The eddies swirl in the treacherous ford,
And the clouds gather dark ahead.
And over the plain, where the sunlight poured,
Scarce a gleam does the pale moon shed.
The pony drinks, but with gasp and sob,
And wan is the man at its side;
The way has been long, past butte and knob,
And still he must ride and ride.
Now the cinch is drawn and the plunge is made,
And the bank of the stream is gained;
Eyes study the darkness, unafraid,
And ne’er is the good horse reined.
And the hoof-beats die on the prairie vast,
To the lone wolf’s answering wail—
Thus the ghost of the Pony Express goes past
On the grass-grown Overland Trail.
