act, the youth drew another match along the corrugated bottom of his little safe and held the speck of flame in front of him.
It was what was left of Bucephalus. He had been pierced by several bullets and killed while on a full gallop.
With a realization of the danger of what he was doing, Alden blew out the tiny light and flung it to the ground. Then he hastily retreated, turned aside and made his way in among the willows.
Everything was clear to him. A party of Indians had formed an ambush at that point for the Pony Express Rider. In the gloom, they may have supposed he was lying low on his horse’s back, but they fired together and snuffed out the steed supposed to be carrying him.
Deep gratitude stirred Alden Payne. He had believed himself the worst used person in the world, when he was deserted by the pony, and, say what we please, it was a shabby act, but the offender had paid dearly for it.
“Had he not tricked me, I should have ridden over this spot, and that volley which laid him low, would have done the same to me. Thank God!”
