late, the evening meal had been eaten, and most of the tired travelers had withdrawn into the wagons and were asleep. Sentinels of course were placed, and Alden was challenged as he came out of the darkness. His response was satisfactory, and he walked between two of the lumbering vehicles to the cheerful blaze, around which half a dozen men were seated on the ground, smoking and talking together.
All looked up as he came forward and bade them good evening. His appearance was interesting, for he was on foot, carried no rifle, but had a couple of mail pouches slung over his shoulders. He flung them to the ground with a sigh of relief, looked around and laughed as he exclaimed:
“I’m glad to get rid of them for awhile.”
A tall, bearded man rose to his feet and walked toward him. He asked in surprise:
“What are you doing with the United States mail?”
“Trying to reach the station.”
“You are not the regular carrier.”
“The Indians got him; he was killed a long way back, beyond the other station.”
“Where is his pony?”
“I left him at the station, mounted another,
