“It suits me down to the ground. It stirs one’s blood to dash over the plains, through the mountain files and across plateaus at headlong speed; we have to make an average of over twelve miles an hour. I’m not doing it now, but when the chance offers, I shall even matters by going at a rate of twenty or twenty-five miles.” “That is almost railroad time,” replied Alden admiringly. “It beats the railway trains in many places.” “But you are always in danger.” “That’s what adds to the fun; the speed itself gives a man a thrill and the possibility of ambush, a treacherous shot or an open attack sets the blood tingling.” “And you keep at it all the time?” “That has to be done; rain, snow, hail, cold, heat, night, day,――makes no difference. This,” added Dick Lightfoot in his cheery voice and with his pleasant smile, “is the _rush line_ across the continent.” “Do you never lose your way?” “Impossible; every horse knows his route; this animal that has my name――Dick――knows the path better than I, and that means the whole thirty-odd miles. When it is so dark that I can hardly see his ears, I let the lines lie loose, and he never goes astray; I wouldn’t trade my job for that of President of the United States.” There could be no mistake as to the young man’s enthusiasm. During the brief conversation his pony, like the others, kept walking briskly. At the top of the incline the rider waved a good bye to his new acquaintances, and the horse of his own accord struck into a gallop which speedily carried him out of sight around a sweeping curve in the trail. Jethro Mix had taken no part in the chat, for he had no right to do so, but he did not allow a word to escape him. “I say, Al, now’s a good time to turn back, don’t you think?” he anxiously suggested. “We’ll ride a little farther; we have plenty of time to make camp before dark.” “Dere ain’t no sense in doing dat,” growled Jethro, who dared not leave the side of his comrade and master. Less than fifteen minutes later the two rode round the bend in the path. Alden passed slightly ahead of his companion, but his pony had taken less than a dozen steps, when he sharply drew the rein with a startled exclamation. He did not need to add anything by way of explanation. No more than a hundred yards distant the pony of Dick Lightfoot was standing motionless, with his head upraised and staring in alarm at the opposite bluffs. Not ten feet from his hoofs lay his master on the ground face downward. An Indian arrow projecting from his back, the feathered end pointing toward the sky, told its dreadful story. CHAPTER XIII “THAT’S JUST LIKE HIM!” Alden Payne and Jethro Mix stared in silence for several seconds. Then the terrified negro gasped in a husky voice: “Let’s run like blazes!”