“Poor fellow! he doesn’t look strong,” remarked a sympathizer. “Alec Carlyle is one of those chaps that you can’t judge by looks; there isn’t a better horseman west of the Alleghanies.” St. Joseph in those days was not a large town. There was room to hold in comfort most of the population on Third Street, and it was there that nearly all of them had gathered on this soft spring afternoon. Had you been a member of the crowd you would have noticed that the eyes of nearly every one were turned expectantly toward the one-story, brick express office on the east side of the street, between Felix and Edmond Streets. Something was going on inside of that modest structure, but as yet it was veiled from the public. Several men and boys who stood nearest the building tried to peep through the windows, but, unable to do so, intently listened. All that they heard was the occasional stamp of a horse’s feet, and the confused murmur of voices. But it was not hard for them to imagine the scene within. It was about four o’clock, when a small cannon boomed from the side of the street, two or three doors distant. The report was a signal to the ferry boat to come across from the Ellwood side of the river and await a certain horseman who would soon arrive at the bank. Only a few minutes had passed, when from within the stables near the express office, some one vigorously shoved open the doors. At the same instant, a wiry pony, with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils and fine muscles aquiver, made a tremendous leap which carried him almost to the middle of the street, and heading toward the river, plunged away under the prick of the spur, on a dead run. Horse and rider made a fine picture. Silver mounted trappings decorated both. The man might have been mistaken for a circus performer, in his brilliant uniform, with plated horn, pistol, scabbard and belt, gay, flower-worked leggings, jingling spurs and fine boots with high heels, such as cowmen and rustlers affect. He was of slight figure, dark mustache, flashing hazel eyes, flowing hair and closely compressed lips, and he sat his steed with perfect grace. He wore the broad-brimmed sombrero that seemed scarcely affected by the gale which his animal created. He did not look to the right or left, nor notice the cheers, shouts and waving of hats and hands. He peered grimly ahead, as if his life depended upon his reaching the ferry without a second’s loss of time. As the pony shot like a cannon ball out of the doors of the stable and sped with arrowy swiftness down the street, the two men with whom he had been in consultation within the structure stepped forward and watched him. They smiled, though there was a serious expression on each face, for both felt they were looking upon an epoch-making event. And it was Alexander Carlyle, the superb horseman, who was making it.