the signal, had seen many times. The broad-brimmed hat flaring up in front, the fluttering handkerchief about the neck, the fringed collar, the close fitting coat, cartridge belt at the waist, gloved hands, revolver at the hip, rifle across his thighs, fringed trouser legs, tucked just below the knees into the boots, spurs, keen, alert eyes, body leaning slightly forward but as firm in the saddle, as if the rider were a part of the pony; these with mail pouches locked and secured in place, were the noticeable points of the man who dashed up at headlong speed his horse setting his legs and coming to a stop within a single bound.
“Howdy, Cal? Howdy, Bill?”
“Howdy, Jim?”
The words were yet in the air, when the rider leaped to the ground, whirled about and began unfastening the mail bags. Cal helped, they were slung upon the back of the waiting pony and Jim vaulted into the saddle, caught up the reins and pricked the flanks of his animal with his keen spurs.
During the few seconds this operation required, Cal asked:
“Did the mail get in all right from the east?”
