Alden the Pony Express rider

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

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.