' I'm shapin' ter foller
it true."

CHAPTER VI

JIM THURSTON'S SUBSTITUTE

At half-past four on the following morning, Kiddie stood alone on the
trail with his saddled pony, waiting in the darkness outside the depot
of the Express in Fort Laramie, and listening for the thumping sound of
hoofs which should tell him that the westward bound mail was
approaching.

He was earlier than it was necessary he should be, but he was aware
from long past experience that when there was an especially important
dispatch among the mails, the riders taking up their successive relays
tried to gain a few minutes on their time.

And this was what now happened, for he had been waiting less than a
quarter of an hour when he heard the expected sound from afar. Shortly
afterwards the incoming rider dismounted at his side, breathing heavily
after a ride of two hundred and forty miles.

"You've saved seventeen minutes on schedule time, pardner," Kiddie told
him. "Guess I shall improve on that, if my ponies are all up to the
mark an' ready at their stations."

He seized the two satchels, transferred them to his own saddle,
mounted, and with a wave of the hand started off to the westward.

Not a moment had been wasted in making the change, and his trained pony
broke at once into a full gallop which would be continued while the
trail was level until the next station was reached, some thirty miles
away, where a fresh pony would be awaiting him.

His first relay station was at Hot Springs, and it took him less than a
minute to change mounts. He rode eight different ponies on this trip,
and each of them satisfied him. Their pace depended upon the nature of
the ground.

Where the trail was good, as across Laramie Plain, and could be taken
at the gallop, the speed was something like twenty-five miles an hour,
but where the way was rugged, as among the Porcupine Mountains,
fifteen, or even ten miles in an hour was considered good going.

When Kiddie reached the station at Sweetwater Bridge he had gained by
six minutes. Gideon Birkenshaw had come down from the homestead to
greet him, and the fresh pony was held by young Rube Carter. Kiddie's
Highland deerhound, Sheila, was also on the trail. As he dismounted,
she raised herself on her hind feet and put her paws on his shoulders
to lick his chin.

"Down, Sheila, down!" commanded Kiddie, drawing away from her. "I'm on
duty. I've not come home to you."

Sheila walked majestica