The arrow smashed into his jaw, knocking out five teeth. He kept riding. It was his second wound, delivered from his pursuers. He had jerked the first arrow out of his shoulder, and kept riding. Now Pony Bob’s mouth had an extra opening, and his shoulder was in pain. But he was young–a teenager–and his horse was fast. He rode for the Pony Express. Hey, this job wasn’t as romantic as I thought. The curator of the Pony Express Museum smiled as I shook my head. Probably couldn’t find many people today who would work in those conditions. Pony Bob’s ride happened more than 150 years ago. And the museum does a great job illustrating the riders’ feats. Stories unfold in a stroll through the same stables where the horses recharged. I walked outside, and saluted an old friend, clinging to a galloping horse stuck atop a ten-foot pole. A giant neon arrow underscores the horse’s hooves, and aims at the museum stables. Appropriate, I thought. It’s the Pony Express Motel neon sign, lovingly transplanted to the museum’s parking lot.
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