Nearing the spring, where he had taken a drink before that day, Jack was about to dismount to get some cooling water. But such a strange feeling of weakness and dizziness came over him that he had to hold himself in the saddle.

"I—I'm afraid if I get out I won't be able to get up again," he murmured weakly. "Sunger, what's the matter with me, I wonder?"

Then, ill as he felt himself becoming, like a flash an idea came to Jack.
The meaning of it all came to him instantly.

"I've been drugged!" he said, hoarsely. "That Ryan! That was his game. He drugged my coffee, that time when he made me turn around! I saw him putting back my cup! He put some drug in my coffee to make me unconscious!"

For a moment the thought of the desperate trick that had been played on him made Jack so angry that he succeeded in fighting off the feeling of weakness and dizziness. But it was only for a moment. Then it came back with increasing distress.

"That was the game," he murmured, scarcely able to see now. "He probably had doped the whiskey in that flask, but I didn't take that. Then he watched his chance, urged me to take something to eat with him, and put some drug in my coffee. No wonder it tasted bitter and queer! What a simpleton I was to take it! But I did not know."

Jack was reeling in the saddle. The pony sensed that something was wrong with his master, and stopped.

"No, don't stop! Go on! Go on!" urged Jack. "Oh, what am I going to do?" he murmured. "I'm on a lonely trail, with the valuable mail and express. That's what Ryan counts on. He thinks I'll fall by the wayside and he can come up and get what he wants when I'm unconscious.

"But what is it he wants? The Argent letters, of course. That's what he's after! He's drugged me. He's going to give me time to fall in a faint, and then he's coming along to rob the mail. The Argent letters must be in the sacks that aren't opened. He must have found that out in some way, and have been on the watch for me.

"But he won't get them. I'll not let him roll the mail!" cried Jack, speaking aloud, and trying to put some fierce energy into his voice. But it died away faintly.

"How can I stop him? How can I foil him?" mused the ill and almost fainting rider. "I—I've got to do something. But what? I can't stay in the saddle much longer. Go on, Sunger! Go on!"

For the pony had stopped again.

Jack wanted desperately to get a drink from the cold spring, but he dared not.

"If I leave the saddle I'd not have strength to get up in it again," he reasoned. "But I've got to do something! I've got to do something!"

He repeated the words over and over again, until they rang in his numbed brain like the refrain of some song. Sunger did not know what to make of it all. He could tell something was wrong, and whinnied once or twice. But Jack was too ill to answer him, or pat him caressingly as he always did.

"Sunger, we've got to do something! We've got to do something to save the mail!" whispered the poor lad. He was too weak to do more than whisper.

Jack tried to listen, and to ascertain if the outlaw who had played this trick on him was coming behind him on the trail, for he realized that Ryan would soon follow, to reap the fruits of his villany. But there was no sound save the echo of Sunger's hoof-beats. It was getting late in the afternoon.

Jack was reeling in the saddle now. He could hardly hold himself upright. Once or twice he nearly fell out, but clutched the pommel in time. Once or twice, too, the pony stopped, but Jack urged him on. He knew his only hope lay either in reaching Golden Crossing, or in some one on the trail seeing his plight and looking after him. But there was not much chance of this last, for the disabled stage would not be along for some hours yet.

Then, as he thought of what it would mean to him to have the mail robbed a second time while in his possession, a desperate plan came into Jack's mind.

"I'll tie myself to the saddle!" he whispered "I've got plenty of rope for that. I'll lash myself fast. Then if I do get unconscious, which I'm afraid is going to happen, I won't fall out.

"And when I tie myself fast, Sunger," Jack went on, speaking as loudly as he could; "when I'm lashed fast, and don't know anything, you've got to go on and carry the mail—and me. You've got to take the mail safe through to Jennie at Golden Crossing, and you've got to do it without my guidance. You know the trail, Sunger! You've got to take the mail through! It's the only way to save it!"

Jack felt that it was useless longer to try to fight off the effects of the drug. It was too strong and powerful for him, and he realized that he must have been given a heavy dose. He could hardly see now.

Jack carried with him a light but strong rope for often he had to tie mail pouches on the saddle behind him. With hands that trembled, with his head aching terribly, and his eyes burning, Jack managed to pass about his legs, and under the saddle girths, several turns of the rope. He made himself fast in the saddle, so he would not fall off.

Then, when the last knot had been tied and made secure, Jack fell forward on his pony's neck.

"Go on, Sunger!" he said feebly. "Go on to Jennie and Golden Crossing. It's my only chance. You've got to run now as you never ran before! You've got to carry the mail! Go on, Sunger! Don't fail me now, or it will be all up with dad and me! Don't fail, Sunger! Go on!"

With this last urging Jack's eyes closed, and he felt himself going off into unconsciousness.

Then the brave and intelligent Sunger sprang forward. Somehow the pony must have understood. At any rate, he knew that all haste must be made on the trail. He was carrying the mail, and Jack always urged him to top speed on such occasions.

With the instinct that characterizes dogs, horses and other animals, Sunger knew that he must go on to the Post Office. Just what had happened to his master, of course Sunger did not know. But it was something wrong—the pony sensed that.

And so with the unconscious form strapped to the saddle, with Jack's head pillowed on Sunger's neck, the plucky animal started to foil the plans of the plotters. On and on he galloped over the mountain trail, Jack swaying from side to side, but remaining safe because of the holding ropes.

It was about this time that Ryan, who, by a roundabout road, had reached the trail leading from Tuckerton to Golden Crossing, looked at his watch in a secluded place where he was waiting, and remarked:

"Well, it ought to be working by this time. I guess I'll amble along and see what's doing. I ought to get the letters without any trouble. I certainly dosed his coffee good and strong," and he smiled in an evil fashion.

Springing into the saddle he urged his horse along the trail. He did not hurry, for he wanted to give the drug time to work its full and stupefying effect. Ryan was a different sort of worker from the other outlaws. He did not believe in their rough and ready methods, but, instead, used sneaking means, such as drugs, that were often no less successful.

"This hold-up work doesn't pay when you can get the same results without attracting so much attention," he murmured as he rode on. "Now I wonder if I had better take that last package they gave him. I don't believe the maps will be in that, though. They must be in the sacks. I hope I have a key that will fit the lock. I don't want to cut the bags if I can help it.

"If I can come up when he's lying unconscious, pick the locks, and get out what I want, I can lock the mail pouches again, and he won't know he's been robbed for some hours. That will give me that much more time to get away. Yes, that's my best plan," and as Ryan rode along he examined several keys which he took from a pocket. He had made his plans carefully.

It was not until the outlaw had reached a point near the spring that he began to be at all concerned. Up to then he had felt sure of the result of his desperate work.

"Why, I ought to have come upon him before this," he reasoned, wonderingly. "That stuff would knock out a strong man, let alone a lad like him. He ought to have fallen off, or have gotten off, and become unconscious before this. I wonder if I made any mistake."

He went over in his mind the different points of his plot. It seemed perfect. But where was his victim who should have been lying unconscious beside the road?

"Something's wrong!" Ryan exclaimed, as he passed the spring. He looked about. The trail was dusty, but he could sec no signs of Jack's having dismounted, or indications that the lad had fallen and gotten up to the saddle again.

"Something's wrong," Ryan repeated. Then he put spurs to his horse and galloped down the trail toward Golden Crossing.