Jack of the Pony Express by Frank V. Webster (ebook reader library txt) 📕

It was not until the outlaw had reached a point near the spring that he began to be at all concerned. Up to then he had felt sure of the result of his desperate work.

"Why, I ought to have come upon him before this," he reasoned, wonderingly. "That stuff would knock out a strong man, let alone a lad like him. He ought to have fallen off, or have gotten off, and become unconscious before this. I wonder if I made any mistake."

He went over in his mind the different points of his plot. It seemed perfect. But where was his victim who should have been lying unconscious beside the road?

"Something's wrong!" Ryan exclaimed, as he passed the spring. He looked about. The trail was dusty, but he could sec no signs of Jack's having dismounted, or indications that the lad had fallen and gotten up to the saddle again.

"Something's wrong," Ryan repeated. Then he put spurs to his horse and galloped down the trail toward Golden Crossing.

"Jack is late, isn't he, Jennie?" asked Mrs. Blake, as she sat in the Golden Crossing post office. She had finished her sewing, and had stopped for a little chat.

"Well, you know he had to ride out and get the mail from the disabled stage coach," replied the girl, as she made some entries in her books. "And perhaps he had to go farther than the messenger said. There's plenty of time, though."

"Well, he's late," Mrs. Blake repeated. "I hope he doesn't have to make a night trip."

"So do I," her daughter murmured, as she thought of the time Jack had been held up. "It isn't likely he will, though. You know, Mr. Perkfeld said he needn't make those night trips any more unless there was something very important."

"You never can tell when some important matter will come in though," resumed Mrs. Blake, after a pause, during which she had gone to the window to peer down the trail in the direction from which Jack would come. "And isn't he expecting something for Mr. Argent?"

"Yes, and that is the only thing I'm worrying about," confessed Jennie. "If those letters come in Jack will be sure to want to ride off with them at once, night or day. And we won't know when the letters do arrive until the mail sacks come here and I open them."

"Well, it certainly is a risky business, this pony express," sighed her mother.

"It wouldn't be so risky if it wasn't for those desperate outlaws, and the other men who want Jack's position," Jennie said, her eyes flashing. "It makes me so mad when I think what an unfair advantage they take that I wish I were a man so I could help Jack fight them!"

"My!" laughed Mrs. Blake. "But I guess you're better off inside here, than out on the mountain trail."

"Yes, I suppose so. That's all we women are good for, anyhow, to sit and wait and worry!"

"Any one would think you were twice as old as you are," said Mrs. Blake with a smile at her daughter. "Hark! Is that he coming?"

They both started toward the door, but, with a sigh of disappointment,
Jennie said:

"No, it's only Tim Mullane."

The red-haired, genial Irish lad entered with a grin.

"Jack not here yet?" he asked, with some surprise.

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't say that!" Jennie exclaimed, and her voice was not her usual one.

"Why, what's the matter?" her mother asked, in some surprise.

"Oh, it makes me nervous when any one speaks about Jack's not being back.
It—it's just as if—as if something had happened to him!" she faltered.

"Oh sure, miss, what could happen to him?" asked Tim, seeing with his Irish quickness "which way the wind blew."

"Nothing, of course," Jennie went on. "He just rode out to get the mail because the stage was broken down. Maybe he knows there is nothing important in it, so he can stay here all night."

"Of course," agreed Mrs. Blake. But to herself she said. "I do wish Jack would come!"

There was nothing to do, however, save wait, and that is often the hardest kind of work, as it is certainly the most nervous. Jennie and her mother busied themselves about the post office, Jennie asking the advice of Mrs. Blake on certain matters connected with the reports she had to send in to the officials.

"I suppose there will be a real post office inspector along some day to go over my accounts," she ventured.

"Perhaps," her mother admitted. "And if any more bogus ones come on the scene, I hope I'm here—or that Jack is."

"Yes, Jack routed that other chap finely," said Jennie.

And so they waited for the return of the pony express rider.

Meanwhile, what of Jack? Brave and intelligent Sunger was galloping on with his senseless burden. The pony seemed to know just what to do. He took the easiest part of the mountain trail, avoiding places where he might stumble or fall, for he seemed to realize that Jack's guiding and careful hand was not at the reins now.

On and on galloped the animal, making the best speed he could, though the trail was hard and steep in places.

Suddenly, from the road back of him, Sunger heard the sound of galloping. The pony pricked up his ears. Another rider was coming. Who it might be Sunger, of course, did not know. But the little pony had been trained never to let another horse pass him from behind on the mail route. It was not so much a matter of necessity as it was of pride, and Jack's pony now increased his pace.

And then, at a level place on the trail, and one that was straight, where a good view could be had ahead, there swung into view behind Sunger a horse, carrying a man who was urging his mount on with whip, spur and voice.

"So that's why I didn't find him as I expected to!" exclaimed Ryan, for he it was who was galloping behind the unconscious form of Jack Bailey. "He's sticking to his horse, but he must be all in. That lad's got grit and pluck, and I'm almost sorry I had to do him up. But I had to. We simply must get the information about that mine, and this was the only plan I thought would work. But he sure has grit and spunk to ride on with that dose in him."

From where he was, Ryan could not see the device of ropes Jack had used to prevent falling from the back of his pony during his unconsciousness. The outlaw merely thought that Jack was only partly under the influence of the drug, and that the youth was clinging with his arms about Sunger's neck.

"I wonder if I can ride him down?" mused the desperate man. "I've just got to, that's all. I let him get too much the start, but I sure did think I'd find him senseless beside the road!"

But Ryan reckoned without his host. Sunger was not going to be caught The going was better now, and the little pony had the advantage of not carrying as much weight as did the larger horse. Moreover, Sunger was naturally fleeter.

So, though Ryan urged his own steed as he had seldom urged it before, the gap between the two animals did not close up. In fact it seemed to widen, and when Ryan saw that he became desperate.

"Who'd think he could beat me this way?" he asked himself. "No human being, I thought, could keep his senses after that dose I put in his coffee. It won't do him any permanent harm, that's one thing I'm glad of, for after a lad has made the plucky fight he has I don't wish him harm, even if we have to take desperate measures against him. He'll be all right again in a couple of hours. But why doesn't he fall off?"

It was not until some time later that Ryan learned why, and then his admiration for Jack increased. For, bad and unscrupulous as he was, Ryan had once been a good man, and he could admire grit and fine qualities in others, though he could not exercise them himself.

"I've got to get him soon, or we'll be plump into Golden Crossing, and then the jig will be up, I fear," Ryan said fiercely. "They'll say I bungled the job, and they'll try another hold-up, I suppose. For those letters are in that mail, and we must have them!"

But as he galloped on for another quarter of a mile, it became increasingly evident that Sunger was not to be overtaken. The louder the hoof-beats of the other horse sounded, the faster the plucky little pony ran, though he was now tiring. But he was game, all the way through, and never would give up while he had an ounce of strength left in him.

"Well, there's only one way to end it," said Ryan aloud. He drew his revolver. "I hate to shoot a fine little pony like that," the man went on, "but I've got to stop him somehow, and I can't ride him down. It's the only way!"

Carefully he took aim, and was about to pull the trigger. Then he hesitated and lowered the weapon.

"No, I haven't the nerve," he muttered. "If I kill the pony he'll go over, and the boy may be killed too. I can't do it. It goes against me. I'm bad enough all the way through, but I'm not going to do anything like that, and I'll tell the gang so. If I can't ride him down he'll have to get away, as far as I'm concerned. I can't do that!"

He shoved the weapon back into the holster, and exclaimed:

"Now, you brute, I'm going to make you run!"

He whipped his own horse cruelly, and the animal, in terror, did respond with a burst of speed. It came too late, however, for a few minutes later the trail turned, and Ryan knew he was near Golden Crossing—too near for safety.

"No use!" he muttered! "I've got to give up. I'll go and tell the gang. Maybe they can get the letters some other way. They aren't in Rainbow Ridge yet, and lots of things can happen on the road. I'll tell the gang and we'll think up something new."

He reined in his nearly exhausted horse, and swung back down the trail, riding slowly. Sunger, with his unconscious burden, kept on. The race was almost run, and it was high time, for the pony was all but fagged out.

And then into the very streets of the mountain town went the little horse. Straight through the streets, bearing unconscious Jack. And those who saw wondered, though some may have guessed what had happened.

Several raced after Sunger, who was now abating some of his speed. For he saw, just ahead of him, the post office. That was the goal for which he had striven, and he seemed to realize that the race was won.

No one attempted to stop Sunger. They knew where he would go. And reaching the rail where Jack always tied him at one side of the Golden Crossing post office, the pony stopped. He spread his legs far apart, for he was trembling from weariness.

"Oh, it's Jack!" cried Jennie, looking from the window to see the meaning of the galloping, and of the strange cries. "It's Jack! Something has happened!" she faltered, as she saw the unconscious form in the saddle. "Oh, Mother! He—he's dead!"

Tim Mullane was at the side of the unconscious pony rider.

"No, he isn't dead!" he shouted, "but he's in a bad way. Here, some of yez give me a hand and we'll loosen him up, and take him inside. Poor lad! He's had a hard time!"

They carried Jack inside, and laid him on a couch. Jennie and her mother used what simple remedies they had at hand to rouse him from his unconscious state. Tim took the exhausted pony to the stable, for Sunger was much in need of rest.

"What was it? What happened to the pony Express?" asked several of the crowd that had gathered outside when they had seen the animal canter up with Jack on his back.

"I