Upon the dun sandy trail had appeared a black speck. How rapidly it neared! Every eye was glued to it; Irish Tom put foot into stirrup, hand upon mane; his horse, as if knowing, pawed eagerly.
Now the speck had enlarged into a horseman, rising, falling, rising, falling, upon galloping steed. The horse itself was plain—and through the still thin air floated the heralding beat of rapid hoofs.
The rider was leaning forward, lifting his mount to its every stride; the horse’s head was stretched forward, he was running low and hard, and now the steam from his nostrils could be seen in great puffs. On they swept, they two, man and horse, every second nearer—and suddenly here they were, the horse’s chest foam-specked, his nostrils wide and red, his legs working forward and back, forward and back, his rider a little fellow not much larger than Dave, crimson faced from the swift pace through the cold night. He swung his hat, and whooped, exultant. Up rose a cheer to greet him; and the crowd scattered, for into its very midst he galloped at full speed.
He jerked from underneath him a set of saddle-bags, and ere he had stopped he flung them ahead; the station agent sprang to grab them, and before the rider had landed upon the ground had slung them across Irish Tom’s saddle and shouted: “Clear the way!”
Into his saddle leaped Irish Tom, tightened lines, thrust spurs against hide, and at a single great bound was away, bending low and racing like mad at full gallop on up the trail for Red Buttes, almost 100 miles westward again. In an astonishingly brief space of time he was around the turn and out of sight; but the rapid thud of his hoofs still echoed back.
XXI
“PONY EXPRESS BILL”
The name of the rider who had just arrived was Charley Cliff. As he stiffly swung from the saddle, a dozen hands were thrust at him to clap him on the shoulder and to shake his hand in congratulation.
“What did you make it in?”