Part 22 (2/2)

They both started toward the door, but, with a sigh of disappointment, Jennie said:

”No, it's only Tim Mullane.”

The red-haired, genial Irish lad entered with a grin.

”Jack not here yet?” he asked, with some surprise.

”Oh, I wish you wouldn't say that!” Jennie exclaimed, and her voice was not her usual one.

”Why, what's the matter?” her mother asked, in some surprise.

”Oh, it makes me nervous when any one speaks about Jack's not being back.

It--it's just as if--as if something had happened to him!” she faltered.

”Oh sure, miss, what could happen to him?” asked Tim, seeing with his Irish quickness ”which way the wind blew.”

”Nothing, of course,” Jennie went on. ”He just rode out to get the mail because the stage was broken down. Maybe he knows there is nothing important in it, so he can stay here all night.”

”Of course,” agreed Mrs. Blake. But to herself she said. ”I do wish Jack would come!”

There was nothing to do, however, save wait, and that is often the hardest kind of work, as it is certainly the most nervous. Jennie and her mother busied themselves about the post office, Jennie asking the advice of Mrs.

Blake on certain matters connected with the reports she had to send in to the officials.

”I suppose there will be a real post office inspector along some day to go over my accounts,” she ventured.

”Perhaps,” her mother admitted. ”And if any more bogus ones come on the scene, I hope I'm here--or that Jack is.”

”Yes, Jack routed that other chap finely,” said Jennie.

And so they waited for the return of the pony express rider.

Meanwhile, what of Jack? Brave and intelligent Sunger was galloping on with his senseless burden. The pony seemed to know just what to do. He took the easiest part of the mountain trail, avoiding places where he might stumble or fall, for he seemed to realize that Jack's guiding and careful hand was not at the reins now.

On and on galloped the animal, making the best speed he could, though the trail was hard and steep in places.

Suddenly, from the road back of him, Sunger heard the sound of galloping.

The pony p.r.i.c.ked up his ears. Another rider was coming. Who it might be Sunger, of course, did not know. But the little pony had been trained never to let another horse pa.s.s him from behind on the mail route. It was not so much a matter of necessity as it was of pride, and Jack's pony now increased his pace.

And then, at a level place on the trail, and one that was straight, where a good view could be had ahead, there swung into view behind Sunger a horse, carrying a man who was urging his mount on with whip, spur and voice.

”So that's why I didn't find him as I expected to!” exclaimed Ryan, for he it was who was galloping behind the unconscious form of Jack Bailey. ”He's sticking to his horse, but he must be all in. That lad's got grit and pluck, and I'm almost sorry I had to do him up. But I had to. We simply must get the information about that mine, and this was the only plan I thought would work. But he sure has grit and s.p.u.n.k to ride on with that dose in him.”

From where he was, Ryan could not see the device of ropes Jack had used to prevent falling from the back of his pony during his unconsciousness. The outlaw merely thought that Jack was only partly under the influence of the drug, and that the youth was clinging with his arms about Sunger's neck.

”I wonder if I can ride him down?” mused the desperate man. ”I've just got to, that's all. I let him get too much the start, but I sure did think I'd find him senseless beside the road!”

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