Jack of the Pony Express | Page 6

the mountain trail to go to Golden Crossing. The trip would take about four hours, and if the other mail matter was ready he would come back with it, making the round trip in about eight or nine hours.
But sometimes there were delays at one end or the other, for accidents happened to the stages once in a while. There had been hold-ups, too, but not since Mr. Bailey had taken charge.
If the stage at Golden Crossing was not on time the pony express rider had to wait for it, sometimes all night. On such occasions Mr. Bailey had stayed with his relative, Mrs. Blake, and Jack reasoned that he could do the same thing. He caught himself almost wishing that the stage might be late this time, as it would give him a chance for a long visit with his "cousin" Jennie.
On his way past his cottage Jack stopped to see how his father was, and also to report that he had been commissioned, at least temporarily, to carry the mail.
Jack found his father better. Mrs. Watson said she thought it would be best if he could be moved down to her house, and both Jack and Mr. Bailey agreed to this, Dr. Brown sanctioning the suggestion.
"I can look after him better then," said the housekeeper, "and my daughter can help me. And then, too, Jack, if you're delayed and have to be away all night, you'll know that he's being well cared for."
"Yes, it will be best," Jack agreed. And so, as he rode off, preparations were made to transfer Mr. Bailey to the other place.
"Now, Sunger, we'll show 'em what we can do when we carry the mail!" exclaimed Jack, as his faithful pony started off along the mountain trail again.
Nothing of moment occurred on that ride. Jack half-wished that he might be called upon to defend the mail and express from bandits. He was armed, and he dwelt on the thought of what a hero he might prove himself to be.
But everything was very prosaic. His pony did not even slip and fall, but came through on schedule time, or, rather, a little ahead of it, for Jack urged Sunger on.
"Oh, it's you, is it, Jack!" exclaimed Jennie Blake, as our hero rode up to the post office with the bags. "Why is this? Where's your father?"
"My father is ill. But aren't you glad to see me?"
"Oh, yes, of course!" she answered, and then she seemed obliged to look down very closely at some mail matter she was sorting.
"The in-stage will be five hours late," she said. "A messenger rode in to say that one of the horses died, and he had to take back another. So you'll have to stay over, Jack."
"That's good!" he exclaimed.
"What? Good that a poor horse died?"
"Oh, I don't mean that. But--er--say, what's that big official-looking envelope addressed to you? From Washington, too, and without a stamp," and Jack looked over the girl's shoulder.
"Oh, official letters from the post office department don't require stamps."
"What are you getting official letters for?" Jack wanted to know.
"Why, didn't I tell you?" Jennie asked with a teasing laugh. "I'm going to be postmistress at Golden Crossing from now on. That's my official appointment! Aren't you going to congratulate me?" and she looked archly at Jack and smiled.

CHAPTER III
A NARROW ESCAPE
"Say, Jennie, what is this; a joke?" asked Jack, as he leaned up against the table on which was piled the mail and some express matter, for the post office was also used as the headquarters of the pony express company and stage line.
"A joke? The idea! How dare you!" and the young lady appeared to be very indignant, indeed. "A joke! I guess not! Look at that, Mr. Jack Bailey," and she flourished in front of him an important-looking document whereon her name could be discerned in large letters.
"Hum! So you are really postmistress of Golden Crossing," remarked Jack. "Is your mother--"
"Oh, it isn't anything serious," was the quick answer. "But we are going to make certain, changes, and--"
"Changes!" cried Jack, in some surprise. "I hope you aren't thinking of going away!"
"Oh, no indeed!" Jennie answered. "We like it too well here. But mother has a chance to do some sewing, at which she can make some much-needed money, and she realized that she would be too busy at that to look after the post office properly. So I said I'd apply for the place. I know all about the work," Jennie went on, "for whenever mother went away I used to look after the mail. Tim does the heavy work, lifting the pouches and packages and all that," and she indicated a red-haired and freckled lad named Timothy Mullane, a genial Irish chap, who did odd jobs around the post office, and in the