“That has to be done; rain, snow, hail, cold, heat, night, day,— makes no difference. This” added Dick Lightfoot in his cheery voice and with his pleasant smile, “is the rush line across the continent.”
“Do you never lose your way?”
“Impossible; every horse knows his route; this animal that has my name—Dick—knows the path better than I, and that means the whole thirty-odd miles. When it is so dark that I can hardly see his ears, I let the lines lie loose, and he never goes astray; I wouldn’t trade my job for that of President of the United States.”
There could be no mistake as to the young man’s enthusiasm. During the brief conversation his pony, like the others, kept walking briskly. At the top of the incline the rider waved a good bye to his new acquaintances, and the horse of his own accord struck into a gallop which speedily carried him out of sight around a sweeping curve in the trail.
Jethro Mix had taken no part in the chat, for he had no right to do so, but he did not allow a word to escape him.
“I say, Al, now’s a good time to turn back, don’t you think?” he anxiously suggested.
