“Hello!” came from an answering voice.
“Why, it’s The Pony Express got through at last!” announced Nick, incredulously; and so saying he took up the whisky bottle and glasses which lay on the teacher’s desk and dashed into the saloon. He had barely left, however, than The Pony Express, muffled up to his ears and looking fit to brave the fiercest of storms, entered the room, hailing the boys with:
“Hello, boys! Letter for Ashby!”
The Deputy—who with Trinidad and Sonora had come running in, the latter carrying a boot-leg and a stove-polishing brush in his hand—took the letter and started in search of the Wells Fargo Agent who, Rance had told them, had gone to sleep.
“Well, boys, how d’you like bein’ snowed in for a week?” asked The Pony Express, warming himself by the stove; and then without waiting for an answer he rattled on: “There’s a rumour at The Ridge that you all let Ramerrez freeze an’ missed a hangin’. Say, they’re roarin’ at you, chaps!” And with a “So long, boys!” he strode out of the room.
Sonora started in hot pursuit after him, hollering out:
“Wait! Wait!” And when The Pony Express halted, he added: “Says you to the boys at The Ridge as you ride by, the Academy at Cloudy is open to-day full blast!”
“Whoopee! Whoop!” chimed in Trinidad and began to execute a pas seul in the middle of the room, dropping into a chair just in time to avoid running into Nick, who hurriedly returned with two glasses and a bottle.
“Help yourselves, boys,” he said; which they did to the accompaniment of a succession of joyous yells from Trinidad.
Meantime Rance had relighted the burnt-out cigar which he had been holding for some time between his fingers, and was sending curls of smoke upwards towards the ceiling.