“whoever chooses can find you; I don’t tote you another rod.”
It was different with the mail pouches. He felt a peculiar awe concerning them. In some way they stood for the great United States. Having been locked in distant Missouri, they were not to be opened until San Francisco was reached. Within those leathern receptacles, wrapped in oiled silk nestled the hundreds of letters, written on fine tissue paper and sealed in flimsy envelopes. Who could tell their weighty import? Every writer had paid five dollars in advance, and far away on the Pacific coast were anxiously waiting the men and women for whom the messages were intended. No; whatever happened, Alden must get them to the station, if the task were within human possibility.
Weighing only twenty pounds, the pouches were not burdensome. Slinging one over either shoulder, and trailing his rifle, the sturdy youth could have walked a score of miles without being irked. The whole and sole problem was to go in the right direction.
It was a puzzle indeed. The most sensible course seemed to stay where he was until morning. Daylight would enable him to find the
