The wagon train was calmly pressing across the wilderness in the dead of night, and yet the moon in the sky was providing a sense of reassurance for the passengers. There were five horse-drawn wagons altogether, though some were for freight holds of kitchenware and firewood and clothing, and there was one singular stagecoach in the middle of it all, but each vehicle was guarded by a driver and armed guard, or simultaneously both.

The lead wagon wobbled calmly along the terrain, providing a calm composure for the driver. Most occupants of the other wagons had tuckered in for the night time ride, aside from the lead wagon. The passengers were a trio of young girls among the clutter of scattered books, chatting all night. The driver didn’t feel bothered. She felt a soft spot for these particular kids, and couldn’t help herself but smile at their antics. Tonight was no different. She leaned against the wagon, one hand on the reins and the other on the trigger of a classic western rifle, with the brim of the hat over her piercing eyes that watched the land ahead like a hawk.

Among the rest of the wagon party, the lead driver had the most adapted scouting eyes. Claimed she could spot the smallest mouse from atop the Grand Canyon, and could haul five grown stallions up and across the Rockies.

Of course she had left behind the life of the adventurous Wild West, content with a quiet relaxation on a countryside farm, having endured enough adventure of the American Spirit. Presently, while calmly whistling, she noticed a tall pole up ahead with wires strung off ahead and behind the wagon train.

She smiled. “We’re now five miles away from Salt Lake City.”

“How’d you know tha’?” came a reply.

“Easy. I followed the ‘Singing Wire’.” The driver nodded toward the wires overhead.

“The ‘Singing Wire’?” replied a different voice, sounding in disbelief.

“That’s what the Indians call it. Not me.”

“Wha’bout the Injuns?”

She chuckled at the girl's dialect pronunciation of the word. “That’s what they called the Telegraph lines, because they said it would whistle in the wind.”

“Wow!”

“Meh, I’ve heard better.”

One particular member of the three was the kind of kid who would always hurt at anything that didn’t remotely sound ‘exciting’ or ‘cool’.

“What are you talking about, Scootaloo?” the third girl finally spoke up. “The Telegraph wires finally connected the Eastern and Western United States.”

“Yeah, but it brought an abrupt end to the Pony Express! There’s no excuse for that!”

The first girl groaned. “Look, we git it, Scoots. You wanted to be a part of the Pony Express when you were younger…”

“Only because it was the most exciting thing to have happened on my boring farmland.”

“I thou’ you said you were from the city?”

“That was before we moved to Missouri. The Pony Express messengers would always come galloping over the horizon and right past our land. I would always stay up late and wake up early just to wave to them. I remember thinking it would be the perfect life for me, until I got word of the telegraph wires, and before I knew it, those damned poles had forever spoiled a perfect view of the sunrise.”

“It wasn’t all bad. It helped my sister find her way into the fashion industry of America, or at least the designing portion of it.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us have lived in the lap of luxury, Sweetie Belle.”

“Don’ ferget, it helped ma family a ton with raisin’ money to even move us out West.”

“And I was mostly left on my own to handle household chores, whereas you had the luxury of making money from your family’s apples, Apple Bloom. Face it, life would be more exciting if it weren’t for this damned telegraph stuff.”

“What about the telephone? It can connect you across the country in ways the telegraph only dreamed of. That sounds cool,” Sweetie Belle suggested.

“If by cool then you mean convenient and nothing else, then yeah, it’s ‘cool’,” Scootaloo argued, quoting with her fingers.

The driver smiled. “You know, it was quite an adventure just setting up the telegraph wires.”

“Really? How so?” Scootaloo asked.

“It’s a story of traversing perilous and rugged terrain, mixed in a bit of sabotage and you’ve got yourself one hell of an adventure, and that was right after the Pony Express was finished, but at least I got to stretch and exercise my wings.”

“You were a part of the Pony Express?!” Scootaloo’s eyes practically glowed in the moonlight.

“You better believe it, kid.” The driver playfully ruffled the kid’s hair. “While I can outrace any standard land horse—”

“—besides Rainbow Dash!”

“—I could never master the art of shooting faster than my own shadow.”

“Shoot faster than yer own shadow?” Apple Bloom asked.

“That sounds cool!” Scootaloo beamed.

“That’s not possible,” Sweetie Belle said.

“Really?” the driver smirked. “Then how come Lucky Luke can pull it off in his own sleep?”

The mere mention of his name sent sparkles flying into Scootaloo’s fast bulging eyes. “Lucky Luke?! THE Lucky Luke?!”

“The very same, kid. Him and I used to be a part of the Pony Express, but that was only just to satisfy our own hunger for adventure.”

“YOU AND LUCKY LUKE USED TO BE A PART OF THE PONY EXPRESS?!!!”

The driver laughed. “For the time of the Pony Express itself, but the story of the Singing Wire, in my opinion, did more than satisfy my hunger for adventure.”

“Oh, please tell us! PLEEEEEEASE!!!”

“And there she goes again: fanning herself over another legend of the Wild West,” Sweetie Belle shrugged off.

“Hey!”

“Relax, kid. Your sisters are already asleep, so they wouldn’t mind it if I told you a story. It’s about the time Lucky Luke, Jolly Jumper, and I helped construct the 'Singing Wire', and it begins about twelve or so years ago, but some historical context is involved.”

Scootaloo groaned.

“I don’t like it either, kid, but this is how every Western balladeer begins their tales…”

Author's Note

Key:
Italics=thought
Bold (lowercase)=shouting
BOLD (uppercase)=screaming/town name on a sign