The road was hilly and his horse flagged. He spurred ruthlessly and struck with his hat. If he did not arrive on time he would be ashamed, for nobody could know how hard he had tried. Up the hill he forced his pony and would not let him relax into a trot. Down the grade he galloped—every forward jump a torment. Red Buttes—that must be Red Buttes—wavered strangely amidst the level expanse before. But he reached it. At least he thought that he reached it, and he fumbled at his saddle bags to loosen them.
Somebody rushed forward as if to meet him and help him; and he saw, lined plainly amidst the confused other countenances and figures, the astonished face of Billy.
“It’s Red! Look out! He’ll fall off!” Billy’s voice rang like a trumpet.
“Where’s the regular man?” they demanded.
“Tom’s hurt—away back. I took his place. Quick, Billy! Go on. Election news. Lincoln’s elected.”
Billy vented an exclamation. He was into the saddle atop the saddle bags; he sprang away.
“Take good care of that kid,” he called back. “He’s a good one.”
“You bet we will.”
“Am I on time?” wheezed Davy, vaguely, unable to see straight.
“Two minutes ahead of time, lad.”