“I rode a while on Bill Trotter’s division, sir,” responded Billy, eagerly. “I filled the bill there, and I think I can do as well or better now.”
Mr. Slade seemed interested.
“Oh! Are you that boy who was riding down there a short time back, as the youngest rider on the road?”
“Yes, sir. I’m the boy.”
Mr. Slade proceeded to read the Russell letter. It must have recommended Billy highly, for Mr. Slade appeared to be satisfied.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. I shouldn’t wonder if it would shake the life out of you, but maybe you can stand it. I’ll give you a trial, anyhow; and if you can’t stand up to it you can tend stock at Horseshoe. I’ll let you know your run in the morning.”
He walked away, and Billy turned to Dave with face aglow.
“I’ve got it!” he asserted. “Hurrah! It’s on the toughest division west of the mountains, too! I tell you that’s no joke, riding pony express—making eighty or a hundred miles at a dead gallop night and day, and changing horses every ten miles or so in less than two minutes.”
What luck! Or, no, not luck; Billy had earned it. That evening Dave and he had a great old-time visit exchanging news. Dave did not have much, it seemed to him, worth while to report, but Billy was full of adventures, as usual. Davy heard again all about the trapping trip of last winter, and how another Dave—Dave Harrington—had fought a heroic fight with the snow to find Billy in the dug-out, and rescue him. Billy was all right now; and after having had a short, rather easy, pony express run down the line, was here anxious to tackle something harder.