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JACK OF THE PONY EXPRESS

Or

The Young Rider of the Mountain Trails


By

FRANK V. WEBSTER




CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. JACK IN THE SADDLE

II. POSTMISTRESS JENNIE

III. A NARROW ESCAPE

IV. IMPORTANT LETTERS

V. JUST IN TIME

VI. THE SECRET MINE

VII. THE STRANGERS AGAIN

VIII. A NIGHT ATTACK

IX. IN BONDS

X. A QUEER DISCOVERY

XI. DUMMY LETTERS

XII. A RIDE FOR LIFE

XIII. THE INSPECTOR

XIV. THE CHASE

XV. A CAUTION

XVI. SUNGER GOES LAME

XVII. AN INVITATION DECLINED

XVIII. A QUEER FEELING

XIX A DESPERATE RIDE

XX. AT GOLDEN CROSSING

XXI. THE ARGENT LETTERS

XXII. THE MASKED MAN

XXIII. THE ESCAPE

XXIV. JACK'S IDEA

XXV. JACK'S TRICK--CONCLUSION




CHAPTER I

JACK IN THE SADDLE

"Your father is a little late to-night, isn't he Jack?"

"Yes, Mrs. Watson, he should have been here a half-hour ago, and he would,
too, if he had ridden Sunger instead of his own horse."

"You think a lot of that pony of yours, don't you, Jack?" and a
motherly-looking woman came to the doorway of a small cottage and peered
up the mountain trail, which ran in front of the building. Out on the
trail itself stood a tall, bronzed lad, who was, in fact, about seventeen
years of age, but whose robust frame and athletic build made him appear
several years older.

"Yes, Mrs. Watson," the boy answered with a smile, "I do think a lot of
Sunger, and he's worth it, too."

"Yes, I guess he is. And he can travel swiftly, too. My goodness! The way
you sometimes clatter past my house makes me think you'll sure have an
accident. Sometimes I'm so nervous I can't look at you."

"Sunger is pretty sure-footed, even on worse mountain trails than the one
from Rainbow Ridge to Golden Crossing," answered Jack with a laugh, that
showed his white, even teeth, which formed a strange contrast to his tanned
face.

"Sunger," repeated Mrs. Watson, musingly. "What an odd name. I often wonder
how you came to call him that."

"It isn't his real name," explained Jack, as he gave another look up the
trail over which the rays of the declining sun were shining, and then
walked up to the porch, where he sat down. "The pony was once owned by a
Mexican miner, and he named him something in Spanish which meant that the
little horse could go so fast that he dodged the sun. Sundodger was what
the name would be in English, I suppose, and after I bought him that's what
I called him.

"But Sundodger is too much of a mouthful when one's in a hurry," and Jack
laughed at his idea, "so," he went on, "I shortened it to Sunger, which
does just as well."

"Yes, as long as he knows it," agreed Mrs. Watson. "But I guess, Jack, I
had better be going, I did think I'd wait until your father came, and put
the supper on for you both, but he's so late now--"

"Yes, Mrs. Watson, don't wait," interrupted Jack. "I don't know what to
make of dad's being so late. But we're used to getting our own meals, so
you needn't worry. We'll get along all right."

"Oh, I know you will. For two men--for you are getting so big I shall have
to call you a man," and she smiled at him. "For two men you really get
along very well indeed."

"Yes, I'm getting to be something of a cook myself," admitted the lad. "But
I can't quite equal your biscuits yet, and there's no use saying I can.
However, you baked a pretty good batch this afternoon, and dad sure will be
pleased when he sees 'em. I wish he'd come while they're hot though," and
once more Jack Bailey arose and went out to peer up the trail. He listened
intently, but his sharp senses caught no sound of clattering hoofs, nor
sight of a horseman coming down the <DW72>, a good view of which could be
had from in front of the house that stood on a bend in the road.

"Well, then, I'll be getting along," Mrs. Watson resumed, as she threw a
shawl over her shoulders, for, though the day had been warm, there was a
coolness in the mountain air with the coming of night. "Everything is all
ready to dish-up" went on the motherly-looking woman, as she went out of
the front gate, "The chicken is hot on the back of the stove."

"Oh, we'll make out all right, thank you," called Jack after her, as she
started down the trail. Mrs. Watson lived about a quarter of a mile away.
Her husband was a miner, and she had a grown daughter, so it was quite
convenient for Mrs. Watson to come over twice a week, or oftener on
occasions, and do the housework in the cottage where Mr. Peter Bailey and
his son Jack lived. Mrs. Watson would do the sweeping, dusting and as much
cooking as she had time for, and then go back to her own home.

Jack's mother was dead, and he and his father had managed for some years
without the services of a housekeeper. Mr. Bailey was a pony express rider,
carrying the mail and small express packages between the settlements of
Rainbow Ridge and Golden Crossing. Mr. Bailey and Jack lived on the
outskirts of Rainbow Ridge.

This was in the Rocky Mountain country of one of our western states, and
the trails were so wild and winding, and, for that matter, so unsafe, that
it was out of the question to use a mail or stage coach between the two
places.

From Rainbow Ridge, however, there was a stage route going east, which took
the mail and express matter as it was brought in by Mr. Bailey. And from
Golden Crossing going west the same arrangement was made. Golden Crossing
was a settlement on the banks of the Ponto River, a small enough stream in
ordinary times, but which was wild and dangerous during heavy rains or
freshets.

So the pony express, as run by Mr. Bailey, was the only regular means of
communication between Golden Crossing and Rainbow Ridge. It was of
importance, too, for often valuable mail and packages went through, the
route being shorter and quicker than by a roundabout stage line.

When Mrs. Watson was out of sight around a bend in the trail, Jack went
into the cottage. It really was a cottage, though when Mr. Bailey first
brought his family to the West it had been but a cabin, or shack. But Mr.
Bailey and his wife had labored hard to make it more of a "home," and they
had succeeded very well. Then came the sad occasion of Mrs. Bailey's
illness and death, and for a time life had seemed very hard to Jack and his
father.

The latter had been interested in mines, but found the work too difficult
with his failing health, so he had secured the pony express contract, which
he had carried on now for several years.

"It certainly is a shame to have this fine supper spoil," mused Jack, as he
lifted the cover from a pot of chicken, and glanced at the pile of browned
biscuit in the warming oven.

"I can't understand what makes dad so late," he went on. "Of course, the
mail from the Golden Crossing office might not have been ready for him to
take. It's been pretty heavy of late, and is almost more than Aunt Matilda
can handle. Though I suppose Jennie gives her a hand now and then," and as
he said that Jack looked at the photograph on the mantel of an attractive
girl, who seemed to smile at him. Jack looked cautiously around the room,
and then raised a hand to his lips and threw a kiss from the tips of his
fingers at the picture.

This done he blushed--but you would not have known it, he was so bronzed by
the sun and the wind. Mrs. Matilda Blake was a distant relative of Mr.
Bailey's, and Jack called her "Aunt Matilda," though she really did not
bear that relationship to him. She was a widow, and she and her only
daughter, Jennie, a girl of about sixteen, lived in Golden Crossing, where
Mrs. Blake was postmistress. Jack and Jennie were the best of friends.

"Well, if dad doesn't come pretty soon, I'm going to eat," decided Jack.
"He won't mind, I'm sure. But I would like to know what's keeping him. I
hope he hasn't had any accident. His pony is sure-footed, I know, but I'd
feel better if he had Sunger."

Jack was plainly nervous--that is as nervous as a young, healthy lad can
be. He went outside again, and walked a little way back along the trail
over which his father would come. But the trail seemed deserted. The Bailey
cottage was in a rather lonely location, there being no other habitation in
sight.

There were other houses not far away, and a number in the town, but because
of the winding nature of the trail, and the ruggedness of the mountains,
they could not be seen from where Jack stood.

As the lad was about to turn back and again enter the cottage with the
determination to eat his supper, he heard something which caused him to
start.

"Here he comes!" he exclaimed. "But he's walking his horse! That's queer!
Something must have happened!"

Speed was one of the prime requisites of the pony express. The men who rode
the routes over plains and mountain trails secured the speediest horses or
ponies possible. Their life, when in the saddle, was a continual rush, for
the mail and express matter must go through as quickly as possible, and
where no steam and railroads were available recourse was had to horseflesh.
And knowing the value of speed Jack wondered when he heard the approach of
a horse at a walking pace.

Mr. Bailey was supposed to arrive at Rainbow Ridge in time to deliver his
express and mail matter to the night stage coach going east, and the hour
for its leaving had passed some time since. Of course, the stage would wait
for the pony express, but this meant a delay all along the rest of the
route.

"Something sure must have happened!" said Jack to himself. "I'll go to meet
dad."

He set off on foot, but came running back.

"I'll get Sunger," he told himself, speaking aloud, a habit engendered by
the loneliness of the mountains. "He's quite a way off yet, but Sunger will
make short work of the distance."

Though the sound of the approaching footsteps of the horse of the pony
express rider could be plainly heard by Jack, so clear and resonant was the
mountain air, he realized that his father had yet nearly half a mile to
travel.

Leaping to the saddle of his pony, and patting the animal lovingly on the
neck, Jack set off once more. He went quickly, for Sunger was fresh and
eager.

In a few minutes Jack turned at a place where the trail followed a great
rocky ledge, and in front of him, almost collapsed in the saddle was a man.
He seemed to sit on his horse only by a great effort, and on his face was a
drawn look of pain.

"Why, Dad!" cried Jack. "What's the matter? Has anything happened? Did they
hold up the mail?"

"No, the mail and other stuff is all right," was the answer, broken by an
exclamation of pain. "But I'm all in, Jack. I'm afraid I'm going to be
quite ill. It was all I could do to ride the last few miles, but I wouldn't
give in."

Jack was at his father's side in an instant.

"Get on Sunger," he urged. "He's easier for you to ride. Let me help you.
What is the trouble? How did it happen?"

"I don't know, Jack, my boy. But I won't change horses. I can keep on until
I get to the cabin. Here, you take the mail and express and ride on with it
to the stage. I'll keep on toward home. Come back as soon as you can, and
you--you'd better bring the doctor with you!" he faltered.




CHAPTER II

POSTMISTRESS JENNIE

For a moment Jack Bailey did not know what to do. He looked at his father,
who was evidently quite ill and suffering much pain. Then the lad glanced
at the bags of mail and small express matter which lay over the saddle in
front of Mr. Bailey.

"Take the mail, Jack, my boy!" the pony express rider exclaimed, with an
effort. "Take the mail, so the stage can get off. I'm late now, but I
couldn't make the trail any faster. Get the mail through, and then stop and
bring a doctor back with you if he'll come."

"But I can't go away and leave you like this, Dad!"

"You must, Jack!"

"But you're too ill!"

"That can't be helped. The mail and express must go through on time if I'm
to keep the contract. And I certainly don't want to lose it. I'll manage to
get to the cottage. Once there, I can sit down, and if I get a cup of hot
tea I may feel better. It seems to be acute indigestion, though I don't
remember eating anything that didn't agree with me. But ride on, Jack. And
don't worry. I'll get to the cottage all right and be there when you come
back."

"All right, Dad! I'll do it. But I sure do hate to leave you like this!"

"It's better than having the mail delayed. Ride on. Explain to Jed Monty
how it is. I think Jed takes the stage out to-night."

"Yes, he does. I'll tell him."

Jack quickly transferred to his own saddle the bags of mail and express
matter. Mr. Bailey seemed easier now, though there was still that look of
pain on his face.

"Come on, Sunger," called the lad to his pony. "We've got to make time!"

The intelligent and beautiful animal whinnied as if he understood. Then,
with a fond and anxious look at his father, Jack wheeled about and set off
down the trail at a gallop, Mr. Bailey going on more slowly, for every
motion of his horse gave him pain.

Jack was soon out of sight around a bend of the trail. He flashed past his
cottage, and thought with satisfaction that there was hot water on the
range, so his father could make himself a cup of tea.

Jack paused long enough at Mrs. Watson's cabin to tell her what was the
matter, and to inform her that he was taking the mail over the last mile of
the route into town.

"Your father ill!" exclaimed Mrs. Watson. "I'll go right over there, Jack,
and look after him."

"I wish you would. It will be awful good of you."

"Of course I'll go. Mary can look after things here," and she hurried into
the house to get ready for her second trip that day to the Bailey cottage.

Jack galloped on, trusting to the sure-footedness of his pony to avoid the
dangers of the rough mountain trail. And Sunger justified the confidence
reposed in him.

"Hello! We've been wondering what kept you! Why, it's Jack!" exclaimed Jed
Monty, the grizzled stage driver, as the lad galloped up to the Mansion
Hotel, whence the start for the east was made.

"Sorry to be late, but dad's taken sick!" cried Jack, as he flung the bags
to the driver.

"Sick, eh? That's too bad. Well, I guess I can make up the lost time.
Haven't much of a load on to-night."

The stage was all ready to start, the few passengers having been
impatiently waiting.

"Pile in!" cried Jed, and with a crack of his long whip he sent the four
horses off at a gallop.

Jack did not linger, but, wheeling his pony, set off for the doctor's
office, hoping he would find the physician in. He was fortunate in this
respect, and Dr. Brown promised to come at once. Jack did not wait for him,
however, but hastened back to the cottage.

There he found that Mrs. Watson had made his father some hot tea, which had
relieved him somewhat. The look of pain was not so apparent now.

"The doctor will be here right away," Jack reported. "Now tell me how it
happened, Dad. We were quite worried about you."

"Indeed we were, when you didn't come in on time, as you nearly always do,"
said Mrs. Watson.

"I can't tell just how it did happen," said the pony express rider, "but I
was taken with a sharp and sudden pain soon after leaving Golden Crossing.
I'd have turned back then, and gotten some one else to ride the route for
me, but I knew there were important letters in the mail, and it had to come
through. So I kept on, hoping I would get better. But I grew worse, and I
had to slow up. I thought I'd never get here! But I did." And he shut his
lips grimly.

Pony express riders have to be made of stern stuff and they have to keep on
their routes in rain or shine, calm or storm; and often when it is torture
to sit in the saddle on a galloping horse.

"You'd better get your supper, Jack," advised Mrs. Watson.

"No, I don't feel like eating," the lad objected.

"Yes, you'd better, son," said his father. "There's no telling what you may
have to do tonight, and it is possible you will have to ride for me
to-morrow, though I hope I'll be able. But eat, and keep up your strength."

This was good advice, and Jack realized it. So he sat down to the meal
which Mrs. Watson had prepared as a finish to