“What did it sound like?” “A hoss’s hoofs; wait a minute.” Jethro dropped on his knees and pressed an ear to the ground. He had done the same thing in different circumstances, and knew what help it was to the hearing. The next instant he sprang up. “De Injins am coming! I hear dar hosses!” Alden imitated the action of his companion and then quickly rose. “It is a single horse, and he is coming this way on a run; I don’t think the Indians are near or we should hear more hoofs; I wish Shagbark would show up.” But the guide did not appear for some minutes. Still standing the two noted the sounds made by the hoofs of a pony traveling at the highest speed. The sounds rapidly grew more distinct, and the two were quickly able to locate the horseman. It was toward the point whence came the rifle reports, and the fugitive must have had something to do with them. “Dar he is!” whispered Jethro trembling with excitement; “shall I shoot him?” “No; wait till we find what it all means.” Just then the drifting clouds swept from before the face of the moon, whose rays streamed down upon the prairie. From out this misty obscurity shot a horse and rider, the animal with outstretched neck, tail streaming and straining every nerve to carry the man who was leaning well forward, beyond the zone of danger. The same rhythmic beat that had fallen on their ears that afternoon greeted them again. The pony was running for all that was in him. Just as the rider flashed opposite the group of silent canvas covered wagons, he seemed to catch sight of them. Without drawing rein or checking the desperate speed of his horse he shouted: “Look out for Injins! they’re close onto you!” And then man and animal plunged into the night and disappeared, though the fast diminishing thumping of hoofs was heard for some seconds later. “He’s a Pony Express rider,” said Alden; “and is making for the next station as fast as his horse can carry him.” “Ye’re right, younker,” remarked Shagbark, who appeared at the side of the two with no more noise than that of the flitting shadows on the plain. “Did he fire any of those shots?” asked Alden. “He couldn’t; he don’t carry a rifle.” “He has his revolver.” “It’s easy to tell the difference atween the barking of a revolver and a big gun; there warn’t any pistol used. He run right into the hornet’s nest afore he seed it, and the varmints opened on him; he must have throwed himself forrard on his hoss and the animal scratched gravel as them ponies know how to do. Every shot missed ’em both; I reckon that rider will carry his gun after this, even if it adds to the weight of his load.” “It seems to me,” said Alden, “that if those Indians intended to attack us they wouldn’t have fired at the express rider.” “Why not?” “Because it warns us of _our_ danger.”