The man who addressed them looked no older than themselves, but he was more than twenty years of age. His face was smooth shaven, his complexion clear and his eyes bright. His weight could not have been much above a hundred pounds, and a glance revealed his perfect horsemanship. Alden noted the mail pouches strapped one in front of his knees and the other behind him, and each secured by a lock. He carried a rifle in his left hand and a revolver showed at his hip. He was a fine specimen of the superb Express Rider, temperate, brave, alert, and with extraordinary powers of endurance.
When Alden had explained the cause of himself and servant being so far in advance of the train, the rider said:
“I passed them two or three miles back. If you will permit me, I advise you to lose no time in returning to them.”
“Why?”
“You are approaching a dangerous region; I have had two scrimmages with Indians within the last month.”
“Gorrynation!” muttered Jethro, eager to turn back without advancing another step.
“I thank you for your advice, but it is so pleasant to have your company we shall ride a little farther with you.”
“My name is Dick Lightfoot,” announced the genial stranger.
Alden gave his own and that of Jethro and then asked:
“How far have you come?”