Once again, the rider came, the rider went.
The mount was changed, the horse was spent.
They'd appear in the distance, twisting devil of dust .
Where the sky meets land, there, where the blue meets gold.
Not many would step up to this plan,
except the ones who were too restless,
young, and bold.
They'd vanish in much the same way.
Gone in hectic seconds, on the run, the live long day.
The noise, the clamor, the silence broken sound.
The mount remained, walked cool and rubbed down.
It's eyes were wild, insanely driven,
in anxious pace of life, that was given.
The tack removed, cleaned and oiled,
told a another tale.
The real dangers, the death that was present,
to move the U.S. Mail.
Bloodied and dried, embedded deep,
an arrow head at the riders knee.
Thank God the next is his Home station
if he makes it, they will keep.
The many who came to the American West
unknowingly finding their very best.
The few of those who would challenge the test,
were those who rode for the Pony Express.
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