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In 1857 James E. Birch got the contract for carrying a semimonthly mail from San Antonio, Texas, to San Diego, and the southern route's champions had the opportunity to prove their contention. Save for a few brief stretches in Texas and Arizona there was no wagon road. El Paso and Tucson were the only towns between the termini.
"Who's goin' ter diskiver what route she rides?" demanded one of those annoyingly exact persons who mar all great dreams by the injection of practicalities. Again Jase laughed. "Thar hain't but one way she kin go hit'll be days afore any other route's fordable. She's got ter fare past Crabapple post office an' through Wolf-pen gap." That afternoon Brent went to the telegraph office.
"Ye-e-es, that's right; the route's arrived for the old trump; wishes to to see you" "Major Stewart dying! Why, you are a more disgraceful scamp than I believed you to be. Send this fellow away," I added to a clerk who answered my summons. I then hastened off, and was speedily rattling over the stones towards Baker Street, Portman Square, where Major Stewart resided.
He had plenty to occupy his mind which was of a strictly immediate nature. A dozen times that morning Old Jerry asked himself what he would tell Dryad Anderson that night, when he stopped at the little drab cottage at the route's end, ostensibly to bid her good-by.
"It'll make pursuit difficult," the other suggested. "But what I can't understand is why the banks should send so much gold across country when there's the railway." "The railway, friend Cumshaw, isn't the safest route. There's just as clever men working that as used to be working the stages. Moreover, this cross-country route's much the quicker way of the two."
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