“I’m off,” he announced. “But I’m on, too. I’ve got the run between Red Buttes and Three Crossings! Seventy-six miles――about the hardest run on the toughest division of the trail! Reckon maybe he thinks he has my scalp, but he hasn’t. I’ll go through like greased lightning. That’s an Injun and outlaw country both; and I have to ford the Sweetwater three times in sixty yards! Slade’s a hard man to work for, too, they say. He won’t stand for any foolishness. But I’ll get along with him all right as soon as he finds out I do my duty. So long, Red. I’ll see you later. You’ll hear from me, anyway. I told you I was going to ride pony express, remember? I used to think I’d be president; but I’d rather have this run than be boss at Washington all the rest of my life!” He hastily shook hands. Dave envied him heartily, but he also wished him success. Nobody deserved success more than Billy. Of course, to be the youngest rider on the whole route from St. Joe to Sacramento was a big thing, and nobody can blame Davy for a trace of honest envy. He went back to his day’s routine. The bull train pulled out at once, and Billy started with it for his new job. Soon word from him travelled back to Laramie and Dave by Irish Tom, who received the saddle bags from him at Red Buttes, and by Gentleman Bob, who heard from him through the other stage drivers. “Pony Express Bill” he began to be called; the “kid” rider between Red Buttes and Three Crossings, on the Platte and Sweetwater Rivers of the Salt Lake Trail in what is to-day south central Wyoming but which was then western Nebraska Territory. Great things were reported of Billy. One time when the rider west of him was killed, Billy rode his own run and the other run, too, and all the way back again――322 miles at a stretch! When Mr. Slade learned of this he said: “That boy’s a brick!” and he gave Billy extra pay. Another time bandits stopped Billy and demanded his express package, which they knew contained a large sum of money. But Billy was smart. He had hidden the real package under his saddle, and now he threw them a dummy package containing only paper. When they stooped to pick it up and examine it he spurred his horse right over them and was away, flying up the trail――and although they fired at him they never touched him! Another time the Sioux Indians ambushed him, and when he dashed past they chased him. But he lay flat on his pony’s back while the arrows whistled over him, and he rode twenty-four miles without stopping. Another time one bandit halted him in a lonely canyon. “You’re a mighty leetle fellow to be takin’ sech chances,” said the bandit, while he held his gun pointed at Billy’s head. “I’m as big as any other fellow, I reckon,” answered Billy, coolly. “How do you figure that?” asked the bandit. Billy tapped his Colt’s revolver. “I may be little, but I can shoot as hard as if I were General Jackson,” he warned.