Dave knew his duty, too. Not slackening pace, he loosened from the fastenings the saddle bags under him. Up at full gallop he dashed, and even before he had pulled his pony to its haunches, he tore the saddle bags from beneath him and tossed them ahead. Then he was off in a twinkling, staggering as he landed.
“Quick!” he gasped, out of parched throat.
The station man had stared, but he grabbed the saddle bags.
“Who are you? Where’s Tom?”
“Hurt. Coming on stage.”
The saddle bags were clapped on the other saddle. Dave grasped the bridle lines.
“Bad?”
“Leg broken.” And Davy, thrusting foot into stirrup, vaulted aboard almost over the station man’s head.
One last twitch to the saddle bags.