Alden the Pony Express rider

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

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.