When the stage left, early, Irish Tom was still standing ready beside his horse to take the saddle bag from Charley Cliff. Charley had not come—and it was learned afterward that the mail was late in starting from St. Joseph because it had waited for the election news.
So Dave mounted the driver’s box on the C. O. C. & P. P. stage beside Gentleman Bob, and they drove away and left the unknown news behind them.
However, not for long. They had gone scarcely fifteen miles when Gentleman Bob, who had been constantly glancing over his shoulder, exclaimed: “There he comes! Look at him, will you!”
By “he” could be meant only one person—the Pony Express rider. Yes, the Pony Express it was—a dark spot, rising, falling, rising, falling, pelting up the dusty trail.
“He’s certainly going some,” commented the stage messenger, who this time was not Captain Cricket, but was Jack Mayfield.
Bob flung his lash over the backs of his four mules and broke them into a gallop. But although the stage was empty this trip and the mules fresh, and the road smooth, the pony express closed in as fast as if the coach were standing still.
“Going to pass us,” laughed Bob, and slowed his team.
And the pony express did pass them. There was sudden staccato of hoofs, like a long roll of a drum—a rush, a whoop—“Who’s elected?” yelled Bob, turning in his seat to meet the onswoop.
“Lincoln. New York gives fifty thousand majority,” shouted back Irish Tom; and in a cloud of dust he was away, leaving a flake of froth on the coach box at Davy’s feet.
“Lincoln, huh?” remarked Gentleman Bob. “Well, I wonder what’ll happen now. But that boy’s sure riding,” and he gazed reflectively after Irish Tom.