It has been said that Bucephalus once belonged to a circus. He had been a trick pony and remembered several things. One of them was to get rid of a rider whom he disliked by pretending to be lame. He had worked the stratagem upon Alden Payne, who when too late saw through the whole mean business. CHAPTER XIX A BLESSING IN DISGUISE Alden Payne was in the quandary of his life. Deserted by the unprincipled Bucephalus, he was left with saddle and mail pouches six miles or more from his destination, and still farther from the station behind him. And the worst of it was he did not know the way to either. It would not have been quite so bad if, when the outrage occurred, he had been on the well-marked trail, for then he could have groped forward, certain of arriving sooner or later at the place he had in mind. “If I had the chance I’d shoot that confounded ’Ceph!” he exclaimed; “if a horse knew how to grin, how he is grinning over the youngster he fooled! Well, I shan’t bother with _you_, that’s certain.” These words were addressed to the saddle, which he flung impatiently to the ground: “whoever chooses can find you; I don’t tote you another rod.” It was different with the mail pouches. He felt a peculiar awe concerning them. In some way they stood for the great United States. Having been locked in distant Missouri, they were not to be opened until San Francisco was reached. Within those leathern receptacles, wrapped in oiled silk nestled the hundreds of letters, written on fine tissue paper and sealed in flimsy envelopes. Who could tell their weighty import? Every writer had paid five dollars in advance, and far away on the Pacific coast were anxiously waiting the men and women for whom the messages were intended. No; whatever happened, Alden must get them to the station, if the task were within human possibility. Weighing only twenty pounds, the pouches were not burdensome. Slinging one over either shoulder, and trailing his rifle, the sturdy youth could have walked a score of miles without being irked. The whole and sole problem was to go in the right direction. It was a puzzle indeed. The most sensible course seemed to stay where he was until morning. Daylight would enable him to find the trail, and the labor was comparatively easy. He walked to the nearest boulder and sat down. The night had grown more chilly and he shivered. He always carried a box of matches in a small rubber safe, it was easy to collect enough twigs and branches to start a fire. Two causes, however, prevented his doing this. He could not forget that signal smoke which told that Indians were not far off. The blaze was likely to draw them to the spot. Again, his mind was in such a tumult, that he could not sit still. He must keep moving.