Now another emigrant train for Salt Lake City and the Mormon colony dotted the trail before. Past them thudded Dave, and as he raced down the line he yelled shrilly: “Lincoln’s elected! Lincoln’s elected!” “By how much?” “New York gives him fifty thousand!” Dave was not certain what this conveyed, exactly, but it had sounded important from Irish Tom. Some of the train cheered, some growled, but he speedily left both cheers and growls behind him. The first of the stations appeared ahead――a blot of darker drab beside the trail. This was one of the way stations――the stations where horses were changed in less than two minutes. Two minutes was the limit, but frequently the change was made in fifteen seconds. Dave’s pony seemed to know where he was and what was at hand. He snorted, and at pick of spur let himself out a little longer in his stride and doubled and stretched a little faster. The station swiftly enlarged. A poor place it was, Dave remembered: a low log cabin, sod roofed, with rude log stable close behind it, and a pole corral. The station man would be about as rude in appearance: unshaven, well weathered, dressed in slouch hat, rough flannel shirt, red or blue, belted trousers and heavy boots. There he lived, by the roadside, 700 miles into the Indian country, alone amidst the unpeopled, rolling sagy hills through which flowed the North Platte River and extended, unending, the ribbon-like road. Dave could see him standing in front of the buildings, holding the relay horse and peering down the trail for its rider. The stations were required by the company to have the fresh horse saddled and bridled and ready half an hour before the express was due. Dave knew his duty, too. Not slackening pace, he loosened from the fastenings the saddle bags under him. Up at full gallop he dashed, and even before he had pulled his pony to its haunches, he tore the saddle bags from beneath him and tossed them ahead. Then he was off in a twinkling, staggering as he landed. “Quick!” he gasped, out of parched throat. The station man had stared, but he grabbed the saddle bags. “Who are you? Where’s Tom?” “Hurt. Coming on stage.” The saddle bags were clapped on the other saddle. Dave grasped the bridle lines. “Bad?” “Leg broken.” And Davy, thrusting foot into stirrup, vaulted aboard almost over the station man’s head. One last twitch to the saddle bags. “What’s the news?” “Lincoln’s elected. New York gives him fifty thousand majority.” And away sprang Dave, headlong on the next leg of his route.