When the stage left, early, Irish Tom was still standing ready beside his horse to take the saddle bag from Charley Cliff. Charley had not come――and it was learned afterward that the mail was late in starting from St. Joseph because it had waited for the election news. So Dave mounted the driver’s box on the C. O. C. & P. P. stage beside Gentleman Bob, and they drove away and left the unknown news behind them. However, not for long. They had gone scarcely fifteen miles when Gentleman Bob, who had been constantly glancing over his shoulder, exclaimed: “There he comes! Look at him, will you!” By “he” could be meant only one person――the Pony Express rider. Yes, the Pony Express it was――a dark spot, rising, falling, rising, falling, pelting up the dusty trail. “He’s certainly going some,” commented the stage messenger, who this time was not Captain Cricket, but was Jack Mayfield. Bob flung his lash over the backs of his four mules and broke them into a gallop. But although the stage was empty this trip and the mules fresh, and the road smooth, the pony express closed in as fast as if the coach were standing still. “Going to pass us,” laughed Bob, and slowed his team. And the pony express _did_ pass them. There was sudden staccato of hoofs, like a long roll of a drum――a rush, a whoop――“Who’s elected?” yelled Bob, turning in his seat to meet the onswoop. “Lincoln. New York gives fifty thousand majority,” shouted back Irish Tom; and in a cloud of dust he was away, leaving a flake of froth on the coach box at Davy’s feet. “Lincoln, huh?” remarked Gentleman Bob. “Well, I wonder what’ll happen now. But that boy’s sure riding,” and he gazed reflectively after Irish Tom. XXII CARRYING THE GREAT NEWS “Lincoln’s elected!” The words continued to ring in Davy’s ears, and the flying shape of the Pony Express, bearing the great news, was constantly in his eyes as at trot and gallop the stage rolled along the Salt Lake Overland trail from Fort Laramie on. Irish Tom and his hard pushed pony were out of sight, but they were not forgotten. The trail was almost deserted this morning; only one emigrant train was passed, and, drawing aside to let the stage by, it cheered to the three persons on the box: “Hooray for Lincoln!” Davy cheered back; but Gentleman Bob and Messenger Mayfield looked straight ahead and said nothing. That was the fashion. Emigrant trains and bull trains were considered beneath the notice of the stage coach box. However, in another mile something did attract the notice of Gentleman Bob, whose eyes were ever on the lookout, although he usually spoke little. “Looks like trouble, yonder,” he remarked, pointing with his whip. “How’s your gun, Jack? O. K.?” “Yes.” “Better have it ready. Red, you get down in the boot under the seat and stay there, when I say so. You’re liable to be shot full of holes.”