It was like the rush of a fire-engine, plus twice the speed, and twenty times the danger. Above the pounding of hoofs, the din of rattling metal, the crash, smash and roar of the wheels and the yells of the driver could be heard the man Pete, ex-cowpuncher, cheerfully singing,
| “Roll your tails, and roll ’em high, We’ll all be angels by-and-by.” |
Braced in the back corner sat Captain Hanrahan, his leg keeping some of the tools from going overboard, holding Ches in his arms.
“Curse it all, Billy!” he screamed to the driver, “miss some of them bumps, will you? I’ve got on a new pair of pants.”
“I’ll take ’em clean off you the next time, Cap!” retorted the driver.
They joked, which may seem heartless; but they risked their necks a hundred times, and that isn’t very heartless.
“That’s the place, I reckon, Cap!” said the driver, pointing. “Somebody working there now!”
“Give ’em a hoot!” replied the captain.
Bud stepped out and held up his hand in answer to the yell. The wave of thanksgiving at the sight of this most efficient help took all the stiffness out of the knees of the mail-rider. The tears rolled down his face unnoticed.
“You’re welcome, boys,” he cried, as the driver sawed the frenzied team to a standstill and the men sprang out.