The locker room was deserted when Cross Country entered. Most of the lockers were open, empty, abandoned, but the one at the end of the row stood proudly shut. The nameplate was tarnished beyond readability, but everypony knew whose it was. It had been passed down from father to son for five generations.

As he opened the locker, Cross Country silently vowed to make it six.

Inside were the symbols of his trade. First, he removed a simple, loose-fitting, red shirt from its hanger and slipped it over his brown coat. After buttoning it up, he pulled a polished silver Pony Express badge from the shelf at the top and affixed it to his lapel. Finally, he completed his uniform with a red and blue hat, carefully placed atop his sandy blonde mane. The last item in the locker, aside from the pictures of his family hung inside the door, was a pair of weatherbeaten, blue saddlebags. After cinching them around his barrel, he closed the locker and left the room.

When he stepped into the office area, there were no cheers to greet him nor well-wishes for his journey. The few remaining employees knew the stakes of his task, and they treated the occasion with solemnity, offering little more than grim expressions and terse nods. He responded in kind as he was approached by his secretary, a unicorn mare whose attractive features were marred by bags under her eyes.  She opened his saddlebag and carefully placed a sealed envelope inside a reinforced pouch, designed to prevent important documents from being damaged by the bag’s other contents. Once the parcel was secured, the rest of the bag was hastily stuffed with provisions.

In the distance, a whistle split the quiet morning’s calm. The train was about to leave, which meant he had no time to lose. Before stepping through the door and beginning his journey, though, he turned around and flashed a confident smile to the most faithful of his employees, the ones whose dedication was so great, they willingly accepted greater responsibility even as he was forced to cut their pay. The smile promised success and a return to prosperity.

For over a hundred years, no other delivery service had been able to match the speed and efficiency of the Pony Express. With its network of offices scattered throughout Equestria, each runner never had to travel too far before passing their parcel to the next earth pony in the chain, ensuring packages always moved at maximum speed. Pegasi, although lacking the long-range endurance of earth ponies, were ideal for making the final sprints to the recipients.

Now, though, there were no pegasi left. No other offices left. No demand for their services. The railroad was about to kill the Pony Express.

When he stepped outside into the morning sunlight, Cross Country squinted and walked slowly down the road while his eyes adjusted. As his vision cleared, he spotted the plume of smoke rising from the railyard across town. The train would be departing any moment. Focusing on the road ahead, he accelerated to a canter.

The ponies of Fillydelphia knew who he was. He had grown up among them, and he had stood among them as a prominent member of the community. When his fortunes had turned and his business had begun failing—to the extent that he was forced to start making deliveries himself, which he hadn’t done since taking over management of the company from his father—they offered pity and token support. As the branch offices closed down, the headquarters was kept afloat by local contracts, but they weren’t enough to sustain it indefinitely. Time was running out.

They knew of his plight and sympathized, so as he ran through the street, they stepped aside, often giving words of support that barely registered in his ears as he passed.

When he reached the outskirts of the city, he slowed down and looked back. The column of smoke was moving. Resuming his canter, he ran alongside the rails, glancing back occasionally to check the position of the competition. Even when he needed food or water, he avoided stopping completely. The stakes were too high to allow any unnecessary delay.

It was a desperate gamble. Never in the company’s history had a single pony attempted to run so far in such a short time, but without no other offices in place to take over, there was no other choice. He would have to race the train from Fillydelphia, on Equestria’s eastern shore, all the way to its westernmost city, Vanhoover. The task seemed impossible, but if he succeeded, it would show the nation the Pony Express still had a place in it. His family’s legacy would be saved.



After a few hours, Cross Country was beginning to tire, and it was becoming clear he was losing ground. No matter how great his stamina was, the train’s was practically infinite. With the sun directly overhead, his lead finally disappeared, and the steam engine began to overtake him.

Unwilling to give up his only advantage so easily, he began to gallop at an equal pace. The noise of metal wheels thundering across the rails was nearly deafening, but his pride demanded he hold his line, that he not surrender in any fashion. As the train chugged leisurely alongside him, he looked up and saw the engineer staring back down at him. There was no sense of competitiveness from him at all—no smugness on his face or determination in his eyes, only curiosity. He was completely oblivious to being in a race at all. He probably had no idea how many livelihoods he was ruining—had already ruined.

Cross Country’s rage boiled over, and he found new strength in his legs as adrenaline surged through his veins. Gritting his teeth, he pushed ahead of the train once more, sprinting for all he was worth until its cacophony faded into the background. His strength was limited, though, and he was starting to lose speed when the railroad took a turn to the left, in the direction of Canterlot.

As their paths diverged, Cross Country cursed himself for his stupidity. He had forgotten that while he would be taking the straightest path possible, the railroad couldn’t. It had pass through the hub at Canterlot, where it would take on water, unload some of its burden, and pick up new cargo. He had wasted his energy in a useless sprint because he was too stubborn to give even an inch, a mistake which would almost certainly come back to haunt him.

He slowed down and managed his pace more carefully, passing the hours in silence until the sun dipped low in the sky. At long last, he settled down in a meadow among the foothills of Foal Mountain, in the shadow of the great mountain upon which Canterlot stood, and fell into a fitful sleep.



After a tumultuous night of tossing and turning, trying to make his aching legs comfortable enough to rest properly, he awoke to the dawn. Despite the painful protests of his hooves, he started moving after a quick breakfast of dried fruit. The train had probably stopped for the night also, but it would be moving again shortly. He needed to get an early lead, but he also needed to pace himself more intelligently.

When the foothills of the mountains gave way to flat grasslands, travel became easier. He was able to alternate between cantering and trotting, stopping occasionally for food and water. As he made his way west, he kept looking to the south, trying to catch a glimpse of a dark ribbon rising into the sky, but there was no sign of the train.

His path finally converged with the rails once more as he passed under Cloudsdale. Taking the opportunity to cool off in the shade of the cloud city, he tucked his hat into one of his saddlebags, which had become considerably lighter as his provisions were consumed, and poured the contents of a water skin over his head, reveling in the feeling as it cascaded through his coat and down into his sweat-soaked shirt.

His journey continued past the foothills of the Unicorn Range, but the continued absence of the train weighed on his mind, and his confidence waned. Could it have left earlier than him? Perhaps it was ahead the whole time. For all he knew, it could have already reached Vanhoover.

His pace picked up, even though he didn’t consciously choose it. Even as he tried to think logically, remembering the train wasn’t scheduled to reach its destination until just before sunset, he didn’t know how long it took the train to travel through each part of the route. Perhaps it made good time through the flatlands and only slowed down when it reached the mountain pass that would lead it to Vanhoover.

Though his legs already ached, they pumped with new vigor. His abused lungs took in air in heaving gasps, and his empty stomach churned. In the distance to the east, a forest whipped by as he sprinted up hills and nearly tumbled down the other sides in his haste. He had deviated from his planned course and gone into the foothills. Though shorter than the line the railroad followed, the route was more demanding.

Eventually, his burning muscles could take no more, and he collapsed near the entrance to the pass. His heart hammered in his chest as he lay on his side, gasping for breath. He tried to reach his bag to get water and the last of his food, but his legs wouldn’t respond, and his neck was too weak to lift. Soon the world slipped out of focus and fell into darkness.



He awoke to the sound of a whistle. The train had caught up.

Panicked, he stood up too quickly and fell down again as the engine reached him. While picking himself up again, Cross Country momentarily made eye contact with the engineer. Recognition dawned in the engineer’s eyes, and they widened in shock before disappearing from view as the train moved past. His head poked out of the window to look back again, but soon pulled back inside the cab.

Cross Country took a deep breath to steady himself on his wobbly legs and started to trot. As soon as he was comfortable his pace, the trot became a canter, and the canter soon became a full gallop. He raced through the pass in pursuit of the train despite his muscles being spent, paying no mind to the way his lungs never seemed to get enough air. His vision blurred frequently, but he closed his eyes as he ran and shook his head to clear them, losing his hat in the process.

At the top of a hill, he closed his eyes at the wrong moment and tripped on a stone. His uncontrolled momentum took him down the other side of the hill in a rolling heap. At the bottom, he stood up. Though battered, bruised, exhausted, famished, and parched, he refused to stop for even a moment. Too much was riding on this race. His entire family’s future. All of his employees. The history of the Pony Express. There was no time for hesitation.

He nearly tripped against as he went straight into a gallop, but he managed to catch himself and keep pushing. Every muscle in his body felt like it was on fire, and his sides felt like knives were being driven through them. The world was an indistinct blur, but he could see the ribbon of smoke clearly enough to follow it.

He could still win. The train had to unload, and somepony had to deliver the document. He didn’t have to beat the train, just the mailpony.

Just a little farther.

The streets were crowded, but most of the ponies were getting out of his way. He could only imagine how he must have looked to them: disheveled, soaked in sweat with his unrestrained mane flailing wildly around his head, flinging droplets at anypony who got too close. Not exactly representing the Pony Express at its finest, he was certain, but if he won the race, nopony would remember that particular detail.

Almost there.

The buildings were getting taller. He had reached the commercial district. Now it was just a matter of finding the building with the right sign. He couldn’t see the letters, but he knew how long the name was, so he looked long enough at each sign to compare them with his memory of the envelope. Asking for directions probably would have helped, but nopony was coming near him, and he couldn’t tell a pony from a mailbox if they were at a distance. His voice was raspy, so calling out wasn’t an option.

He had to be close.

Finally, he saw it. A perfect match for the writing on the envelope. He moved in close to get a better look, and with it right in front of him, he could read the words.

This was it.

He staggered toward the door, clumsily pushed it open with his shoulder, and lurched toward the reception desk.

“Delivery,” he said, just before falling over. His breath came in short wheezes, and his heart smashed against his ribs with the rhythm of a train’s engine at full speed, but it didn’t matter. He had done it. He had made his delivery. He had won. He didn’t know if he actually beat the mailpony, but it didn’t matter. Even if he didn’t get there first, it was close enough to make everypony else take notice.

If the branches were reopened, they could be even faster. If they had pegasi to make the deliveries again, no train would be able to compete. He would go home in triumph, and his family’s legacy would be secured for generations to come.

All he had to do was cool off, calm down, and start the trip home. He just needed his heart to stop beating so fast. As he lay on the cool floor, it continued to pound unrelentingly. A chorus of indistinct voices surrounded him. They sounded upset. Concerned for him? There was no need. He won. He just needed to slow his heart and get some rest—maybe get something to eat and drink when he woke up.

As his eyes closed and his breathing slowed, Cross Country pulled his lips into a faint smile and let the world fade away. He slipped into unconsciousness just before his heart beat for the last time.