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.