Bob gathered his lines tighter and peered keenly. His jaw set, as, holding up his mules, prepared for sudden dash, he sent them forward at brisk trot. Messenger Mayfield shifted his short double-barrelled gun loaded with buckshot from between his knees to his lap and pulled down his hat. Half a mile before, in the hollow of the sweeping curve which the coach was rounding, was a riderless horse moving restlessly hither-thither in the brush beside the trail; he was equipped with saddle and bridle――at least so Bob muttered, and so the messenger agreed, and so Davy believed that he, also, could see――but of the rider there was no sign _yet_. Indians! Then why hadn’t they taken the horse? Or road agents, as the bandits were called! The rider must have been shot from the saddle. And would the coach, passing, find him? Or were the Indians, surprised in the act, ambushed and waiting? Or what _had_ happened, anyway? “That’s the Pony Express horse, gentleman,” said Bob, quietly. “I know the animal. There’s been bad work.” Mr. Mayfield, who was as nervy as Bob himself, nodded; Davy breathed faster, his heart beating loudly; Bob flung his lash, straightened out his team, and with brake slightly grinding descended the hill at a gallop. “I see him!” exclaimed Messenger Mayfield. “At the edge of the road. He’s hurt, but he can move.” Davy, too, could see a dismounted man――Irish Tom or somebody else――half raising himself from the ground, and crawling into the trail, where he sat waving his handkerchief. With rattle and shuffle and grinding of brake the coach bore down, prepared to stop――and prepared for anything else that might befall. Yes, it was Irish Tom, the Pony Express rider, and that was his horse, the saddle bags still on it, fidgeting in the brush. Tom was half lying, half sitting, supporting himself with one arm and waving with the other. His hat was gone, his uplifted hand bleeding, one leg seemed useless, and altogether he appeared in a sad state. In a cloud of dust from the braced hoofs and locked wheels Gentleman Bob halted with the leaders’ fore hoofs almost touching Tom. “What’s the matter here?” Tom’s face, grimy and streaked and pinched with pain, gazed up agonizedly, but he did not mince words. The Pony Express rider was superior even to a stage driver. “Catch that horse for me. I’ve broken my leg.” Down from the box nimbly swung Mr. Mayfield; jamming his brakes tighter and tying the lines short, down swung Gentleman Bob. Down clambered Dave. “How’d it happen?” “Fell and threw me. Catch him and help me on; and hurry up.” “Catch him, Jack; you and Dave,” bade Bob, crisply. “Where’s it broken, Tom?” “High up, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll ride if it kills me. I’m late now.”