“Not with that pony?”
“No; it would be too great a strain on him; our stations are some ten miles apart and at each we change horses. I ride ten or a dozen miles more, then change again and keep on to the second station which is the end of my run. There I meet the return rider and another chap takes my place for the next thirty miles.”
“How do you like the life?” asked Alden.
The eyes of the young rider sparkled.
“It suits me down to the ground. It stirs one’s blood to dash over the plains, through the mountain files and across plateaus at headlong speed; we have to make an average of over twelve miles an hour. I’m not doing it now, but when the chance offers, I shall even matters by going at a rate of twenty or twenty-five miles.”
“That is almost railroad time,” replied Alden admiringly.
“It heats the railway trains in many places.”
“But you are always in danger.”
“That’s what adds to the fun; the speed itself gives a man a thrill and the possibility of ambush, a treacherous shot or an open attack sets the blood tingling.”
“And you keep at it all the time?”
