Alden the Pony Express rider

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

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.