A rangy sorrel, dead tired from the long, hundred-mile trip from the Mormon settlements along the Great Salt Lake, lifted his ears sharply as he stumbled down from the rim of the desert and caught the smell of water. In a little depression among the blistering rocks and sand-dunes nestled a group of buildings; small, yet marking Ross’s Post, the most important place on the Pony Express route between Salt Lake and Placerville. The rider, quick to catch the awakened interest of his horse, straightened in the saddle. Slight though it was, the movement showed the buoyancy of youth; natural enough, since Dixie Rollins was only five days past twenty-one. Ross’s Post was his destination and his da…
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