Jack of the Pony Express Part 1

Jack of the Pony Express.

by Frank V. Webster.

CHAPTER I

JACK IN THE SADDLE

"Your father is a little late to-night, isn't he Jack?"

"Yes, Mrs. Watson, he should have been here a half-hour ago, and he would, too, if he had ridden Sunger instead of his own horse."

"You think a lot of that pony of yours, don't you, Jack?" and a motherly-looking woman came to the doorway of a small cottage and peered up the mountain trail, which ran in front of the building. Out on the trail itself stood a tall, bronzed lad, who was, in fact, about seventeen years of age, but whose robust frame and athletic build made him appear several years older.

"Yes, Mrs. Watson," the boy answered with a smile, "I do think a lot of Sunger, and he's worth it, too."

"Yes, I guess he is. And he can travel swiftly, too. My goodness! The way you sometimes clatter past my house makes me think you'll sure have an accident. Sometimes I'm so nervous I can't look at you."

"Sunger is pretty sure-footed, even on worse mountain trails than the one from Rainbow Ridge to Golden Crossing," answered Jack with a laugh, that showed his white, even teeth, which formed a strange contrast to his tanned face.

"Sunger," repeated Mrs. Watson, musingly. "What an odd name. I often wonder how you came to call him that."

"It isn't his real name," explained Jack, as he gave another look up the trail over which the rays of the declining sun were shining, and then walked up to the porch, where he sat down. "The pony was once owned by a Mexican miner, and he named him something in Spanish which meant that the little horse could go so fast that he dodged the sun. Sundodger was what the name would be in English, I suppose, and after I bought him that's what I called him.

"But Sundodger is too much of a mouthful when one's in a hurry," and Jack laughed at his idea, "so," he went on, "I shortened it to Sunger, which does just as well."

"Yes, as long as he knows it," agreed Mrs. Watson. "But I guess, Jack, I had better be going, I did think I'd wait until your father came, and put the supper on for you both, but he's so late now--"

"Yes, Mrs. Watson, don't wait," interrupted Jack. "I don't know what to make of dad's being so late. But we're used to getting our own meals, so you needn't worry. We'll get along all right."

"Oh, I know you will. For two men--for you are getting so big I shall have to call you a man," and she smiled at him. "For two men you really get along very well indeed."

"Yes, I'm getting to be something of a cook myself," admitted the lad. "But I can't quite equal your biscuits yet, and there's no use saying I can.

However, you baked a pretty good batch this afternoon, and dad sure will be pleased when he sees 'em. I wish he'd come while they're hot though," and once more Jack Bailey arose and went out to peer up the trail. He listened intently, but his sharp senses caught no sound of clattering hoofs, nor sight of a horseman coming down the slope, a good view of which could be had from in front of the house that stood on a bend in the road.

"Well, then, I'll be getting along," Mrs. Watson resumed, as she threw a shawl over her shoulders, for, though the day had been warm, there was a coolness in the mountain air with the coming of night. "Everything is all ready to dish-up" went on the motherly-looking woman, as she went out of the front gate, "The chicken is hot on the back of the stove."

"Oh, we'll make out all right, thank you," called Jack after her, as she started down the trail. Mrs. Watson lived about a quarter of a mile away.

Her husband was a miner, and she had a grown daughter, so it was quite convenient for Mrs. Watson to come over twice a week, or oftener on occasions, and do the housework in the cottage where Mr. Peter Bailey and his son Jack lived. Mrs. Watson would do the sweeping, dusting and as much cooking as she had time for, and then go back to her own home.

Jack's mother was dead, and he and his father had managed for some years without the services of a housekeeper. Mr. Bailey was a pony express rider, carrying the mail and small express packages between the settlements of Rainbow Ridge and Golden Crossing. Mr. Bailey and Jack lived on the outskirts of Rainbow Ridge.

This was in the Rocky Mountain country of one of our western states, and the trails were so wild and winding, and, for that matter, so unsafe, that it was out of the question to use a mail or stage coach between the two places.

From Rainbow Ridge, however, there was a stage route going east, which took the mail and express matter as it was brought in by Mr. Bailey. And from Golden Crossing going west the same arrangement was made. Golden Crossing was a settlement on the banks of the Ponto River, a small enough stream in ordinary times, but which was wild and dangerous during heavy rains or freshets.

So the pony express, as run by Mr. Bailey, was the only regular means of communication between Golden Crossing and Rainbow Ridge. It was of importance, too, for often valuable mail and packages went through, the route being shorter and quicker than by a roundabout stage line.

When Mrs. Watson was out of sight around a bend in the trail, Jack went into the cottage. It really was a cottage, though when Mr. Bailey first brought his family to the West it had been but a cabin, or shack. But Mr.

Bailey and his wife had labored hard to make it more of a "home," and they had succeeded very well. Then came the sad occasion of Mrs. Bailey's illness and death, and for a time life had seemed very hard to Jack and his father.

The latter had been interested in mines, but found the work too difficult with his failing health, so he had secured the pony express contract, which he had carried on now for several years.

"It certainly is a shame to have this fine supper spoil," mused Jack, as he lifted the cover from a pot of chicken, and glanced at the pile of browned biscuit in the warming oven.

"I can't understand what makes dad so late," he went on. "Of course, the mail from the Golden Crossing office might not have been ready for him to take. It's been pretty heavy of late, and is almost more than Aunt Matilda can handle. Though I suppose Jennie gives her a hand now and then," and as he said that Jack looked at the photograph on the mantel of an attractive girl, who seemed to smile at him. Jack looked cautiously around the room, and then raised a hand to his lips and threw a kiss from the tips of his fingers at the picture.

This done he blushed--but you would not have known it, he was so bronzed by the sun and the wind. Mrs. Matilda Blake was a distant relative of Mr.

Bailey's, and Jack called her "Aunt Matilda," though she really did not bear that relationship to him. She was a widow, and she and her only daughter, Jennie, a girl of about sixteen, lived in Golden Crossing, where Mrs. Blake was postmistress. Jack and Jennie were the best of friends.

"Well, if dad doesn't come pretty soon, I'm going to eat," decided Jack.

"He won't mind, I'm sure. But I would like to know what's keeping him. I hope he hasn't had any accident. His pony is sure-footed, I know, but I'd feel better if he had Sunger."

Jack was plainly nervous--that is as nervous as a young, healthy lad can be. He went outside again, and walked a little way back along the trail over which his father would come. But the trail seemed deserted. The Bailey cottage was in a rather lonely location, there being no other habitation in sight.

There were other houses not far away, and a number in the town, but because of the winding nature of the trail, and the ruggedness of the mountains, they could not be seen from where Jack stood.

As the lad was about to turn back and again enter the cottage with the determination to eat his supper, he heard something which caused him to start.

"Here he comes!" he exclaimed. "But he's walking his horse! That's queer!

Something must have happened!"

Speed was one of the prime requisites of the pony express. The men who rode the routes over plains and mountain trails secured the speediest horses or ponies possible. Their life, when in the saddle, was a continual rush, for the mail and express matter must go through as quickly as possible, and where no steam and railroads were available recourse was had to horseflesh.

And knowing the value of speed Jack wondered when he heard the approach of a horse at a walking pace.

Mr. Bailey was supposed to arrive at Rainbow Ridge in time to deliver his express and mail matter to the night stage coach going east, and the hour for its leaving had pa.s.sed some time since. Of course, the stage would wait for the pony express, but this meant a delay all along the rest of the route.

"Something sure must have happened!" said Jack to himself. "I'll go to meet dad."

He set off on foot, but came running back.

"I'll get Sunger," he told himself, speaking aloud, a habit engendered by the loneliness of the mountains. "He's quite a way off yet, but Sunger will make short work of the distance."

Though the sound of the approaching footsteps of the horse of the pony express rider could be plainly heard by Jack, so clear and resonant was the mountain air, he realized that his father had yet nearly half a mile to travel.

Leaping to the saddle of his pony, and patting the animal lovingly on the neck, Jack set off once more. He went quickly, for Sunger was fresh and eager.

In a few minutes Jack turned at a place where the trail followed a great rocky ledge, and in front of him, almost collapsed in the saddle was a man.

He seemed to sit on his horse only by a great effort, and on his face was a drawn look of pain.

"Why, Dad!" cried Jack. "What's the matter? Has anything happened? Did they hold up the mail?"

"No, the mail and other stuff is all right," was the answer, broken by an exclamation of pain. "But I'm all in, Jack. I'm afraid I'm going to be quite ill. It was all I could do to ride the last few miles, but I wouldn't give in."

Jack was at his father's side in an instant.

"Get on Sunger," he urged. "He's easier for you to ride. Let me help you.

What is the trouble? How did it happen?"