“Good—”
“But the Indians got the rider; haven’t seen hide or hair of him. I’m off!”
And without another word, his horse thundered on a dead run to the southeast.
The astounded Alden turned to follow him with his eyes, when he descried a tall bony horse approaching, on whose back was a massive man with shaggy whiskers, and a pipe in his mouth.
“Hello, Shagbark!” shouted the youth, running toward him delighted and yet awed by the awful message the Pony Express Rider flung at them. He had veered so as to avoid the approaching train, and was already beyond sight.
The grim veteran did not try to hide his delight at sight of the young man. The movement of his heavy beard around his mouth showed he was grinning. Leaning over, he reached down and almost crushed the hand that was offered him.
“B’ars and bufflers, younker! but I’m powerful glad to see ye; I’ve been more worried than I let on to the other folks.”
“I’m sound and unharmed, thank Heaven, Shagbark, though I had a pretty tough time of it. Is every one else well?”
“They war a few minutes ago,” replied the guide, turning in his saddle and looking back as if not sure everything was right.
The plodding train was rounding into sight, and at the head was Jethro Mix on his horse. Alden waved his hand. The dusky fellow stared a minute unable to grasp the situation. Then, recognizing his young master, he banged his heels against the ribs of Jilk, and cantered up.