“I rode two months last year on Bill Trotter’s division, sir,
        and filled the bill then; and I think I am better able to ride
        now,” said I.

        “What! are you the boy that was riding there, and was called
        the youngest rider on the road?”

        “I am the same boy,” I replied, confident that everything was
        now all right for me.

“I have heard of you before.  You are a year or so older now, and I think you can stand it.  I’ll give you a trial, anyhow, and if you weaken you can come back to Horseshoe Station and tend stock.”

Thus ended our interview.  The next day he assigned me to duty on the road from Red Buttes on the North Platte to the Three Crossings of the Sweetwater—­a distance of seventy-six miles—­and I began riding at once.  It was a long piece of road, but I was equal to the undertaking; and soon afterward had an opportunity to exhibit my power of endurance as a Pony Express rider.

For some time matters progressed very smoothly, though I had no idea that things would always continue so.  I was well aware that the portion of the trail to which I had been assigned was not only the most desolate and lonely, but it was more eagerly watched by the savages than elsewhere on the long route.

        Slade, the boss, whenever I arrived safely at the station,
        and before I started out again, was always very earnest in
        his suggestions to look out for my scalp.

“You know, Billy,” he would say, “I am satisfied yours will not always be the peaceful route it has been with you so far.  Every time you come in I expect to hear that you have met with some startling adventure that does not always fall to the average express rider.”

        I replied that I was always cautious, made detours whenever
        I noticed anything suspicious.  “You bet I look out for
        number one.”  The change soon came.

One day, when I galloped into Three Crossings, my home station, I found that the rider who was expected to take the trip out on my arrival, had gotten into a drunken row the night before and had been killed.  This left that division without a rider.  As it was very difficult to engage men for the service in that uninhabited region, the superintendent requested me to make the trip until another rider could be secured.  The distance to the next station, Rocky Ridge, was eighty-five miles and through a very bad and dangerous country, but the emergency was great and I concluded to try it.  I therefore started promptly from Three Crossings without more than a moment’s rest.  I pushed on with the usual rapidity, entering every relay station on time, and accomplished the round trip of three hundred and twenty-two miles back to Red Buttes without a single mishap and on time.  This stands on the