we’ve got afore we see Salt Lake, and them insults don’t hurt.”
Several times our friends had seen the Pony Express riders as they skimmed across the country with the speed of the wind. A wave of the hand from the flying horseman, without the slightest pull of rein, was the only acknowledgment made to the salutations of the emigrants. The majority of these headlong riders were not seen, for, always hunting the speediest route, they were generally well north or south of the trail of the ox teams.
A goodly part of the journey was over, and yet the train had suffered no serious accident. In crossing a rapid stream, where the animals had to swim, Jethro Mix performed another exploit which won the praise of his friends. One of the oxen, stupid as the species always is, became entangled in his yoke and would have been drowned had not the African urged his pony alongside, where with a swift, powerful wrench, some shouting and a savage blow or two with the butt of his gun, he straightened out matters and saved the valuable animal.
More than likely any man in the company
