Luckily the horse was easily caught; his dragging lines, entangled in a sage clump, held him until Mr. Mayfield laid hand upon them. When Dave, with Mr. Mayfield leading the horse, returned into the road and hustled back to Bob and Tom, Bob was arguing tensely. “But you can’t, Tom! You can’t do it, man! You can’t fork a saddle with your hip broken.” Tom struggled to sit up――and the great beads of sweat stood out on his red brow. “You help me on, and tie me there; that’s all I ask. I’ll make it. I’ve _got_ to.” “We’ll take you on to the next station, and the saddle bags, too,” retorted Bob. “That’s the quickest way. Strip that horse, Red. Give me a lift with Tom, here, Jack. Open the coach door.” “But there’s nobody except the agent at the next station, Bob!” appealed Tom, wildly. “Who’ll take the express?” “Then we’ll go through to the next station. They can send somebody from there, I reckon.” Suddenly a great thought struck Davy――and he wondered why the same hadn’t occurred to the others. “I’ll ride it, Tom! I’ll ride it, Bob! Let _me_.” And he sprang for the express pony. Bob slapped his dusty thigh: The idea struck him. “Go it,” he exclaimed. “Take those lines. Unbuckle your guns, Tom, old man, while I hold you.” “Somebody put my spurs on him,” panted Tom, tugging at his belt buckle. Words had been rapid, fingers worked fast; and almost in less time than it takes to tell it, after the halting of the coach, Davy was in the Pony Express saddle, with the final orders filling his ears. “Now ride, boy; ride!” Scarcely yet settled into the stirrups, he bounded forward (the jerk of the mettlesome pony almost snapped his head loose), and was away. “Ride, boy; ride!” Davy jammed tighter his hat; his feet clinging to the stirrups, he half turned in the saddle and waved his hand to the little group behind. They would see that he was all right. They were grouped just as he had left them: Mr. Mayfield standing, where he had strapped the spurs to Davy’s heels after Dave had mounted; Gentleman Bob half erect, over Tom, from whom he had passed the revolver belt. But even as Davy looked, they all moved, preparing to lift Tom into the coach. Davy faced ahead and settled to his work. “Ride, boy; ride!” Well, he _could_ ride! he knew how; and if he didn’t know how he was bound to stick, anyway. There were the plump saddle bags under him, crossed by his legs; he was carrying the fast mail――and Lincoln was elected! The pony ran without a break and needed no urging. He was trained to his work――a stanch, swift, apparently tireless animal. The wind smote Davy in the face, bringing water to his eyes; the sandy, beaten trail flowed backward beneath them like a dun torrent, the sage and rocks reeled dizzily past on either hand, and amidst the rhythmic beat of hoofs the pony’s breaths rose to snorty grunts.