The stations as has been stated were scattered over a line nearly two thousand miles long, through the wildest and most dangerous section of our continent. This distance had to be covered in eight days, which was an average of two hundred and fifty miles a day, the like of which had never been known before and probably will never be known again. We recall that the number of these stations between Sacramento and St. Joseph, Missouri, was a hundred and ninety. No regular intervals, however, could be established, for a great deal depended upon the physical nature of the country. From what has been already said, it will be understood that a horseman often had to do double duty because of some accident to his partner. Thus more than one Express Rider covered two and in a few instances three hundred miles never leaving the saddle except for a minute or two when changing horses. While the system was wonderful in its completeness, many breaks were inevitable. The three men who were standing in front of the squat cabin were Tom Harper, Tim Jenkins, and Gideon Altman. A brother of the last named was absent hunting game for the larder of the establishment. The first named――Harper――was wiry and slight of frame, while the other two were of ordinary stature. Harper was a rider, but the weight of his comrades shut them out, except in case of necessity. Dick Lightfoot who had reached his “last station” a dozen miles to the eastward, was due at the present place in time to meet his brother, whom Alden encountered at the time of his flurry with the bear. The men at the station knew that some accident must have befallen Dick and were therefore on the watch, when they descried a stranger coming toward them on the pony which they recognized as belonging to the missing rider. Dick was in a lather and his sides heaved. Alden did not dismount but looked down in the faces of the group who scrutinized him keenly. Tim Jenkins, massive and heavily bearded, acted as speaker for his comrades. “Who are you?” he demanded of Alden, who gave his name. “Where’s Dick Lightfoot?” “He was killed by Indians eight or ten miles back.” “How do you come to be mounted on his pony?” There was an aggressiveness in the tone and manner of Jenkins, but Alden ignored it. The circumstances warranted suspicion. So he told his story as succinctly as he could. The three listened closely, and must have felt the truth of the words of the youth whose looks and personality pleased them. “You’ve got grit, young man,” commented Jenkins; “did you have any idea of the risks you had to run?” “I saw Alexander Carlyle the first rider start from St. Joe last April, and on our way across the plains I have exchanged a few words with others. I knew it wasn’t any child’s play.” “You’re right――it isn’t. Poor Dick! it will be a sad blow to his brother Sam. I suppose your friends will look after the body when they come up to it?”