“Throw off that mail bag.”
The man was “Yank,” assistant wagon boss under Charley Martin! Dave recognized him at once, although the slouch hat was pulled low. But beneath the brim the eyes were those of “Yank.”
“No,” panted Dave, trying to hold his voice steady and think of what Billy Cody or Irish Tom would do. “It’s only election news.”
“Throw off that mail and be quick, too,” ordered “Yank,” with a string of curses.
Hardly knowing what he did, but resolved to do something, Dave plunged his spurs into his pony’s heaving flanks. With a great snort and a long leap the pony lunged forward straight up the bank. “Yank” uttered a sudden vicious exclamation and dived aside; but the horse’s shoulder struck him, hurled him aside, and at the instant veering sharply into the fringe of willows Dave sent his mount crashing through. The willows slapped him in the face and on the body. He bent low—in a moment more they were out of the willows, again into the trail, and tearing onward. He heard a shot—just one; but the bullet went wide, and thudity, thudity, he was galloping safe. A little shaky, Dave laughed; he felt like giving a whoop—although he could not spare breath for even that. He imagined, though, how mad “Yank” must be, and this was what had made him laugh.
Even with the excitement of the hold-up that failed, the road began to seem wearisome, the ride one monotonous pound. The chafing stirrups tortured his ankles almost beyond endurance—but not quite; no, not quite. The saddle chafed his thighs. His mouth was parched, he could scarcely breathe; he could scarcely see, when, ever and anon, his head swam giddily. He forded the river again. From throbbing pain, his ankles changed to the relief of numbness, and his feet, blistered, and his blistered thighs gradually ceased to be his; they felt as if they belonged to somebody else.
He had vague recollection of arriving at the way stations, of staggering from horse to horse, of being helped into the saddle, of voices hailing him, and hands and voices forwarding him on again. Once he passed the east-bound stage—and again he passed it, or another: and he piped to the staring faces: “Lincoln’s elected. New York gives fifty thousand majority.” The words issued mechanically, and he did not know what effect they had.
He had vague recollection that a bevy of Indians yelled at him and flourished their bows, and that he heard the hiss of arrows travelling even faster than he; but he could not stop to argue. The one fact that stuck in his mind was that he was nearly on time. “Three minutes late,” he thought that somebody said at the last station where he changed horses. And—“Go it, lad! You’re a plucky one.”
“Three minutes late” was all. The thought buoyed him up and glued him to his saddle. Gallop, gallop, over rock and sand, through brush and through the bare open and through occasional scrubby growth of trees; through shaded canyons, and through the burning, windy sunshine.
Was that Red Buttes? Was that really Red Buttes at last—the end of his trip, where waited Billy Cody? Supposing Billy wasn’t there; would they want him to continue riding, riding, forever? He uttered a little sob of despair, but he set his teeth hard, and resolved that he’d do it; he’d do it, if he had to.