It was late afternoon when the first horse, carrying an Interstate rider, raced up to the Topeka change station and registered his package. Jones came in second, smiling with satisfaction that his little roan had outgamed three faster horses. Pathfinder at once set out for Council Grove with the Dell-Argo package, and an hour later, Dillon and Jones, with their horses, were asleep in the speeding express car, resting while the opportunity offered.
Hammond had arranged accommodations for his riders and horses along the route, but Dillon ignored the hotels when he reached Council Grove. He had already experienced the underhand methods of Dan Mortley, so he finished his night's sleep on a cot in Sagamore's stall.
The riders were expected in Council Grove about eight o'clock the next morning, so Dillon took his time at breakfast. Then, making sure that Sagamore was ready, he walked the horse to the change station. Pathfinder was the third horse to arrive at the station, and after instructing Montauk about shipping his horse ahead, Dillon and Sagamore again took up the race.
The contest had developed into a steady grind by this time, each team fighting to gain and hold the lead. The National rider had led out of Council Grove—riding a trim iron-gray mare—but Mortley had now begun to use his faster horses. When Sagamore's steady gait enabled him to overtake one of the leading horses within the first ten miles, it proved to be the National mare.
Sagamore was running easily, his long, free lope clipping off the miles. It was twenty-six miles to Herrington, the next change station, and he allowed Sagamore to show a bit more speed in the last five miles. Even then, the Continental had already changed and sent its package on ahead when Dillon reached the station.
From Herrington the trail swings south to Marion, another stretch of twenty-six miles. South of Lincolnville, the halfway point, Sagamore caught up with the Continental rider. Realizing that this rider would not yield his place without a bitter race that might injure both horses, Dillon was content to ride into Marion on even terms.
Another Continental horse was waiting at the Marion station—this one a fine bay stallion that stood quivering with eagerness. Sagamore had already run fifty-two miles that day, but Dillon knew the great beast's power, so he clung steadily to the fast pace set by the bay. Mile after mile the two horses galloped down the dust-swept highway, then the bay began to weaken from the terrific pace and Dillon felt the elation of knowing that he led in the contest.
The shaggy little cow-horse was waiting with a thoroughbred racer of the Continental string when Dillon rode up to the station at Canton and transferred the registered parcel to his team-mate.
"Somebody tried to get into Patsy's stall last night," Jones said, patting a gun that swung on his hip. "I got a permit from the sheriff here and strapped on my old hardware. The man that tries to hurt my horse will be askin' St. Peter who won this race."
"Good," Dillon replied. "I'm packing a gun myself, and I'll use it before I'll let anyone cripple my horse."