Thudding through the sand, clattering over the rocks, echoing through short defiles, ever urging his pony, rode Davy. He was resolved to go clear through, to the home station at Red Buttes, over sixty miles. The stations ahead had no means of knowing that an accident had befallen the regular rider; and to mount another substitute, at short notice, would consume valuable time. At Red Buttes Billy Cody would take the saddle bags――and to give them to Billy he must. At the next station, fourteen miles, the station man had helpers in the shape of two hostlers or stable hands. They also gazed, astonished at sight of Dave instead of Irish Tom; but no one wasted precious moments in explanations. The conversation was much the same as before――and on his fresh horse Dave spurred again up the long, long trail. He passed a toiling bull train. “Lincoln’s elected,” he shrieked as before; but he was going so fast that he did not catch their response. He only noted them wave their whips in salute. Horseshoe Station hove into view. This was headquarter’s station for the division. Here stayed, when not on the trail, Mr. Slade, the division superintendent; and he was in front of the station cabin with the other men, peering down the road. Davy galloped in. He was assailed by a volley of queries――until Mr. Slade cut them short. “No matter,” he bade curtly. “Fasten that mochila. Now ride, my lad; you’re half an hour late!” “Lincoln’s elected,” gasped Davy, spurring away. He was getting tired. His feet were growing numb, and his ankles were being chafed raw. Before he arrived at the next station, the Platte River had to be forded. As he passed through, a man sprang into sight, in the trail at the farther bank. Dave’s heart leaped into his throat. The man was partially screened by willows. He was armed. With ears pricked, the horse forged ahead, and the man waited. To leave the stream bed required a little climb up the rather steep bank, and as Dave reached it out whipped the man’s revolver and the muzzle was trained true at Dave. It seemed to him that the round hole covered every inch of his body. His horse shied and balked. “Throw off that mail bag.” The man was “Yank,” assistant wagon boss under Charley Martin! Dave recognized him at once, although the slouch hat was pulled low. But beneath the brim the eyes were those of “Yank.” “No,” panted Dave, trying to hold his voice steady and think of what Billy Cody or Irish Tom would do. “It’s only election news.” “Throw off that mail and be quick, too,” ordered “Yank,” with a string of curses.