THE OVERLAND SERIES
ALDEN THE PONY EXPRESS RIDER
[Illustration: THE SHARP CRACK OF WEAPONS RANG OUT IN THE STILLNESS]
THE OVERLAND SERIES
ALDEN
――――THE――――
Pony Express Rider
――――OR――――
Racing for Life
――――BY――――
EDWARD S. ELLIS
Author of the Deerfoot Books,
The Arizona Series, etc.
ILLUSTRATED BY
EDWIN J. PRITTIE
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
COPYRIGHT 1909, BY
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. INTRODUCTORY 9
II. A QUARREL 24
III. WESTWARD BOUND 39
IV. THE DANGER CLOUD 54
V. ON GUARD 69
VI. ABORIGINAL CUNNING 84
VII. JUST IN TIME 99
VIII. THE ATTACK 114
IX. OLD ACQUAINTANCES 129
X. A HUNT 145
XI. A DISAPPOINTMENT 159
XII. A NOT UNCOMMON INCIDENT 176
XIII. “THAT’S JUST LIKE HIM” 191
XIV. AN ALARMING SITUATION 204
XV. NOW FOR THE MAIL STATION 219
XVI. CAUSE AND EFFECT 234
XVII. AT THE STATION 249
XVIII. OUTWITTED 264
XIX. A BLESSING IN DISGUISE 279
XX. A STRANGE PROCEEDING 293
XXI. A SETBACK 307
XXII. JETHRO’S SECRET AND WHAT FOLLOWED 320
RACING FOR LIFE
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
Never did the town of St. Joseph, in the State of Missouri, pass
through more stirring excitement than on the afternoon of April 16,
1860.
Every man, woman and child seemed to feel the pulsing in the air.
Most of the people were on the street, though hundreds of mothers and
daughters were at the upper windows, on the alert that something which
was expected should not elude them. The men talked together in earnest
voices, sometimes moving restlessly over the pavements, glancing at
their watches and saying, in those hushed, eager tones which often
accompany tense emotion:
“It’s pretty near time! I hope he won’t be late.”
“No fear for Alec; he’s _always_ on time.”
“Poor fellow! he doesn’t look strong,” remarked a sympathizer.
“Alec Carlyle is one of those chaps that you can’t judge by looks;
there isn’t a better horseman west of the Alleghanies.”
St. Joseph in those days was not a large town. There was room to hold
in comfort most of the population on Third Street, and it was there
that nearly all of them had gathered on this soft spring afternoon. Had
you been a member of the crowd you would have noticed that the eyes of
nearly every one were turned expectantly toward the one-story, brick
express office on the east side of the street, between Felix and Edmond
Streets. Something was going on inside of that modest structure, but
as yet it was veiled from the public. Several men and boys who stood
nearest the building tried to peep through the windows, but, unable to
do so, intently listened. All that they heard was the occasional stamp
of a horse’s feet, and the confused murmur of voices. But it was not
hard for them to imagine the scene within.
It was about four o’clock, when a small cannon boomed from the side of
the street, two or three doors distant. The report was a signal to the
ferry boat to come across from the Ellwood side of the river and await
a certain horseman who would soon arrive at the bank.
Only a few minutes had passed, when from within the stables near the
express office, some one vigorously shoved open the doors. At the same
instant, a wiry pony, with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils and fine
muscles aquiver, made a tremendous leap which carried him almost to the
middle of the street, and heading toward the river, plunged away under
the prick of the spur, on a dead run.
Horse and rider made a fine picture. Silver mounted trappings decorated
both. The man might have been mistaken for a circus performer, in
his brilliant uniform, with plated horn, pistol, scabbard and belt,
gay, flower-worked leggings, jingling spurs and fine boots with
high heels, such as cowmen and rustlers affect. He was of slight
figure, dark mustache, flashing hazel eyes, flowing hair and closely
compressed lips, and he sat his steed with perfect grace. He wore the
broad-brimmed sombrero that seemed scarcely affected by the gale which
his animal created. He did not look to the right or left, nor notice
the cheers, shouts and waving of hats and hands. He peered grimly
ahead, as if his life depended upon his reaching the ferry without a
second’s loss of time.
As the pony shot like a cannon ball out of the doors of the stable
and sped with arrowy swiftness down the street, the two men with whom
he had been in consultation within the structure stepped forward and
watched him. They smiled, though there was a serious expression on each
face, for both felt they were looking upon an epoch-making event. And
it was Alexander Carlyle, the superb horseman, who was making it.
Neither of the couple took their eyes from him as long as he was within
sight. One was Ben Fickland, superintendent of the stage line to
Denver, known as “Pike’s Peak Express,” the uncle of the horseman. The
other was Mr. Russell of the firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell, who had
been running for years a daily coach from the Missouri River to Salt
Lake City. The two were thrilled not so much by what they saw as by
their knowledge of what it meant.
On the afternoon that I have named, the first “Pony Express” left St.
Joseph, Missouri, on the long westward trip to San Francisco. The four
small leather sacks holding the mail were each six by twelve inches,
one being fastened at the front and the other at the rear of the
saddle, so that the rider sat between them. The pouches were impervious
to rain, and for further protection, the letters were wrapped in oiled
silk and then sealed. The pouches themselves were locked, not to be
opened until they reached their destination. It was ordered from the
first that they and their contents should never weigh more than twenty
pounds. A rider might carry several hundred letters on each trip, for
all were written on the finest of tissue paper. The postage at first
was five dollars for each letter, later reduced as the building of
the telegraph line progressed, to one dollar an ounce. In addition to
this enormous postage, the merchants who were awaiting the important
missives joined in paying the carrier a liberal fee, when he maintained
the schedule or made quicker time than usual.
Mr. Russell had been persuaded by Senator Gwin of California to start
the Pony Express. He had made an arrangement with the railways between
New York and St. Joseph to run a fast train; the Hannibal and St.
Joseph Railroad used a special engine, and the boat which made the
crossing of the Missouri was held so that not a minute would be lost in
transferring the mail. A piercing whistle notified the horseman that
the boat was waiting for him.
About the same time, Harry Roff, mounted on a mettled half-breed
broncho, galloped eastward from Sacramento. He, too, did his part
in opening one of the most romantic episodes in the history of our
country. Two sets of mail bags were approaching each other from points
two thousand miles apart, and there were times when this approach was
at the astounding speed of forty and even fifty miles an hour! The
average daily rate was two hundred and fifty miles a day, but where
everything was favorable, or when an express rider was fleeing from
the vengeful red men, his pony struck a gait of twenty-five miles and
maintained it, when an untrained horse would have dropped in his tracks.
When Harry Roff dashed out from Sacramento, he made one change and
covered the first twenty miles in fifty-nine minutes. He changed
again at Folsom and headed for Placerville, at the foot of the Sierra
Nevada range, fifty-five miles away. At that point, he found a rider
awaiting him, who, quickly shifting the two packed mail pouches, was
off with the speed of the wind. Thus from point to point and relieving
one another at comparatively regular distances, the entire run of 185
miles was made in a little more than fifteen hours. Be it remembered
that in crossing the western summit of the mountains the horse had to
wallow through thirty feet of snow. Not only that, but most of the
distance was through a hostile Indian country, where a slight mistake
on the part of the horseman was likely to prove fatal to him. There was
no saying what boulder or rock sheltered a crouching redskin waiting
exultingly with bow and arrow or rifle for the horseman to come within
range. A white man was legitimate game for the warrior, as much as
was the deer or bear, and the sentiments of the rider were the same
regarding the warrior. One rider covered the last 130 miles of the
western division, from old Camp Floyd to Salt Lake City, where his
partner from the east met and exchanged mails with the comrade going
toward the Missouri.
After the rider from St. Joseph had reached the river side, he passed
upon the waiting ferry boat, and entering a room prepared for him,
changed his fancy costume for what might be called a business suit.
Hardly had the boat touched the other shore, when the eager pony was
off again on a dead run.
It is worth remembering in these later days, that the route of the
Pony Express westward was that which was followed by the Mormons in
1847, and by the emigrants a year or two later when on their way to
California in quest of gold. Crossing the Missouri, the messenger
veered slightly to the southwest, holding to the course until he struck
the old military road, forty-odd miles distant, where he shifted to
the northwest and crossed the Kickapoo Reservation. Then in succession
he passed through Grenada, Logchain, Seneca, Ash Point, Guittard’s,
Marysville, Hollenburg, thence following Little Blue Valley to Rock
Creek, Big Sandy, Liberty Farm, across prairies to Thirty-Two Mile
Creek, over the divide, sand hills and plains to Platte River, and then
westward and up that valley to Fort Kearny.
When the Pony Express began operations, the messengers from St. Joe
rode to the station of Guittard, 125 miles away. This was done every
week, until two months later the service was made semi-weekly, when
the first rider finished his run at Seneca, 80 miles out.
Fort Kearny was an old post in Nebraska. It is now a thriving town and
the capital of the county of the same name. The trail from this point
led westward for 200 miles along the Platte River to Julesburg, in the
northeastern corner of Colorado, then to Fort Laramie, whose gray ruins
stand to-day in southeastern Wyoming, fifty miles west of Cheyenne.
Next, over the foothills to the northwest, and through the famous South
Pass of the Rocky Mountains, by Fort Bridger to Salt Lake City.
This completed the long ride over the eastern division. From Salt
Lake, the express rider strained every nerve to Fort Churchill, 50
miles away, thence to Rush Valley, or old Camp Floyd, Deep Creek,
Ruby Valley, Smith’s Creek, Fort Churchill, over the Sierra Nevada
Mountains, and so on through points that have been already named, to
Sacramento, whence the mail was carried by boat to San Francisco.
A glance at the map will show that this long run――not quite two
thousand miles from St. Joe――was across and through the wildest
portion of our continent. Rugged mountains, inaccessible to the
ordinary traveler, had to be crossed, and only he who was familiar
with the route could do it. Tumultuous torrents had to be forded or
swum, where horse and rider were often hurled far down stream before
the animal could clamber up the rocky bank on the other side. Those
desolate solitudes were swept by furious storms of sleet, hail and
rain, vast valleys were turned into swirling lakes, and the driving
snow often blinded horse and rider, so he could not see twenty feet
beyond the nose of his animal.
There were stretches of plain where the panting pony and his master
could not get a drop of water for hours. When they plunged into the
mountains in the depth of winter, the temperature was often far below
zero, but the undaunted rider kicked away the snow on the lee side of
some boulder, kindled a fire of dead limbs, when he could find such
sparse fuel, but more often he had nothing of that nature. The tough
little pony was wrapped about by his blanket, the master inclosed his
iron body in another, or partly in the same one, lay down and slept,
with never a dream to disturb his rest. But he could not forget his
duty, which was so impressed on his mind that he awoke to the minute
he had set for awaking. Probably the first faint streakings of morning
were showing in the east, when he flung his blanket aside, remounted
and dashed off again.
It will be understood that when the Pony Express was organized, it was
necessary to establish relief stations at intervals of a dozen miles or
so. Now and then these were separated by greater distances, when it was
impossible to have it otherwise. Between the stations, the rider kept
his horse at the highest possible speed. The average time scheduled
was ten or twelve miles an hour, but where the route was favorable,
the ponies held a speed of twenty and sometimes of twenty-five miles.
Thus, as has been stated, the rider from the east and he from the west
thundered toward each other at the incredible rate of fifty miles an
hour――equal to the speed of an express railway train.
There were portions of the trail where no rider dared show himself and
pony during the daytime, because of the Indians on the alert for his
scalp. The intrepid fellow and animal remained in hiding till night.
When darkness came the man stealthily re-saddled his horse, led him
out from the covert in which they had been crouching, climbed silently
into the saddle and resumed his headlong ride.
The late Major Chorpenning, remembered as one of the most prominent
of freighters across the plains, told me that more than once he had
labored through the mountains in the depth of winter when the snow
under his feet was sixty feet deep! He was in Salt Lake City, talking
with Brigham Young, when word came that the mail rider westward had
been killed by Indians. The fiery-tempered Major bounded to his feet
and swore he would follow up the rider, recover the mail and carry
it to Sacramento. When he refused to take any companion with him,
President Young forbade him to go, insisting that it would be sure
death.
“I’m serving the United States and not _you_,” replied the Major,
laying his hand on his revolver; “I don’t think it will be healthy for
either you or any one else to try to stop me.”
So it was the daring Major rode out of Salt Lake City alone. Being
perfectly familiar with the route, he made good progress. He had
decided in his mind where the rider had met his death, and there sure
enough he came upon the body. It was shockingly mutilated, and it was
evident the man had made a brave defense. Chorpenning found his watch,
which strangely enough had not been taken away by his slayers, and
within a rod of where he lay were the mail pouches, unharmed. The pony,
of course, was gone.
The Major strapped the pouches in place and resumed his ride westward.
“From that hour,” said he, “until I came in sight of Carson City, it
seemed to me I was playing hide and seek with the Indians. The first
thing that caught my eye was what looked like a crow sitting on the
edge of a rock only a little way in front. A second glance showed that
it was the topknot of a redskin, who dropped down before I could draw
bead on him. He wasn’t the only one of his kind in the neighborhood,
for I caught glimpses of several, and believe I winged one of them.
“Having found secure shelter, I waited till night before moving on
again. For the following three days and nights I did not do a mile
of traveling when the sun was shining. As it was, I pushed so hard
that, being lucky in catching the boat at Sacramento, I reached San
Francisco several hours ahead of schedule time. The people would not
believe my story at first. I remember that the famous mountaineer
Kit Carson was one of the doubters, but when convinced of what I had
done, he declared it the most remarkable ride ever made by any man in
crossing the plains.”
Since this chapter is introductory and intended merely to clear the
ground for what follows, I shall close it with an account of the most
wonderful ride in the history of the West. It took place in 1851, and
the hero was F. X. Aubrey, who made a wager of $1,000 that he would
ride alone from Santa Fè, New Mexico, to Independence, Missouri, in six
days. The distance is not quite 800 miles.
With the grim resolve to win or die in the attempt, Aubrey sent half a
dozen of his toughest and fleetest ponies ahead, and had them stationed
at different points, to be used by him as he came up to where they were
waiting. He galloped out of Santa Fè at a sweeping pace, smilingly
bowing in response to the cheers of his friends who had gathered to see
him start. Several undertook to accompany him part of the way, but his
pace was so tremendous that he soon left all behind. He did not stop
for rest at any point of that terrible ride. Arriving at a station, he
halted just long enough to change horses, when he was off again at the
same furious speed. He snatched a few bits of bread and meat, and ate
them without drawing rein. Nature could not be denied, and he must have
slept for hours at a time while automatically spurring his animal and
holding his seat in the saddle.
The terrific strain killed several of his best horses, but he dashed
into Independence, just five days and nineteen hours after leaving
Santa Fè. He had to be carried into the hotel, where he lay in a stupor
for forty-eight hours. But for his superb constitution and health, he
must have succumbed. In the course of a few days, however, he fully
recovered, having given an exhibition which will stand for many a day
as a record beyond the reach of any horseman of the plains.