postage stamps and Pony Express stamps on the envelopes! Gradually the names of the Pony Express riders passed back and forth along the line. There were eighty of the riders, forty carrying the news in one direction, forty carrying it in the other. Out on the west end――the Pacific Division――were riding Harry Roff and “Boston,” and Sam Hamilton (through thirty feet of snow on the Sierra Nevada mountain range!) and Bob Haslam, and Jay Kelley, Josh Perkins, Major Egan. In and out of Laramie rode Irish Tom, and Charley Cliff, who was only seventeen years old. In and out of Julesburg rode Bill Hogan, and “Little Yank,” who weighed a hundred pounds and rode 100 miles without a rest. Further east, down the Platte, were Theo Rand and “Doc” Brink, and Jim Beatley, and handsome Jim Moore, and little Johnny Frye――who took the first trip out of St. Joe. Their names and the names of other riders travelled from mouth to mouth――and soon tales were being told of storms and Indians and outlaws and accidents that tried to stop the express but couldn’t. No matter what conspired to stop him, the Pony Express rider always got through. The first relays had carried the mail from the Missouri River to Sacramento, California, 1966 miles, in nine days and twenty-three hours――one hour under schedule! And after that the mail went through, both ways, on schedule time or less. So, regularly as clockwork, into Laramie galloped the rider from Mud Springs, with the west-bound mail, and the rider from Red Buttes with the east-bound mail; in fifteen seconds the saddle bags were changed from horse to horse and out galloped the fresh riders. Davy burned to vault aboard the saddle, like Irish Tom or Charley, and scurry away, on business bent, to carry the precious saddle bags to the next rider. But meanwhile, where was Billy Cody? The question was soon answered by Billy himself when, one afternoon, into Fort Laramie pulled a Russell, Majors & Waddell bull outfit with Government freight from Leavenworth; also with Billy Cody riding beside Wagon Boss Lew Simpson! Never was sight more welcome to Dave, who from the quartermaster’s office espied the familiar figure and immediately rushed out to give greeting. Billy looked a little thin after the strenuous time that he had had on the trapping expedition when he was disabled and snowed in helpless; but he could shake hands and exchange a “Hello,” before he swung from his mule and made for Jack Slade. Mr. Slade was division superintendent of the stage and Pony Express, with headquarters at Horseshoe Station, thirty-six miles west from Laramie. Just now he was coming across the grounds and Billy stopped him. “How are you, Mr. Slade?” “How are you?” “My name’s Billy Cody, Mr. Slade. I want to ride pony express. Mr. Russell’s sent me out to your division with a letter.” And Billy extended the letter.