun, but held it ready
to use on the instant it might become necessary. He feared that because
the shot was delayed, the Indian would turn and try to use his bow. In
that event, the youth would fire to kill.

He held himself ready to anticipate hostile action. He was so close
to the fleeing warrior and the air was so clear, that every trifle
about the fugitive was noticed. He observed that the sole of his right
moccasin was partly gone and flapped as he ran. Most of the ragged
fringe at the bottom of his shirt had been torn off, but a piece kept
fluttering about and hitting against his hip. The red men of the West
generally wore different clothing from the one described, but the
fugitive suggested a descent from those of his race who lived east of
the Alleghanies.

Alden noted the play of the muscles between the shoulders, where they
were not hidden by the bouncing quiver. The American Indian as a rule
is deficient in muscular development, but this one showed several
moderate ridges that doubled and shifted in response to the rhythmic
swinging of his arms. Each was bent at the elbow with the hand close to
the chest, like a professional runner, but the right hand was empty,
while the fingers of the left were closed about the huge bow which he
was obliged to hold diagonally before him, to prevent its interference
with his running. The tousled head was pushed forward, and at intervals
the redskin looked back. The glare of his black eyes through the meshes
of flying hair suggested an owl peering from behind a thicket.

Those backward glances were only for an instant but were continually
repeated. The swarthy face showed the terror of the fugitive, who must
have wondered why the fatal shot was delayed. Perhaps he thought his
pursuer meant to make him prisoner――a fate dreaded as much as death
itself.

The Indian ceased his side leaps and ducking, and gave the last ounce
of his strength to flight. He was running extraordinarily fast, but you
do not need to be told that he steadily lost ground before the rushing
pony. It was impossible for the man to get away by means of direct
flight.

Meanwhile, queer thoughts must have bothered Dick. He had brought
his new master within easy striking distance of his enemy and he did
nothing. Why did he not shoot and close the incident? Why did he wait
till the brief space was lessened still more?

The watchful Alden suddenly saw the right hand of the fugitive dart
over to the left shoulder, where the fingers fiddled for a moment. Then
they snapped out an arrow from the quiver and the missile vanished, as
it was brought round in front of his chest. Since the white man held
his fire, the red one meant to use his own weapon.

At the instant the Indian began fitting the shaft to the string while
still running, Alden shouted at the top of his voice. It was a warning
which was understood and went through the fugitive like an electric
shock. He bounded several feet in air, and dropped the arrow to the
ground, but he did not lessen the haste with which he was speeding in
order to pick it up.

All this occupied but a few brief minutes. The disgusted Dick had
carried his rider to within ten feet of the fugitive and now eased his
pace. The respective speed of each was the same. The pony had done his
part and refused to do more.

Alden Payne decided upon his course at the beginning of the race. He
would maintain the pursuit, allowing the Indian to hold his place a
little in advance until the end of the gorge was reached and the wretch
had the chance to dart aside. This, however, was not the end of the
most peculiar occurrence.

In his panic the redskin attempted the impossible. Fancying the pony
was upon his heels, and his rider about to reach over and seize or
strike him, he made a turn to the right, leaped high in air and grasped
the end of a projecting ledge of stone. Then with the same fierce
haste as before, he strove to draw himself over the edge to the narrow
support above. He succeeded, for the task was not difficult, but there
was not enough space to hide any portion of his body. He had room
barely to stand, and Alden could have picked him off as readily as when
he was fleeing before him. The poor wretch shrank as close as he could
against the wall and cowered and glared and awaited the bullet.

And Alden Payne, instead of harming him waved his hand and shouted:

“Good-by, old fellow! Give my love to your folks.”

It was a strange piece of jocularity, but the genial hearted youth
doubted whether it would be appreciated. Having gone by the warrior
he left him in the best possible position to discharge one of his
missiles, and according to the general rule, that is what he would
have done.

Much has been said and written about the gratitude of the American
Indian. That he sometimes displays that virtue cannot be denied, but
among the wild tribes of the plains, or Southwest, the rule is the
other way. I have referred to this elsewhere. The first person an
Apache strives to kill when the chance offers is he who has given him
bread and drink. He is as quick to bite the hand that has fed his
hunger as a rattlesnake is to strike the foot that crushes him.

It is a pleasure therefore to tell the truth regarding the Indian
(whose tribe Alden Payne never learned) that had been spared by the
amateur Pony Express Rider. He might have made it bad for the youth
who was riding from him, and who as a consequence could not keep an
eye upon his every movement. When Alden looked back as he did several
times, he saw the warrior still on his perch, and watching him, but the
huge bow in his hand was not raised nor was another arrow drawn to the
head, while the horseman was within reach of the primitive weapon.

This strange situation could last only a brief time. The speed of Dick
rapidly carried him and his rider beyond reach of any bow and arrow
ever devised. The gorge remained comparatively straight for quite a
way, and the mutual view lasted longer than would have been the case
either earlier or later.

Alden was not yet out of sight of the Indian when he emitted a series
of tremulous whoops, the like of which the rider had never before heard
on his journey across the plains. The first sound was an explosive
shout, and the half dozen which succeeded trailed off into silence. The
redskin made this strange outcry three times and then ceased.

“I suppose he means that as a reply to my salute,” laughed Alden, who
the next minute whisked beyond view around a turn in the gorge. “If
I knew how to reply I should do so, but we’ll have to wait till next
time.”

Dick showed no disposition to slacken his pace and his rider did not
restrain him. Just after making the turn referred to Alden turned his
head. What led him to do so he could not explain since he knew he was
clear of the warrior whom he had nearly scared out of his wits, but
he saw an amazing sight. The varying character of the gorge showed a
projecting mass of stone on the right near the top. It was at a wide
part of the ravine, and the peculiar shape of the rocks left a partial
cavity behind the jutting portion large enough to hold several persons.

And in this depression three Indians, looking much like the one he had
left out of sight, had evidently just risen from the ground and stood
motionless as if watching him as he skurried from them. They must have
been there when he rode beneath within fifty feet of where they were
lying in ambush.

Alden was dumfounded. What could it all mean? After watching and
probably signaling they had waited till he rode right into the trap and
then had allowed him to ride out again, unharmed and all unsuspicious
of his peril.

“That is too much for me,” mused the perplexed youth; “I spared one of
them when I had him dead to rights, but why should those three spare
me? That isn’t the way――”

Could those odd sounding signals which the single warrior sent forward
from his perch on the rocks have had anything to do with it? Did they
cause the forbearance of his comrades farther up the gorge? That
such should be the case seemed incredible, but days afterward Alden
submitted the question to Shagbark. The veteran stroked his whiskers,
puffed his pipe for a minute, and then squinted one eye.

“Thar’s only one way to explanify it,” he answered; “the varmint whose
scalp ye left on top of his head was so thankful that he signaled ahead
to the other three varmints not to hurt ye, ’cause ye and him war
friends.

“I’ll own that that ain’t the gin’ral style of the critters, but
sometimes they act jest as if they war white men, and better than
_some_ white men I’ve met.”



                             CHAPTER XVII

                            AT THE STATION


Dick the pony held his swift gallop for a half mile farther, when he
debouched into an open country, similar in many respects to that which
he had left behind him. While it could not be called level, it showed
no steep inclines and the masses of rocks and heaps of boulders were
readily flanked by the superb courser.

The plucky animal let himself out immediately and the admiring Alden
still allowed the reins to lie on his neck.

“You need no orders from me, old fellow,” said he; “when the history
of the Pony Express is written, more credit should be given to you and
your comrades than to some of the men who sat in the saddles.”

The ridge which caused Alden anxiety had been crossed, and now when he
looked back he traced the outlines of the vague column of smoke that
was slow in dissolving in the summer air. Surely nothing more was
to be feared from that source. No matter how well mounted a party of
Indians might be, none could overhaul the peerless Dick, whose graceful
legs were again doubling under him with marvelous rapidity and carrying
him and his burden as an eagle bears its eaglet on its broad back.

“Now, if I should have a flat sail on my right and left like a kite,”
mused Alden, giving rein to his whimsical fancy, “this speed would lift
us clear and we should skim through the air like a swallow. We should
have to come down now and then, when the hoofs would give us another
flip upward and away we should go. I’ll make the suggestion when I get
the chance.”

Suddenly he caught sight of a buck coursing in front. Where he came
from he could not guess. Dick must have headed for him without either
being aware of the fact, until the horse was almost upon the creature.

The latter kept up his wild flight for several hundred yards when he
was terrified to find that man and horse were gaining upon him. Then
the buck showed a gleam of sense by bolting to the right. He made
astonishing bounds and skimmed with arrowy speed, but it was less than
that of his pursuer. Was there any creature of the plains which could
surpass the half-bred mustang? No.

Alden wondered whether the pony would change his course and press
the pursuit of the game, as almost any one of his species would have
done in similar circumstances. But Dick did not vary a hair until he
confronted another pile of rocks. Instead of flanking them on the same
side with the buck, he whisked in the other direction. What was a whole
herd of deer to him? He carried the United States mail and everything
must give way to that.

From the moment that Alden saw the buck bounding in front of him, he
could have brought him down without checking the pony. But he did not
raise his rifle. To have fired would have been as wanton an act as the
slaughter of the hundreds of thousands of buffaloes during the few
years that followed.

He was convinced that Dick was again going at the rate of twenty-five
miles an hour. He would not have been surprised had the speed been
even greater. That, however, was hardly possible. Again the still air
rose to a gale and the velvety thumping of the delicate hoops was
bewildering in its swiftness. He sat firmly in the saddle, leaning
slightly forward and now and then jerking down his hat which was in
danger of being whisked off by the wind.

“What’s the use, Dick?” asked Alden. “Why not take things easier? But
to do that would be to rob you of your enjoyment. Helloa! there’s
something new!”

He was coursing over the undulating ground, when his gaze rested on
a building half a mile away and in the line of Dick’s run. It was a
low, flat structure of logs, such as is often seen on the frontier. At
the rear was a covered inclosure and from the rough, stone chimney,
built at one end on the outside of the main building, rose a spiral of
smoke――proof that the cabin had occupants.

“It’s the station!” exclaimed the rider the next moment. He observed
three men standing in front, with a saddled horse near them. Evidently
they were watching his approach.

It was the rule among Pony Express Riders that upon arriving within a
half mile of a station, they should proclaim the fact by giving the
“coyote yell.” This was notice to their friends to have a fresh horse
ready, for it must be borne in mind that the minutes were precious. As
the panting animal dashed up, his rider sprang from the saddle before
he had fairly halted and ready hands helped secure it to the back of
the waiting horse. The messenger leaped like an acrobat into place,
caught up the reins, touched with his spurs the flanks of the animal,
which instantly responded with a bound, and was off on a headlong run.

Often the rider snatched up the lunch that was waiting him, and ate
while his horse was going at top speed. He shouted back to his cheering
friends, with whom he had exchanged a few hurried words and the next
minute was beyond hearing.

Such was the rule while the rider was making his run. Generally the
stations were twelve or fifteen miles apart, and the ride of a one
man was thirty or forty miles. This compelled two changes such as
described, after starting on his furious race. At the end of his
“stunt,” the new man, freshly mounted was awaiting him. The pause after
the arrival of the courier was just long enough for the saddle and mail
pouches to be transferred, when the relief sped away for the next
station, and if all went well, completed his task in schedule time.

The stations as has been stated were scattered over a line nearly two
thousand miles long, through the wildest and most dangerous section of
our continent. This distance had to be covered in eight days, which
was an average of two hundred and fifty miles a day, the like of which
had never been known before and probably will never be known again.
We recall that the number of these stations between Sacramento and
St. Joseph, Missouri, was a hundred and ninety. No regular intervals,
however, could be established, for a great deal depended upon the
physical nature of the country. From what has been already said, it
will be understood that a horseman often had to do double duty because
of some accident to his partner. Thus more than one Express Rider
covered two and in a few instances three hundred miles never leaving
the saddle except for a minute or two when changing horses. While the
system was wonderful in its completeness, many breaks were inevitable.

The three men who were standing in front of the squat cabin were Tom
Harper, Tim Jenkins, and Gideon Altman. A brother of the last named
was absent hunting game for the larder of the establishment. The first
named――Harper――was wiry and slight of frame, while the other two were
of ordinary stature. Harper was a rider, but the weight of his comrades
shut them out, except in case of necessity.

Dick Lightfoot who had reached his “last station” a dozen miles to the
eastward, was due at the present place in time to meet his brother,
whom Alden encountered at the time of his flurry with the bear. The men
at the station knew that some accident must have befallen Dick and were
therefore on the watch, when they descried a stranger coming toward
them on the pony which they recognized as belonging to the missing
rider.

Dick was in a lather and his sides heaved. Alden did not dismount but
looked down in the faces of the group who scrutinized him keenly. Tim
Jenkins, massive and heavily bearded, acted as speaker for his comrades.

“Who are you?” he demanded of Alden, who gave his name.

“Where’s Dick Lightfoot?”

“He was killed by Indians eight or ten miles back.”

“How do you come to be mounted on his pony?”

There was an aggressiveness in the tone and manner of Jenkins, but
Alden ignored it. The circumstances warranted suspicion. So he told
his story as succinctly as he could. The three listened closely, and
must have felt the truth of the words of the youth whose looks and
personality pleased them.

“You’ve got grit, young man,” commented Jenkins; “did you have any idea
of the risks you had to run?”

“I saw Alexander Carlyle the first rider start from St. Joe last April,
and on our way across the plains I have exchanged a few words with
others. I knew it wasn’t any child’s play.”

“You’re right――it isn’t. Poor Dick! it will be a sad blow to his
brother Sam. I suppose your friends will look after the body when they
come up to it?”

“There’s no doubt of that; I sent word to Shagbark, our guide, who
would do it without any such request from me.”

“Shagbark, eh? So _he’s_ your guide; well, there isn’t a better one in
the West than he; that’s what Kit Carson has said many a time and he
knows. See here, my young friend, what’s the use of your staying in
that saddle? Your pony doesn’t go any farther.”

“But I should like to do so.”

“Tom Harper is here to take the place of any chap that gets knocked
out.”

“Why not let me complete the run?”

The three men looked in one another’s faces and smiled significantly.

“Do you really want to try it?”

“Nothing can suit me better.”

“You have never been over the route.”

“I have never been over the run just finished; I left everything to the
pony and he did not go astray.”

Alden did not think it worth while to tell of his adventure in the
gorge while coming through the ridge.

“You’re correct as to the ponies; all of them have been over the road
long enough to become familiar with it. What do you say, Tom?” asked
Jenkins, turning to the relief rider.

“Well, I ain’t partic’lar,” replied the wiry fellow, who despite his
youthful looks, was a veteran of the plains; “I expected to ride, if
anything happened to Dick, but this young chap seems to have set his
heart on it and I don’t want to spoil his fun.”

Alden’s eyes sparkled. Having begun the run, almost from the beginning,
he was ambitious to complete it.

“Then it’s settled,” said he, dropping from the saddle, and stepping
across to the waiting animal.

“Hold on a minute,” interposed Jenkins; “being as you ain’t a reg’lar
you needn’t be as strict as they have to be.”

“What do you mean?” asked the puzzled Alden fearing that he was to be
subjected to some vexatious handicap.

“It’s a good fifteen miles to the next station and most of the way is
so rough that your horse will have to walk; there are a few stretches
where you can let him out, but, for all that, you won’t reach the
station till well into the night.”

“What of that?”

“You need rest.”

“I’m not tired,” persisted Alden, afraid that the men would change
their minds.

“That may be, for you haven’t had much of a ride yet, but it is nearly
dark; you must eat supper with us.”

“You are kind, but have we time? The mail is already late.”

Jenkins threw back his head and laughed. His mirth was so unrestrained
that his comrades and even Alden smiled in sympathy.

“If you want a job I’ll recommend you to Colonel Majors. I saw from the
way you rode when you came in sight that you understand the business.”

“How much are we behind the schedule?”

Jenkins drew out a big silver watch whose ticking could be heard by
all. He squinted one eye and studied the figures.

“A little more than an hour: it’s no hanging matter if you make it two
or three hours more.”

The action of the man reminded Alden that he had the watch and papers
of Dick Lightfoot in his possession. He took them out and explaining
the matter, handed them to Jenkins.

Had the youth been given his choice, he would have resumed his ride
without another minute’s delay, but to refuse the invitation might
offend. Moreover, he was hungry.

“Your advice is good and I am thankful to eat with you.”

Four men made their quarters at this lonely cabin. One of them was an
extra rider for emergencies, while all, as has been said, could perform
the duty if required. Such supplies as they needed were sent to them
by their employers. Russell, Majors & Waddell were the proprietors,
who made their headquarters in the east, while Bolivar Roberts was
superintendent of the western division. In Carson City, Nevada, he
engaged the fifty or sixty riders needed, and he and the firm looked
carefully after their employees.

Since nearly all the stations were in the midst of superb hunting
grounds, the men at the remote posts obtained a large part of their
food by means of their guns. It was a pleasant variation of the
monotony, and the spice of danger from prowling redskins gave zest to
their enjoyment.

Dick having been unsaddled was turned out to graze with three others.
In the inclosure at the rear of the cabin, these were gathered at night
or during stormy weather, and one or two were always in readiness for
the regular riders. The horse which Alden was to ride for the next
station was allowed to wait, saddled and bridled, and ready to start
the moment called upon.

Alden followed his friend into the cabin, with Harper and Altman at
his heels. Leaning his rifle against the logs by the door, he glanced
around.

The dwelling could not have been of simpler structure. The single room
was some twenty feet square. At one end was an old fashioned fireplace,
in the middle of which stood a small cooking stove, a single joint of
pipe pushing up into the chimney. A few simple utensils hung around
on spikes, and a goodly pile of wood was always at hand. A barrel of
flour, a big can of coffee, another of sugar and smaller boxes of
spices and condiments were disposed of with more regard for convenience
than appearance. At one side of the room were four bunks, with blankets
and several buffalo robes. There were a bench, a table made of planks,
four stools and clothing hanging on nails driven into the logs. The
only picture on the walls was a woodcut from a newspaper, showing the
homely features of Abraham Lincoln who had been nominated a short time
before by the newly-born Republican party, for the presidency of the
United States.

Although the weather now was balmy, there were times when it raged like
a hurricane from the Arctic regions. Therefore the logs were thick and
the crevices between them filled with clay. The heavy planking on the
floor was wedged closely with a view of shutting off uncomfortable
drafts.

Only one door was sawed in front. It was made of massive planking and
swung on big iron hinges. All round the four sides were windows, none
of which had panes. They were too narrow for the slimmest man that
ever lived to squeeze through. When the storms beat against one side
of the cabin, the openings there were closed by means of small, wooden
shutters, turning on hinges of leather.

In the event of Indian attack――which impended at almost any hour of the
day or night――these loopholes were useful to the defenders. At other
times, they helped in the way of ventilation and the lighting of the
apartment.

The meal was ready when Alden Payne was waved by Jenkins to one of the
stools at the side of the table, which consisted of three unplaned
boards. A huge roast of venison, done to a turn, and resting on a
big tin platter was the main dish. There were thick slices, too, of
well-baked bread, though nothing in the way of butter or vegetables.
But Jenkins filled each large cup from the capacious pot simmering on
the stove, and the fragrant odor was delightful to the keen appetites.
Condensed milk answered well for the real article, and few meals were
more palatable than that eaten by Alden at this mail station in the
wilds of the West. Right glad was he that his host had insisted upon
his tarrying for that purpose. Nothing could have braced him better for
the task before him.



                             CHAPTER XVIII

                               OUTWITTED


Although the meal lasted but a few minutes, much was said. Harper and
Altman developed a talkative streak and had much to tell their guest.
The three had been located at the station for more than two months
during a portion of which time “business was lively.” Only a fortnight
before, the cabin underwent a siege for three days and nights from
a large party of Piutes, who peppered the logs well. They ran off a
couple of ponies, but Harper and Jenkins recovered both after a long
pursuit.

The redskins circled about the structure and fired through the windows,
but did not harm any of the defenders, who picked off two or three
of them. Things might have turned out ill had not one of the Express
Riders carried the news to the nearest fort which hurried a squad of
cavalry to the spot.

There had been no trouble with the Indians since, though parties now
and then appeared in the distance as if reconnoitering. It was not to
be expected that they would remain tranquil much longer.

“What kind of a route is it to the next station?” asked Alden, when the
party had gone outside and he had mounted.

“Pretty much like what you’ve ridden over. Some stretches of good
ground, with plenty of ravines and gullies and two or three streams to
cross, but you couldn’t have a better season.”

“The pony seems to be a good one; I shall be satisfied if he is the
equal of Dick.”

“He’s tough and fast; I think he once belonged to a circus, for he
knows a good many tricks.”

“If he knows the trick of getting me through, neither I nor any one
else could ask anything more of him.”

Alden was about to start when he recalled the matter of the cartridges.
He gave his belt to Jenkins and accepted one from him. It might seem a
trifling thing that he should leave the heavier one behind for the sake
of the saving in weight, but such was the fact, though the difference
was slight. He could secure all the other cartridges he might need
from his friends.

“I must weigh twenty pounds more than Dick Lightfoot and everything
counts. What is the pony’s name?”

“Bucephalus,” was the amazing reply.

“Great Cæsar!” laughed Alden; “do you call him that?”

“’Ceph for short; well, good bye!”

Alden waved his hand and was off like a thunderbolt.

Our young friend was hardly out of sight of the little group who stood
watching him, when ’Ceph became playful. He had been resting so long
that he yearned for exercise and action. As an introduction he reached
around and nipped at the rider’s ankle. A horse is quick to learn what
kind of man holds the reins, and woe to him whom the equine despises!
Bucephalus would not have needed any enlightenment had Harper or any
one of the regular riders been in the saddle, but he wasn’t sure about
the lusty young fellow who was trying to lord it over him.

When the head came about, and Alden saw what the pony meant, he gave
him a vigorous kick on the end of his nose. ’Ceph wasn’t pleased with
that, and after a brief wait tried to bite the other ankle. Alden
promptly kicked him harder than before.

Evidently that wasn’t the right way to overcome the conceited young
man, so what did Bucephalus do but suddenly buck? He arched his back,
jammed his hoofs together and bounced up and down as if the ground had
suddenly become red hot. Alden hadn’t expected anything of the kind,
and came within a hair of being unhorsed. He saved himself, braced his
legs and body and then let the animal do his best or worst. The youth
was sorry he had no spurs, for he would have been glad to drive them
into the sides of the mischievous brute. The latter bucked until tired,
then spun around as if on a pivot and finally dashed off on a dead run.

Alden let him go unrestrained, knowing he was taking the right course,
for he saw plenty of hoof prints in the ground over which they skimmed.
It was not difficult for our young friend to keep his seat, and he was
rather pleased with the liveliness of the animal.

“There won’t be much of this left in you at the end of fifteen miles,
’Cephy, and I have no objection so long as it doesn’t block the game.”

After a time it was plain the pony had given up the fight. He was
galloping steadily, as if like the others, he had but one ambition in
life which was to throw the miles behind him in the shortest possible
time. All the same, Alden was on his guard. There was no saying what
whim might enter the head of the brute. One of his kind will be good
for weeks with no other object than to throw a man off his guard. It
did not seem likely that such was the case with the animal Alden was
riding, though it might be so. He thought it more probably due to a
natural exuberance of spirits, which after a time would wear off.

There was no perceptible change in the character of the country through
which he was riding until some four or five miles had been traversed.
The undulations were trifling and at the end of the distance named, it
may be doubted whether horse and rider were ten feet higher or lower
than at their starting point. The surface was rough in many places, but
not once did ’Ceph slacken his splendid pace, which must have risen to
twenty miles an hour. He had to swerve and occasionally make rather
long detours to avoid natural obstacles, but he lost no time. Had the
conditions lasted he would have covered the fifteen miles well within
three-fourths of an hour.

The pony slackened his pace, though still maintaining a gallop, for the
ground not only compelled him to veer first to the right and then to
the left, but took an upward turn. Following his rule of leaving his
animal to his own will, Alden did not touch the reins. The fact that
tracks showed on the right and left as well as in front indicated that
he was following a well-traveled course, though he could not discern
any traces of wagon wheels.

The sun had sunk behind the mountain range which towered to the
northwest and the jagged crests were tinted with the golden rays. The
scene was grandly beautiful, and though he had looked upon many like
it, Alden never lost his admiration of those pictures which are nowhere
seen in such majesty and impressiveness as in our own country.

Well to the northward rose a peak, whose white crest showed it was
always crowned with snow. Seen in the distance the spotless blanket
had a faint bluish tint, caused by the miles of pure, intervening
atmosphere. Although the range to his left did not sweep around far
enough to cross the course he was pursuing, Alden could not help
wondering whether a turn in the trail would not force him to pass
through the spur as he had done in the case of the lesser range behind
him.

“If it is so, there must be a pass, for many others have traveled this
road before me.”

It seemed that he ought to overtake some emigrant train, since hundreds
of them were plodding westward, and his speed was much greater than
theirs. But he saw no more evidence of other persons about him than if
he were in the midst of an unknown desert. He might as well have been
the only horseman or footman within a thousand miles of the spot.

It was with a queer sensation that once more scanning the ridge to the
northwest, Alden distinguished a column of smoke climbing into the
sky, just as he had discerned one earlier in the afternoon. He had
not yet decided in his own mind whether the former bore any relation
to his passage through the gorge, and he was equally uncertain about
the signal that now obtruded itself. He brought his binocular to bear,
and with ’Ceph on a rapid walk, spent several minutes in studying the
vapor. The result was as in the previous instance, except that the
fire which gave off the smoke appeared to be burning among a clump
of pines instead of behind a pile of boulders. Once or twice in the
gathering gloom he fancied he detected the twinkle of the blaze; but if
so, the fact gave him no additional knowledge of the puzzling question.

It cannot be said that he felt any misgiving, so long as the course
of the pony did not lead him toward the signal smoke which may not
have been a signal after all. Wandering bands of Indians must have had
frequent need of fires for preparing food, and it would seem that more
of them ought to have been seen by the horseman.

’Ceph was still walking. Although the steepness had declined, he showed
no disposition to increase his pace. Alden was surprised, for it was
not that way with Dick. The viciousness shown by the pony lowered him
in the esteem of the youth. He could not shake off the suspicion that
the ugly spirit would show itself again, even though the animal had
been conquered for the time.

For the last fifteen minutes, Alden was conscious of a dull, steady
roar which gradually increased as he went on. He was drawing near
the cause and must soon learn its nature. He was still wandering and
speculating, when he caught the gleam of water through the sparse
willows that lined the trail.

“Jenkins told me I should have to cross some streams and this must be
one of them.”

So it proved. A minute later, the animal came to the margin of a swift
creek which flowed at right angles to his course. In the obscurity
of the settling night, Alden made out the farther bank, which was
about a hundred yards away. A growth of willows showed, and ’Ceph
hesitated with outstretched nose, as he snuffed the ground. Instead of
entering the water at once, he moved to the right for several rods and
stopped again. He was looking for the ford, from which fact his rider
judged they were off the regular trail. Leaning over in the saddle he
scrutinized the ground. He saw no signs of hoofprints or tracks of
wagon wheels.

He did not interfere with the horse, who, having passed the brief
distance, began snuffing again and gingerly stepped into the stream.
When the water came to his knees, he paused long enough to drink and
then resumed feeling his way across.

With the setting of the sun, the temperature had fallen a number of
degrees. Alden was warmly clothed, but had no blanket. When he left
the train in company with Jethro he expected to rejoin his friends
before the close of the afternoon and a blanket would have been an
incumbrance, but quite acceptable now.

“I hope ’Ceph won’t have to swim,” he said, with a shudder: “I shall be
chilled, for I know the water is icy, but there’s no help for it.”

The roar that had caught his attention some time before sounded on his
left in the direction of the ridge, where the signal fire was burning.
The explanation was clear: the stream issued from some gorge or tumbled
over rapids or falls, and gave out the noise that was audible for a
long distance in the stillness of approaching night.

The pony felt his way carefully, with nose thrust forward, occasionally
snorting and not bearing down until he found the bottom with his
advanced hoof. Once he slipped, but instantly recovered himself.

Alden waited till his feet were within a few inches of the surface.
Then he slipped them out of the stirrups and drew them up in front.
Deprived thus of his “balancing poles,” a quick flirt of the pony to
one side would have flung him into the water, but ’Ceph, if he was
aware of it (and it would seem he ought to have been), did not seize
the chance.

Half the distance was passed and the dangling stirrups dipped. Would
the good fortune continue all the way across?

It did. The stream shallowed, and increasing his pace, the pony stepped
out on the other bank, with the moisture dripping from his fetlocks.
Only the lower part of his body, however, had been wetted. Alden
himself was dry even to the soles of his shoes.

“Thank fortune!” he exclaimed; “I hope we shall have the same luck at
the next stream. Now we’re off again, old fellow.”

As nearly as the rider could judge, he had ridden half the distance to
the next station. If he were right, seven or eight miles remained to be
traversed. He was doing well but why did not ’Ceph “let himself out,”
when the ground was favorable? He still walked, though ever stepping
rapidly, with head dipping with each fall of the hoof.

For the first time, Alden broke the rule which had governed him
heretofore: he spoke sharply to the pony and jerked the bridle rein.
The animal instantly responded with a gallop which he kept up for a
half mile, when he dropped again to a walk. And before he did this, his
rider discovered to his consternation that he was going lame.

The limp showed more plainly when he was walking, and was steadily
aggravated until the progress became painful to the rider. He was of
a merciful disposition and could not bear the sight of suffering in a
dumb creature. He stopped the horse and dropped from the saddle.

“I shall be in a fine fix if you give out, ’Ceph, not knowing the way
to the next station nor to the one we have left, but I am more sorry
for you than for myself.”

The animal was bearing his weight on three legs, the tip of the right
fore hoof just touching the ground. He seemed to be suffering, and
favored the disabled leg all he could. Speaking soothingly, Alden
gently passed his hand down the graceful limb from the bent knee to the
fetlock. Although he used only the weakest pressure, ’Ceph winced when
the friendly fingers glided over the slim shank, as if the touch was
painful.

“There’s where the trouble is,” he decided; “he must have strained a
tendon, though I don’t feel any difference.”

With infinite care and tenderness Alden fondled the limb, and ’Ceph
showed his appreciation by touching his nose to his shoulders as he
bent over his task. The youth increased the pressure and rubbed more
briskly. The action seemed to give relief, and by and by the pony set
the hoof down on the ground and stood evenly on his four legs.

Hoping that the trouble had passed, Alden walked backward a few steps
and called upon ’Ceph to follow. He obeyed and stepped off without the
slightest evidence of trouble. The rider’s hopes rose higher.

“If you will lead I’ll be glad to follow; it won’t do――”

His heart sank, for hardly half a dozen steps were taken when ’Ceph
limped again: the halt grew more pronounced, and suddenly he hobbled
one or two steps on three legs, holding the remaining hoof clear of the
ground as he did so.

“That settles it,” said his master; “you may be able to reach the
station without any load by resting often, but it will be hard work.”

In the effort to aid the sufferer, Alden now removed the saddle and
mail pouches. With his rifle they formed quite a burden, but he was
strong and rugged, and knew he could carry them as fast and probably
faster than his companion would travel.

“I ought to leave you here,” reflected the youth, “and I should do so,
if I knew my way: I need you as a guide and shall have to suit my pace
to yours.”

Once more he nursed the foreleg and after a time, ’Ceph set it down. He
hobbled forward a score of paces before the limp reappeared. After that
he kept it up until his master called to him to stop.

It looked as if the mustang understood what was asked of him, and was
doing his utmost to grant it. Alden kept at his side, and as soon as he
paused, patted his neck and spoke encouragingly.

’Ceph rested but a few minutes when he resumed his walk without any
word from his master. The latter with amazement noted that the animal’s
gait improved. He stepped off with increasing speed. Soon no limp was
perceptible: he walked as well as ever!

“Good!” called Alden; “you’ve got pluck; I take back all I said
against you. Whoa! whoa!”

Instead of obeying the youth hurrying at his heels, ’Ceph broke into
a gallop and speedily passed from sight. Alden kept up the useless
pursuit until exhausted. Then he stopped disgusted and angered. He
understood the whole business.

It has been said that Bucephalus once belonged to a circus. He had been
a trick pony and remembered several things. One of them was to get rid
of a rider whom he disliked by pretending to be lame. He had worked the
stratagem upon Alden Payne, who when too late saw through the whole
mean business.



                              CHAPTER XIX

                        A BLESSING IN DISGUISE


Alden Payne was in the quandary of his life. Deserted by the
unprincipled Bucephalus, he was left with saddle and mail pouches six
miles or more from his destination, and still farther from the station
behind him. And the worst of it was he did not know the way to either.

It would not have been quite so bad if, when the outrage occurred,
he had been on the well-marked trail, for then he could have groped
forward, certain of arriving sooner or later at the place he had in
mind.

“If I had the chance I’d shoot that confounded ’Ceph!” he exclaimed;
“if a horse knew how to grin, how he is grinning over the youngster he
fooled! Well, I shan’t bother with _you_, that’s certain.”

These words were addressed to the saddle, which he flung impatiently to
the ground: “whoever chooses can find you; I don’t tote you another
rod.”

It was different with the mail pouches. He felt a peculiar awe
concerning them. In some way they stood for the great United States.
Having been locked in distant Missouri, they were not to be opened
until San Francisco was reached. Within those leathern receptacles,
wrapped in oiled silk nestled the hundreds of letters, written on fine
tissue paper and sealed in flimsy envelopes. Who could tell their
weighty import? Every writer had paid five dollars in advance, and far
away on the Pacific coast were anxiously waiting the men and women for
whom the messages were intended. No; whatever happened, Alden must get
them to the station, if the task were within human possibility.

Weighing only twenty pounds, the pouches were not burdensome. Slinging
one over either shoulder, and trailing his rifle, the sturdy youth
could have walked a score of miles without being irked. The whole and
sole problem was to go in the right direction.

It was a puzzle indeed. The most sensible course seemed to stay where
he was until morning. Daylight would enable him to find the trail, and
the labor was comparatively easy. He walked to the nearest boulder and
sat down. The night had grown more chilly and he shivered. He always
carried a box of matches in a small rubber safe, it was easy to collect
enough twigs and branches to start a fire.

Two causes, however, prevented his doing this. He could not forget that
signal smoke which told that Indians were not far off. The blaze was
likely to draw them to the spot. Again, his mind was in such a tumult,
that he could not sit still. He must keep moving.

There was no moon in the sky, but the millions of stars were never
more brilliant. In the clear atmosphere they gave enough illumination
to show quite well where he trod, except when threading through the
willows or passing close to the towering masses of rocks. Inasmuch as
he had decided to keep up the effort to reach the next station, the
obvious thing to do was to follow in the hoof prints left by the pony.
Doubtless he was making for the station and would reach it within the
coming hour. What would the agents think when he dashed up without
rider, saddle or mail pouches? What could they think except that the
man had been killed and the bags stolen?

It is a difficult but not impossible task to trail a horse by night.
To do it, however, requires the finest woodcraft. That wonderful scout
Kit Carson performed the exploit many times, when he had neither the
moon nor stars to aid him. First locating the trail, he reasoned out
the point for which his enemies were making. His familiarity with
the country and his intimate knowledge of the red men were rarely at
fault. It might be some river crossing a dozen miles away. Paying no
further attention to the trail, the pursuer hurried to the ford, where
by passing his hands over the earth he learned whether the hoofprints
were there. If so, and as I have said he seldom missed it, he decided
the next most likely point for which the fugitives were heading, when
he took up the pursuit and pressed it as before. More than once by this
remarkable strategy he reached a certain place ahead of the Indians and
ambushed them when they came up.

But such exploits make an accurate knowledge of the country
indispensable. Alden Payne was a stranger in a strange land, beside
which his experience was not to be compared with that of the peerless
scout and mountaineer named. And yet to a certain extent he followed
the policy of the veteran.

His conclusion was reasonable that Bucephalus was making for the
station and would change his course only when turned temporarily aside
by obstacles. He would follow the line of least resistance all the way
through. His late rider meant to do the same.

Standing a few minutes at the beginning of the trail, with mail pouches
slung over his shoulders he took up his hard task. So long as he was
erect, he could not see the impressions in the earth, but by stooping
low made them out. At such times, when the surface was flinty or
pebbly, he not only used the sense of feeling, but lighted a match.
Holding this close to the ground he was generally able to see that for
which he was seeking.

Alden must have traversed a furlong without turning to the right or
left. At the end of that distance the ground began slightly rising, and
led to a low rocky ridge. Once more he paused and held a lighted match
to the ground.

He had made no mistake: the impressions showed clearly. The fact sent a
thrill of hope through him. He might succeed after all.

Noting that the signs turned to the left, he did the same. A dozen
paces brought him to a depression through which it seemed likely the
pony had gone. He followed and coming up the opposite side made sure by
lighting another match. The footprints were not visible.

He retraced his steps and went farther to the left. Coming to a level
spot, he resorted to his tiny torch again. He was right: Bucephalus had
chosen the easier course, though how the sagacious animal knew of its
existence was beyond guessing.

By this time Alden understood that at the rate he was using his
matches, they could not last beyond an hour or less. He slackened his
pace and studied his surroundings with the utmost care. Only when
absolutely necessary did he intend to ignite his lucifers.

He had never heard of the methods employed by veteran trailers, though
Shagbark had practised them, but reflection caused Alden to try this
one. He stooped and gently passed one hand over the soft earth. A few
minutes of effort told him he was on the trail of the pony.

He had straightened up and was walking cautiously, when he was startled
by the reports of several rifles fired so nearly together that he
could not tell the number. They came from a point diagonally in front,
but at a considerable distance. He paused, undecided what to do.

There was no guessing the meaning of the alarm, but naturally he
accepted the worst construction. The guns must have been discharged
by Indians with a sinister purpose. Probably one of the Pony Express
Riders had fallen, as others had fallen before him and others were to
fall in the remaining months of the service.

Alden paused for ten or more minutes and then resumed his tramp. It
seemed to him that the spot where the guns were fired was well to the
right. Still it was likely the trail veered in that direction, for
no mortal man ever saw a path that was straight, unless laid out by
compass and rule.

There was an additional reason for not lighting a match, for it might
catch the eye of some of the dusky prowlers. Consequently Alden pushed
on stealthily and slowly. Frequently he paused and listened. The trail
could change without his being aware of it, for in his situation he had
no means of judging. His bright wits were ever on a strain and when he
came to a series of boulders, he again stooped and felt of the ground.
The soil was pebbly and the sense of feeling did not help him.

He hesitated to light a match, for he knew he was near the spot whence
had come the sounds of rifle firing. He straightened up and listened.
A gentle wind stirred the willows in front, the faint murmur of the
mountain stream behind him came softly to his ears, but all else was
profound silence.

He had peered into the star gleam in front for some minutes when the
conviction gradually came to him that something not a boulder or stone
was lying a few paces away. He could not identify it without a nearer
approach, and after a little wait he stepped forward on tiptoe.

He had accepted it as an explanation of the startling sounds that came
to him a short time before. Another Pony Express Rider had gone down in
the path of duty. But still drawing nearer, Alden found the next moment
he was mistaken. It was the body of a horse lying on its side.

Forgetful for the moment of the peril of the act, the youth drew
another match along the corrugated bottom of his little safe and held
the speck of flame in front of him.

It was what was left of Bucephalus. He had been pierced by several
bullets and killed while on a full gallop.

With a realization of the danger of what he was doing, Alden blew out
the tiny light and flung it to the ground. Then he hastily retreated,
turned aside and made his way in among the willows.

Everything was clear to him. A party of Indians had formed an ambush
at that point for the Pony Express Rider. In the gloom, they may have
supposed he was lying low on his horse’s back, but they fired together
and snuffed out the steed supposed to be carrying him.

Deep gratitude stirred Alden Payne. He had believed himself the worst
used person in the world, when he was deserted by the pony, and, say
what we please, it was a shabby act, but the offender had paid dearly
for it.

“Had he not tricked me, I should have ridden over this spot, and that
volley which laid him low, would have done the same to me. Thank God!”

Often indeed do misfortunes prove blessings in disguise.

All the same, the young man was in a trying situation. Thus far he had
been guided by the trail of the dead pony. Now he was deprived even of
that slight help. What hope could he have of finding his way to the
station in the darkness?

The most pressing question was as to what had become of the fiends who
committed this deed. It seemed to Alden they could not be far off, and
the important thing for him to do was to get as far away as he could,
without any delay.

He dared not push directly forward, for that would lead him over
the course where the waiting red men expected the rider to pass. He
determined to make a long detour until far removed from the dangerous
spot, and then hide until daybreak, when he would renew his search for
the station not many miles distant.

All know how hard it is to keep one’s bearings in groping through an
unknown country. It is tenfold harder to do so at night, when there
is no aid whatever, and nothing to prevent yielding to that curious
tendency we all show to travel in a circle.

In the case of Alden Payne, however, a kind Providence took him in
hand. Without being aware of it, he gradually shifted his course
until he struck exactly the right one, and really advanced toward his
destination. Several times he stopped with the intention of nestling
down beside some rock, and sleeping if it should prove possible, but
the anxiety to get as far as he could from that carcass kept him going.

There is no saying how long he would have continued had he not been
suddenly checked by coming to the edge of another stream which crossed
his course. He had heard no warning rippling or murmur, and almost
stepped into the water before he saw what was in front of him.

“This is the second one which, as Jenkins told me, I shall have to
cross, but plague take it! I don’t like the prospect at all.”

The stream was not more than half the width of the other, but it might
be ten times as deep and dangerous. He found it was flowing rapidly,
and it was natural that he should shrink from venturing into its
treacherous icy depth.

The fact that it was an obstacle to his progress made Alden the more
anxious to cross. Instead of waiting till the morrow, he felt he must
do so at once.

Then he asked himself whether he could not construct a raft to bear
him. He even searched up and down the bank but a few minutes showed
him the impossibility of his plan. About the only wood he found were
willows and a species of elder, none of which was thicker than his
wrist. The squat pines scattered here and there required an axe to cut
them down, and he had only his hunting knife. Perforce he abandoned the
scheme.

It was at this moment that he fancied he dimly detected tracks in the
mud on the edge of the stream. He had come so far from the carcass of
the pony that he felt little fear of the Indians. He struck another of
his matches and scrutinized the ground.

To his astonishment, he saw the prints of broad tired wagons, and the
tracks of oxen and horses. They extended as far up and down stream as
he could see. The inference was plain: in wandering from the course of
Bucephalus, he had found his way to a portion of the main path followed
by the emigrants going westward. This as was the rule was spread over
a space of a mile or more in width, and still greater in other places.

All Alden had to remember was not to lose sight of these landmarks and
he would reach the station sooner or later. Moreover the evidence on
the bank of the stream left no doubt that it was a well-known ford,
where teams could cross with little difficulty. Wherefore Alden could
probably do the same.

He decided to try it. Ever mindful of the inestimable value of the mail
treasure, he adjusted them with much care about his neck, somewhat as
if they were life preservers, and holding his light rifle in his hand,
he stepped cautiously into the current like an elephant venturing upon
a rickety bridge.

Ugh! as the water crept up around his knees he shuddered. He was sure
that half a degree colder would congeal it. Like some of the great
rivers of Europe, it must issue from under a mass of ice. But he could
stand it, and cheered himself with the thought that many others must
have made the same passage, for not every man could ride in the heavy
wagons of an emigrant train when fording a stream.

“I shan’t kick if it doesn’t force me to swim, for I shall be getting
forward all the time, but when I do get across, the first thing I shall
do is to build a fire and thaw out.”

He noticed that the bottom of the stream felt hard, as if it had been
pressed down by the innumerable wheels and hoofs that had passed over
it. He reflected that if he had to swim it would be difficult, for he
could not afford to part with his rifle, and the mail must be saved at
all hazards. The one consoling thought was that should he be forced
to support himself, it would be only for a few strokes. The creek was
narrow, and when he was half way over, the water had not yet reached
his waist. It did not seem likely that the depth would pass beyond that.

“And I’m mighty glad,” reflected Alden, beginning to step more
confidently; “it isn’t so bad to get half your body soused, but when it
comes to going all under――”

At that instant he went “all under.” It was as if he had stepped into
a well a thousand feet deep. Not expecting anything of the kind, Alden
was not prepared, and went down like a stone.



                              CHAPTER XX

                         A STRANGE PROCEEDING


Several facts saved Alden Payne from drowning. In the first place, the
deep hole into which he stepped was only three or four feet across.
The space was so slight indeed that his own momentum in walking threw
him against the other side, where the water was shallower than before.
Moreover, he was a powerful swimmer, but the strongest swimmer that
ever lived could not sustain himself when incumbered by such heavy
clothing, two mail pouches and a rifle. The youth promptly let go of
the weapon, but clung to Uncle Sam’s property as if it were his very
life. It was a desperate struggle but when he floundered to his feet he
held the bags intact and they were with him as he stepped out upon the
bank.

His gun was gone beyond recovery, but he had his revolver, which like
the contents of his match safe was not affected by the submersion. It
could be fired as readily as before, though it was a weak substitute
for the gun that was gone.

But his plight could not have been more dismal. He was wet to the
skin by the frigid water which made his teeth chatter, and the night
had grown so cold that he must do something quickly to save himself
from perishing. Two plans offered themselves. His first thought was
to hunt a sheltered spot, gather wood and start a vigorous blaze, but
a minute’s reflection showed him that would never do. Leaving out the
danger of such action, the largest fire in the open would do little
good. With no blanket, his clothing saturated and most of the warmth
going to waste, he would only make his condition more miserable. He
might pivot his body to the blaze, but he would always be chilled. It
would take a long time to collect enough fuel, and he would have to
keep the fire going throughout the night.

The only thing that could save him was exercise. The healthful,
reviving glow must come from within, and that had to be generated by
action. He recalled the words of his father when the two were caught in
a drenching rainstorm while on a hunt deep in the forest.

“Our clothes and shoes are wet through and through; no fire we can
start in the woods will dry them or make us comfortable. When your
shoes are soaked don’t take them off even in the house, but walk, walk,
walk. Soon your chilled feet will become warm, and the man who dries
his stockings and shoes upon him will never catch cold therefrom.”

It was the best of advice, and Alden never forgot it. He could hold
the general direction, and the few miles between him and the station
were but a brief walk for which in ordinary circumstances he would care
nothing. Before leaving the stream he did another sensible thing. He
studied the myriads of stars in the sky and fixed upon one of the first
magnitude. In the crystalline air, it gleamed like the sun it really
was. He thought it was Venus, but whether right or wrong, he knew the
location of the planet and he determined to make it his compass.

Without such a guidance he would inevitably drift from his course,
follow a circle and come back to his starting point, or never get
anywhere except to the place he shouldn’t go.

It seemed strange to Alden that he saw no emigrant train plodding
westward. With the hundreds dotting the country all the way from the
Missouri to Salt Lake City, it would seem that he ought to be in sight
of one or more all the time, but he had not observed any since parting
from his own friends.

One welcome fact was apparent: that part of the trail over which he was
walking was more favorable than the miles already traversed. The ground
was comparatively level, though the piles of rocks, an occasional ridge
(none very high), and the growth of willows continued at intervals. By
making his detours as brief as possible, he steadily gained ground.

When he started he could not prevent his teeth from sounding like the
music made by “bones” at a minstrel entertainment. He shivered and felt
wretched, with the soggy leathern pouches flapping his neck, like a
grotesque tippet; but ere long his incisors stopped their music, and
the chills shook no more. Then a most glowing warmth permeated through
his body. Even the numb feet felt as if he were toasting them in front
of a fire. Clearly he had done the only sensible thing to do.

“What’s become of Venus?” he abruptly exclaimed, stopping short when he
had gone something like a mile; “she’s played the sneak act. That beats
me!”

He located the beautiful orb well to his left instead of in front. He
knew the explanation. He had started on the tramp of a big circle which
he assuredly would have followed, but for the care he used.

The best explanation of this curious tendency is that every person
is either right or left handed. When walking without the unsuspected
guides that serve during daylight, one side displays a little more
vigor than the other, and causes a deviation from a straight course.

Alden faced about like a soldier on drill, and took care that he did
not wander astray again. If he had made no mistake at the beginning, he
was sure to arrive at his destination before long.

Twice while striding across a stretch of open ground, he fancied he saw
the twinkle of a light ahead, but in the same moment it vanished and he
concluded he was mistaken. When, however, it shone out a third time, he
no longer doubted. Although its brightness varied it was never wholly
lost.

He halted to study the manifestation, for to say the least it was out
of the usual order of things. All lights at that time of night ought
to be stationary. If it came from an emigrant camp or the window of a
cabin, it would glow steadily, but a glance showed that it was moving.
It had a rhythmic rise and fall, slight of itself, but distinct, such
as is made by a person carrying a lighted lantern as he walks, or
possibly by a horseman whose animal is on the same stride.

“I’m like Columbus on the _Santa Maria_,” thought Alden; “the first
light which he saw as he drew near the New World, was carried by a man
running along the beach, though it doesn’t seem that any one ever found
who the fellow was. I wonder whether Columbus made any attempt to do
so.”

It was far more to the point for Alden to learn the meaning of what he
saw. It was not to be supposed that an Indian had anything to do with
it. Such a performance was contrary to their nature, and to Alden it
was none the less remarkable that a member of his own race should be
the cause; still it must be one or the other.

With a natural curiosity, the youth held to his course with a view
of meeting the one with the torch or lantern. The dipping motion
continued, showing that the stranger was either walking or riding a
horse.

It was hard to tell how far away a light is at night, but Alden must
have cut down the interval two-thirds, when he asked himself whether it
was prudent to meet a stranger in this manner. The latter would have a
rifle, while the younger was confined to his revolver. Though it was
probable that nothing was to be feared from the man Alden was wise in
using caution.

Looking about for a hiding place, he could descry none in the obscurity.
He ran a few paces until well to one side of the course of the stranger,
when he sat down on the ground. The next minute he saw the other was
riding a horse on a walk. Moreover he had no companion. The flickering
rays did not tell this as much as the hoofbeats, which were those of a
single animal. The illumination added a little more. The left arm was
thrust through a large ring at the top of a lantern and thus supported
it. Alden could make out in the reflection the stranger’s hands (one of
which grasped the knotted bridle reins), the pommel of his saddle, and
the tuft of hair at the base of his pony’s neck, but everything else was
invisible in the darkness.

Yielding to a strange misgiving, Alden had lain flat on the ground to
escape discovery. When the pony came opposite, he was within a dozen
paces, near enough to scent that something was amiss. He snorted and
leaped the other way. In the same instant the lantern flirted upward.
Its uncertain light, revealed that the stranger had brought his rifle
to his shoulder and was aiming at the point of disturbance.

“Don’t fire!” called the youth, springing to his feet; “I’m a friend.”

The other had soothed the fright of his horse and held him motionless.
The rider did not speak and Alden, after a minute’s hesitation, walked
up to him.

“Who are you and why do you carry that lantern?” asked the youth,
looking up from the stirrup of the man. The latter lowered his weapon
and peered down at him. He did not hold the light above his head, so
Alden could not see his face. He was vexed by the persistent silence of
the individual.

“Are you deaf and dumb?” sharply demanded our young friend.

Still the horseman did not utter a word. He grunted once and touched
spur to his pony. The animal made a bound, and would have dashed off on
a run, had not his master jerked him down to a walk. Then he moved off
in the shadows, the rider still silent.

Alden looked after him in the gloom. Man and brute had disappeared but
the light twinkled and dipped as before.

“That is a little ahead of anything I ever saw before!” was the
exclamation of the puzzled Alden; “we have plenty of mutes in the east
but I never met any on the plains, and I don’t believe he is one. I
should set him down as a fool or one gone crazy.”

By and by the soft hoofbeats died out, ever on the same deliberate
walk. The pony would have gone faster had his master permitted, and why
he did not was altogether beyond the understanding of the mystified lad.

But the questions could not be answered by standing in the midst
of the plain and guessing and staring. The soggy pouches about his
shoulders would not allow Alden to forget his duty. Besides, the soaked
leather with its contents was growing heavy, and the brisk gait he had
maintained for the last half hour or more was telling on him. He was
weary and would have been glad of a rest.

“They must have known long ago at the station that something has
happened to Dick Lightfoot; I should think they would search for him.
If that man on horseback had not carried a light and locked his lips, I
could believe that was his business, but he is acting in a way I don’t
understand.”

Venus held her proper place among the other brilliant orbs overhead,
and the lusty youth swung off vigorously, determined to keep at it
without further stop, provided nothing unusual checked him.

Surely that was another light which he caught a long way ahead. A
second glance revealed that it was not of the nature of the last. The
glow was unwavering. It must be the big camp fire of a wagon train.
Though certain on this point, Alden would not have turned aside, but
the camp lay almost directly in front and he would soon come to it.

He decided to stop long enough to learn how far away the station was.
If he had gone astray and the distance was far, he would rest, for he
needed it, but if the interval was not great he would press on.

His first supposition proved right. In less than half an hour, he
came up to a circle of white-topped Conestogas, in the midst of which
a huge fire was blazing. Although it was not late, the evening meal
had been eaten, and most of the tired travelers had withdrawn into
the wagons and were asleep. Sentinels of course were placed, and
Alden was challenged as he came out of the darkness. His response was
satisfactory, and he walked between two of the lumbering vehicles to
the cheerful blaze, around which half a dozen men were seated on the
ground, smoking and talking together.

All looked up as he came forward and bade them good evening. His
appearance was interesting, for he was on foot, carried no rifle, but
had a couple of mail pouches slung over his shoulders. He flung them
to the ground with a sigh of relief, looked around and laughed as he
exclaimed:

“I’m glad to get rid of them for awhile.”

A tall, bearded man rose to his feet and walked toward him. He asked in
surprise:

“What are you doing with the United States mail?”

“Trying to reach the station.”

“You are not the regular carrier.”

“The Indians got him; he was killed a long way back, beyond the other
station.”

“Where is his pony?”

“I left him at the station, mounted another, that gave me the slip,
was shot by Indians and I have made the rest of the way on foot.”

“Well, you _are_ a hero!” was the admiring comment.

“Not by any means; any one could have done as well.”

The youth now looked more searchingly at the speaker, whose voice had
a familiar sound. To his astonishment, he recognized him as Garret
Chadwick, uncle of Ross Brandley. Alden at last had overtaken the other
train, and would meet the combative youth for whom he had looked in
vain throughout the past weeks.

The caller involuntarily glanced around. A dozen persons were in sight,
most of them within the circle of light cast by the camp fire, while
two or three were moving about a little farther off. Among them was
none who resembled young Brandley.

Alden had not yet sat down, tired as he was. His wish to deliver the
mail pressed upon him.

“Can you tell me how near I am to the station?” he asked of Mr.
Chadwick.

“Almost within a stone’s throw; yonder it is.”

Looking in the direction he pointed, Alden saw the dull glow of light
from the loopholes of the structure, not far beyond the confines of
the camp. It was singular that he had not noticed it as he came up, but
the bigger illumination obscured the lesser.

“I must go,” he said; “a good deal of time has been already lost.”

“Will you not come back and spend the night with us? We can give you
comfortable quarters in one of the wagons.”

“Thank you; I may do so.”

He was about to move off when the other with a laugh asked:

“Did you see anything of a man on horseback carrying a lantern?”

Alden was all attention.

“I did, and I couldn’t make him speak a word; do you know what it
meant?”

Chadwick laughed again.

“I called at the station a little while ago; they are much disturbed
over the absence of Lightfoot the Pony Express Rider. One of the four
was so certain that he would turn up before supper that after a hot
argument, he made a freak bet. He agreed that if Lightfoot had not
come by that time, he would carry a lighted lantern on horseback over
both streams that have to be crossed between here and the station to
the east. One condition was that he was not to speak a word to any
one except the missing man. Of course if he ran into danger he might
be compelled to yell, and, if he met Lightfoot on the way, he had the
right to turn and come back with him. Failing in that, he must make the
ride I have named.

“I have heard of a good many fool wagers, but I never knew anything
more absurd than that. Well, the others wouldn’t delay supper a single
minute, and I think they hurried through with it. The fellow who had
made the bet was game. He saddled his pony, lighted the lantern and
started off. I forgot to say that another condition was that his animal
should not trot or gallop, but walk every step of the way out and back.
He was sticking to the conditions when you saw him.”

“He certainly was, for I couldn’t make him open his mouth, and his pony
never changed his pace. Well, I must go to the station and, gentlemen,
I bid you all good-night.”



                              CHAPTER XXI

                               A SETBACK


The arrival of Alden Payne at the station and the story which he
carried caused a profound sensation. When the door was opened in
response to his knock, he dropped the pouches on the floor, sat down on
the nearest stool and exclaimed:

“There’s your mail; the Indians got Dick Lightfoot.”

And then as the hardy fellows gathered round him, he told the experience
with which you are familiar. Even in their grief they did not forget
their courtesy. He was pressed to eat, but replied that he had partaken
so late in the day and was so tired that he had no appetite: all he
wanted was rest. They talked a few minutes longer and then he was urged
to lie down in one of the bunks. This brought the question that was on
his tongue when he entered the cabin:

“What are you going to do with the mail?”

“I shall be on road in ten minutes,” replied one of the three, a man of
slight figure, bright eyes and alert manner.

“Won’t you let me take it?”

They looked at one another in astonishment. Then the eldest, who had
done most of the talking for his friends, said with a smile:

“You haven’t any pony.”

“But you have.”

“You have never been over the route and don’t know the way.”

“The pony does; I brought the mail here and this is the first time I was
ever so far west.”

“But you are worn out.”

“How far is it to the next station?”

“A little short of twelve miles, but a part of the way is pretty tough
and you’re liable to run into redskins before you’re out of sight of
the station.”

The men admired the pluck of the youth, but they would have been
foolish to yield to him. The mail was certainly safer in charge of one
of their number than with a youth who was strange to the country. They
shook their heads, and, since there was no help for it, Alden lay down
on the couch which felt as delightful to his body as eider down. He
could hardly keep awake while removing his clothing and five minutes
after his head pressed the doubled blanket which served for a pillow,
he was asleep, and did not open his eyes until the morning light
streamed through the windows and the door that was drawn far back.

One of the men was preparing breakfast and the odor of the steaming
coffee and broiling venison was the sweetest perfume that could greet
a hungry person. The others were outside looking after the ponies
and attending to their ablutions. After greeting his host, Alden was
directed to the spring near at hand, where he bathed and drank. That
finished, he surveyed the emigrant camp. Everything there was bustle
and activity. Breakfast was also in course of preparation, and men were
corraling the animals that were cropping the lush grass and holding
back from harness and yoke.

“They won’t start for an hour,” reflected Alden, as he walked back
to the cabin; “after breakfast, I’ll go over and call on Mr. Ross
Brandley. He must have learned of my arrival from his uncle, and there
shouldn’t be any trouble about arranging for a meeting between him
and me. We are both traveling in the same direction, and I don’t think
he feels backward about that little matter. In fact he has proved he
doesn’t. I’ll give him the fight of his life!”

And Alden compressed his lips and walked more briskly to the door
through which he passed, entering as the others were sitting down to
the table. He was greeted warmly and knew he could not have been more
welcome.

It impressed Alden that two facts were self-evident: since all the
men were present the rider who had taken charge of the mail must have
carried it to the next station and returned during the night. Inasmuch
as the entire ride was less than twenty-five miles the achievement was
not remarkable, when the circumstances are remembered. Every rider had
a swift intelligent pony, and both were familiar with the route.

Moreover, since the force at the station had increased from three to
four men, one of them must be the horseman whom Alden met, and who
refused to speak a word to him. A glance at the different ones told the
youth which was he, but, as he made no reference to his freak bet, the
guest did not think it well to mention it.

Having thanked the men for their hospitality, Alden rose to go.
Addressing the one who had announced his intention of carrying the mail
to the next station, he asked:

“Did you have any trouble in getting through last night?”

“Who? Me? None at all,” replied the rider with a grin, “’cause I didn’t
go.”

“Which one of you made the trip?”

And Alden looked from one face to the other. The tallest man, the chief
speaker replied:

“None of this crowd went.”

“Hasn’t the mail been sent on? Then I shall take it after all.”

“Oh, the mail reached the station long ago if all went well; one of the
party in camp over yonder took it.”

This was strange and Alden asked:

“How was that? I don’t understand it, when you refused _me_ the chance.”

“I should have given you the chance, if you hadn’t been tuckered out;
the fellow who took the mail was as fresh as a daisy and eager for the
trip.”

A suspicion flashed upon Alden.

“What is his name?”

“He is a young chap about your size and build: name’s Brandley, Ross
Brandley.”

Alden sprang to his feet.

“And you let him rob me of my honors! The last fellow in the world!”

The four men looked at him in astonishment. The tallest asked:

“What do you mean?”

Alden saw the absurdity of his action. Resuming his seat, he said:

“I beg your pardon; how came you to select _him_?”

“You hadn’t laid down ten minutes when he came over from camp. He said
he had some important business with you and wanted us to wake you.
That didn’t seem right, seeing how tired you were, and he agreed to
wait till morning. Then he saw Cal about to start with the mail and
the notion got into his head that it was the job next to his heart. He
begged to be allowed to take his place. He wouldn’t accept no for an
answer, and I was fool enough to give in, doing something contrary to
the rules and if anything happens to him, I shall get into trouble for
it.”

“He rode on my pony, that knows every foot of the way,” added the
rider referred to as Cal; “I guess he got through.”

After a moment’s silence, Alden asked:

“Did he leave any message for me?”

The agent glanced to the rider to answer.

“He told me to let you know his name and to say that, as you had given
up your job, he took pity on you and would finish it for you. He would
try to fix things so you wouldn’t have to wait long for the meeting
which he’s a good deal more anxious than you to bring about.”

Poor Alden Payne! He was “boiling.” Nothing could have occurred to roil
him more deeply. After completing two-thirds of the trip with the mail
pouches and going through terrifying perils, his enemy, as he persisted
in regarding him, had quietly stepped in and stolen the honor from him.
Not only that, but he had left an insulting message, as if his act
itself were not sufficient.

Our young friend could see no “ray of light.” Had he possessed his own
pony he would have started in hot pursuit of Brandley, but Firebug was
with the train and until he came up, no animal was at command. It was
useless to ask the agent to loan him one of his horses, for there was
not the slightest reason for doing so and every reason why he should
not.

The chagrined Alden tried to formulate some plan by which he could even
up matters with the fellow who had treated him so ill. He thought of
going on afoot, but that would have been folly. The only method seemed
to accompany the emigrant train until it met Brandley returning, or
overtook him at the next station; but, to do that, placed him in a
delicate and repugnant position. He would travel as the guest in one
sense of Brandley’s relative, who was the head of the company. That
fact must act as a restraint upon the nephew, and to a certain extent
upon Alden himself. The foes must meet upon neutral ground, where the
duty of hospitality did not bear upon either.

Seeing the train about to start, Alden, restless, impatient and trying
hard to hide his anger, walked over to camp and went straight to Mr.
Chadwick.

“I should like to ask,” he said; “how you came to allow Ross to take my
place.”

The man was nettled by the unconscious brusqueness of Alden’s manner.

“Explain yourself,” he said, moving aside where the others who looked
inquiringly at them, could not overhear what was said.

“I brought the mail pouches from the last station and expected to take
them on to the next as I had a right to do.”

“Well, what of it?”

“And your nephew sneaked over and took them away from me.”

“Did the agent give him permission?”

“Certainly, though he now regrets it.”

“Then your question should be addressed to him and not to me.”

“You shouldn’t have permitted your nephew to do such a thing.”

“Since when have you assumed to advise me, young man? In the first
place, Ross didn’t ask my permission, nor did I know he had gone until
this morning.”

“And you would not have allowed him to do what he did had you known it?”

“I haven’t said that nor do I say it now; what I do say is that I am
much pleased to bid you good morning.”

With which curt dismissal, Garret Chadwick turned about and gave his
attention to the starting of the train, which was in motion a few
minutes later.

Repulsed and turned back at all points Alden was in an unenviable frame
of mind. He knew he had acted inexcusably toward Mr. Chadwick, and he
would have apologized had the opportunity been given. Had he decided to
go with his party to the next station, he could not do so after these
words. He wandered back to the station where he sat down on one of the
stools that had been brought outside and gloomily watched the lumbering
wagons as they swung slowly westward under the strenuous pull of the
oxen.

The result of all this dismal cogitation was the decision that there
remained but the single thing to do: he must wait at the station until
the arrival of the train under Shagbark’s guidance.

“He ought to be here by to-night or to-morrow forenoon. Before that,
Chadwick and his party will be at the next station, and so many miles
ahead of us that we shan’t overtake them this side of Salt Lake City,
if we do even there.

“Ross Brandley is running away from me!” exclaimed Alden slapping his
knee; “there isn’t a doubt of it. He knew that if he stayed in camp
nothing would prevent our meeting to-day, so he made the excuse of
wishing to carry the mail to the next station. When he gets there
he’ll wait for his friends, and be gone long before we can come up with
him.”

And this conclusion did not add to the young man’s peace of mind. He
must pass the dragging hours as best he could until the arrival of his
friends. He rose to his feet with the intention of taking the back
trail to meet them, but gave over the plan when he reflected that the
breadth of the route made it very easy for him to miss them.

“It would be my luck to do so,” he growled; “everything goes wrong with
me.”

The man inside the cabin having cleared away the dishes and set matters
to right, sat down on a bench and began mending his clothes; two
others had gone off to look after the horses, which were grazing some
distance away among the foothills. Probably they would go on a little
hunt before their return. Cal the diminutive rider came out, bringing a
stool with him and placed it beside the glum Alden.

“Sorry you feel so bad, my young friend: I had no idea of anything of
the kind. Ross never told me of the trouble between you and him.”

“Of course not; he was afraid you would make him stay here till I could
see him.”

Cal swung one of his sinewy legs over the other knee, struck a fly
crawling several feet away, with a well aimed volley of discolored
spittle, and said:

“No; I don’t think it was _that_; you must remember he was eager to
wake you up when he first come to quarters.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t let him do so.”

“So am I, seeing how you feel. What’s your quarrel with him? I liked
the fellow first rate, what little I seen of him.”

Alden told of the interrupted fray in St. Joe, when Brandley bumped
into him, and instead of apologizing, added insulting words.

“Can’t say that I blame you for being r’iled, but I should like to ask
a favor of you.”

“What is it?”

“When that fight comes off, fix things so I can observe it. I know
it’ll be a hummer.”

Alden could not help smiling.

“I’m sure I have no objection, but I don’t see much chance of obliging
you. He has left here and isn’t likely to come back.”

“But I can fix things so as to ride to the next station when the mail
comes in from the east.”

“Well, if you are in the neighborhood, I’ll give you a reserved seat.”

“That’s the talk; I’ll do my best.”

“You mustn’t forget that he is running away from me.”

Cal swung the other leg over its mate and submerged a fly that was
groping far beyond ordinary hydraulic range. Raising his hand he
protested:

“Hold on, pardner; young Brandley ain’t running away from you.”

“How do you know he isn’t?”

“I warn’t with him long, but long enough to see what kind of stuff he’s
made of; he’s true blue and don’t you forget it. He’ll be waiting for
you when you get to the next station and you can then have it out.”

“I hope so, but I doubt it.”

“He’ll never show the white feather, more than you will.”

Inasmuch as Cal included Alden in this compliment, our young friend
could make no objection to the same.



                             CHAPTER XXII

                   JETHRO’S SECRET AND WHAT FOLLOWED


The day was crisp, clear and sunshiny, Alden strove to shake off the
feelings that oppressed him. He knew he was not treating his hospitable
friends right, for they had shown him every courtesy, as they would
have done had he chosen to spend weeks at the mail station; Cal invited
him to go on a hunting excursion after the midday meal. Ordinarily the
youth would have accepted eagerly, but his mood forced him to decline.

Inasmuch as he had had plenty of sleep, he could get no more. He
strolled about the open space, pausing now and then to survey through
his glasses the snowy peaks which towered far into the sky to the
westward, or at the lower hills to the north, where the gnarled pine,
the dwarfed cedar, the rushing torrents and the gorges made up one
of the many wild regions which abound over thousands of square miles
of area. Abundance of game was there always with the added spice of
danger from the dusky hunters who preferred to bag the white invaders
in preference to deer, antelope, buffalo, or mountain sheep.

The location of the station shortened the view to the southeast from
which Shagbark must come. There were too many obstacles and variations
of the landscape to permit one to see far in that direction, but Alden
continued to look, as the afternoon waned, yearning for the sight of
the slow moving train.

Suddenly the still air was pierced by a wild shout. It was the “coyote
yell,” of the Pony Express Rider coming from the west. Seemingly in
the same moment, Cal hurried round the corner of the cabin, leading
one of the wiry half-breed horses by the bridle. The man from within
the building came through the door and peered in the direction of the
sound. The other two were still absent hunting among the foothills.

Up the slope from behind the rocks and dwarfed cedars burst the
rider and his horse. The panting animal was covered with lather and
glistening sweat. The sight was similar to that which Alden, who leaped
to his feet at the signal, had seen many times. The broad-brimmed hat
flaring up in front, the fluttering handkerchief about the neck, the
fringed collar, the close fitting coat, cartridge belt at the waist,
gloved hands, revolver at the hip, rifle across his thighs, fringed
trouser legs, tucked just below the knees into the boots, spurs, keen,
alert eyes, body leaning slightly forward but as firm in the saddle, as
if the rider were a part of the pony; these with mail pouches locked
and secured in place, were the noticeable points of the man who dashed
up at headlong speed his horse setting his legs and coming to a stop
within a single bound.

“Howdy, Cal? Howdy, Bill?”

“Howdy, Jim?”

The words were yet in the air, when the rider leaped to the ground,
whirled about and began unfastening the mail bags. Cal helped, they
were slung upon the back of the waiting pony and Jim vaulted into the
saddle, caught up the reins and pricked the flanks of his animal with
his keen spurs.

During the few seconds this operation required, Cal asked:

“Did the mail get in all right from the east?”

“Pony galloped up before midnight, with the bags without a scratch.”

“Good――”

“But the Indians got the rider; haven’t seen hide or hair of him. I’m
off!”

And without another word, his horse thundered on a dead run to the
southeast.

The astounded Alden turned to follow him with his eyes, when he
descried a tall bony horse approaching, on whose back was a massive man
with shaggy whiskers, and a pipe in his mouth.

“Hello, Shagbark!” shouted the youth, running toward him delighted and
yet awed by the awful message the Pony Express Rider flung at them. He
had veered so as to avoid the approaching train, and was already beyond
sight.

The grim veteran did not try to hide his delight at sight of the young
man. The movement of his heavy beard around his mouth showed he was
grinning. Leaning over, he reached down and almost crushed the hand
that was offered him.

“B’ars and bufflers, younker! but I’m powerful glad to see ye; I’ve
been more worried than I let on to the other folks.”

“I’m sound and unharmed, thank Heaven, Shagbark, though I had a pretty
tough time of it. Is every one else well?”

“They war a few minutes ago,” replied the guide, turning in his saddle
and looking back as if not sure everything was right.

The plodding train was rounding into sight, and at the head was Jethro
Mix on his horse. Alden waved his hand. The dusky fellow stared a
minute unable to grasp the situation. Then, recognizing his young
master, he banged his heels against the ribs of Jilk, and cantered up.

“Gorrynation! if it doan’ do my eyes good to hear you and my ears good
to see you! I’ve been worrying awful and was gwine to start out to hunt
you up if you hadn’t been here.”

In the exuberance of his delight, Jethro slipped to the ground and
warmly shook the hand of the one whom he loved more than any person in
the world.

“We’ll camp hyar!” called Shagbark to the teamsters, all of whom had
come within easy reach of his voice.

While the wagons were assuming position, and the men preparing to spend
the night where Chadwick’s party had camped the night before, Alden
exchanged greetings with Mr. Fleming, his wife and the remainder of his
friends. Then excusing himself for a few minutes, he ran to the station
where the agent and his companion were curiously watching the movements
of the emigrants.

“What do you make of the words of the rider?” asked Alden in a
trembling voice. The two looked at him and the elder replied with the
question:

“What _can_ you make of it except what he said?”

“Do you think Brandley has been killed by the Indians?”

“As sure as you’re standing there,” replied the taller; “the biggest
tomfool thing I ever done was to let him start off with the mail. It
means my finish.”

Bill thought more of the trouble coming to him than he did of the fate
that had overtaken poor Ross Brandley.

“Can’t anything be done for him?” asked Alden swallowing the lump in
his throat.

“Not a thing; he isn’t the first one the Indians got and he won’t be
the last by a jugful.”

It was Cal who now spoke.

“There ain’t any doubt that he was shot from the back of the pony,
which dashed off and ran to the station with the mail. If we’d let you
start out with the pouches, as you wanted to do, that’s what would have
become of _you_.”

But Alden was not thinking of that. He was distressed beyond words at
the dreadful fate that had overtaken the youth with whom he quarreled
and whom he was anxious to meet that the wrangle might be fought to a
finish.

“All day while I have been brooding and hating him he has been lying
somewhere in the solitude looking up to the sky and seeing it not. God
forgive me!”

Angered by the indifference of the two men, Alden turned back and
joined Shagbark, who had dismounted and removed the saddle and bridle
of his horse. Jethro had done the same, and the three stood a little
apart from the others. Alden had taken a minute or two to caress his
pony, which whinnied with pleasure at meeting him, but the master was
in too great anguish to pay the animal the attention he would have paid
in any other circumstances.

The three were grouped together, and Jethro and Shagbark looked into
the handsome face that could not hide its grief.

Then in as few words as possible Alden told the dreadful story. As soon
as he had finished Jethro with a countenance hardly less distressed,
said:

“Al, you never let me tell you dat secret I wanted to tell you.”

“I have no patience to listen now: more important matters are on my
mind.”

“But you’v got hear it or I’ll bust.”

“Go ahead,” said Shagbark, who saw that it had some bearing on the sore
trouble of his young friend.

“You remember in St. Joe, when dat chap butted into you?”

“Of course, but never mind about that.”

“Do you know what he said to you?”

“I don’t remember, and I don’t care.”

“You neber had de rights ob dat; I stubbed my toe, bumped agin him
and knocked him agin _you_. De minute he did dat, he turned to you
and said, ‘_I beg your pardon!_’ but you thinked he said something
insulting, _but he didn’t_.”

Alden stared at Jethro.

“Are you speaking the truth?” he asked in a husky voice.

“As suah’s as you’s standing dere and me here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I tried to seberal times but you wouldn’t let me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”

Jethro chuckled.

“I wanted to see de fout.”

“Jeth, I ought to beat the life out of you for that.”

“Dat’s what I thinks; here am your gun; take hold of the barrel and
break it ober my head; I won’t say a word.”

And the fellow handed the weapon to his master and meekly awaited his
pleasure.

“To think,” said Alden, as if talking to himself; “that Ross Brandley
acted the gentleman and I the brute. No wonder he resented it when I
refused to receive his apology. I thank Heaven we did not meet while
I knew not the truth. Ah, if I could have seen him before this last
happened and told him my regrets!”

Shagbark had remained silent until now. He stepped forward and laid
his big hand affectionately on the shoulder of Alden.

“Don’t take it so to heart, younker: thar’s one chance in a hundred
that yer young friend, as I ’spose ye call him, is alive.”

“Oh, I hope so, but it is impossible.”

“Not much chance, but thar is one as I obsarved in a hundred. Wait
till we git to the next station. It mought be that when he seen things
looked squally he slipped off his pony and took to kiver. Not much
chance I say, but it may be. Let’s hope till we hyar more.”

Alden took slight comfort from the words of his rough friend, who had
little faith himself in them.

Because of this affliction, the train started at an unusually early
hour the next morning. It arrived without incident at the next mail
station about noon. There they found Mr. Chadwick’s party still in camp,
but the leader was absent. In answer to Alden’s hurried questions he
was told:

“His nephew has been missing since night before last, and he and one of
his friends have gone in search of him.”

“And that is what _I_ shall do!” said Alden, with a flash of his eyes
and a compression of his lips; “and I shall not return till I learn the
truth.”

“And I’se gwine wid you,” added Jethro Mix.

“I don’t see that you can be of any help, but you may come if you wish.
You owe the risk of your own life for the wrong you have done that
noble fellow.”

“Dat’s what I thinks, Al, and I’m wid you till de last horn blows.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Now suppose we join hands in the hunt for Ross Brandley, and leave all
the adventures and experiences to be told in

                        ALDEN AMONG THE INDIANS

                                  OR

                    THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING PONY
                            EXPRESS RIDER.


                   *       *       *       *       *


  Transcriber’s Notes:

  ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

  ――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
    corrected.

  ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

  ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.




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