WESTWARD BOUND
The “Southern Overland Mail” was the first transcontinental stage
line in this country, and probably the longest continuous run ever
operated in the world. It lacked 241 miles of an even three thousand.
The terminal points were St. Louis and San Francisco. From each of
these cities a coach started at the same hour, the first setting out on
September 15, 1858. In order to avoid the stupendous snows in the Rocky
Mountains, the course was made far to the southward, by way of El Paso,
Yuma and Los Angeles. At first the schedule time was twenty-five days,
soon shortened by two days. The quickest run ever made was twenty-one
days.
This enterprise required more than a hundred Concord coaches, 1,000
horses, 500 mules, 150 drivers and 600 other employes. It led through
flaming deserts for nearly half the way, where the deadly sandstorm,
the torturing thirst and the sleepless enmity of Indians were a
constant menace to the traveler. The vast scheme was that of John
Butterfield, who did more than any other man in his peculiar conquest
of the West.
For upward of two years and a half this line was in operation. Then
came the Civil War, which compelled the course to shift farther north,
and combat the Arctic cold and snows. The new route was from St. Joe
to Placerville, the start being made from each of those points on July
1, 1861. The opening of the Pony Express was really intended to force
this change of route, so as to make it lead through Denver and Salt
Lake City. Ben Holladay had a stage route running tri-weekly to Denver
and weekly to Salt Lake. He secured the mail contract from the Missouri
River to Salt Lake, while the old southern route folks covered the run
between Salt Lake City and Sacramento.
As regards the freighting business, the figures are beyond
comprehension. The regular size of one of the freighting trains was
twenty-five “prairie schooners,” each with from six to twelve yoke
of oxen. The immense Conestoga or Pittsburg or Pennsylvania wagons
were often six feet deep and seventeen feet long, flaring out from the
bottom to the round covered top. They cost from a thousand to fifteen
hundred dollars apiece; the mules, which had to be of the best, ranged
from $500 to $1,000 a pair. Thus a ten-mule team was sometimes worth
$7,000 per wagon, without including provisions, salaries and minor
items. At one time, the single firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell had
in service 6,250 of these huge wagons, and 75,000 oxen, more than were
operating in all the rest of the United States.
Since our interest henceforward lies with the Pony Express, a few more
preliminary words must be given to that unique enterprise. It has been
said that the shortest time trip made by the Butterfield route was
twenty-one days between San Francisco and New York. The Pony Express
immediately cut this time in half, an achievement which ranks among the
greatest of the last century.[A]
[A] In 1859, Ben Holladay had sixteen large steamers running between
San Francisco and Panama, Oregon, China and Japan, operated 5,000
miles of daily stage coaches, with 500 coaches and express wagons, 500
freight wagons, 5,000 horses and mules with oxen beyond counting. His
harness alone cost $55,000 and his feed bill $1,000,000 annually. The
government paid him a million dollars each year in mail contracts. He
was greatly crippled in 1864–66 by the Indians, who burned many of his
stations and killed scores of employees. In the latter part of 1866,
Holladay sold out all his interests to Wells Fargo & Co.
In order to meet the demand upon the originators of the system it was
necessary to have nearly five hundred horses specially fitted for the
work. Along the long, dangerous route, one hundred and ninety stations
were established, and eighty sober, skilful, daring riders were hired.
They had to be of light weight, since every pound counted. At certain
stretches, where the danger was not great from Indians, the riders
carried only their revolvers and knives, in order to save the weight
of a rifle. The mail pouches, as has been stated, were not permitted
to weigh more than twenty pounds. The most famous of the Pony Express
riders was William F. Cody, or “Buffalo Bill.” This remarkable man was
found when weighed at a certain time to tip the scales at a hundred and
sixty pounds. This, according to regulations, debarred him from service
as a rider, but because of his fine qualities, an exception was made in
his case.
Each rider had to cover a third of a hundred miles on the average. He
used three ponies in doing so, but conditions often arose in which
horse and rider had greatly to exceed this amount of work.
In the month of May, 1860, a caravan of emigrants was slowly making its
way through what was then the Territory of Nebraska. It was following
the southern bank of the Platte River, and was still more than a
hundred miles from Julesburg, just over the border in Colorado. The
train was smaller than most of those which crossed the plains during
those years when the lure of gold still drew men and their families
from every quarter of the globe. The outfit consisted of six Conestoga
wagons, each with six span of oxen, no mules, eight horses and twelve
men, two-thirds of them with wives and from one to five children. In
addition to the men, two youths, not quite grown, rode with them. One
was Alden Payne and the other his African servant, Jethro Mix.
The head of the party, which was bound to California, was Abner
Fleming――a middle-aged man, with a wife, but no children. He was an old
acquaintance of Hugh Payne, the father of Alden, and willingly took the
two youths under his charge while making the long journey. They were
strong, willing to work, of cheerful minds, fine horsemen, and, as I
have said, each knew how to use a rifle.
During the months of waiting, after the departure of Mr. Payne, wife
and daughter, for the Pacific coast, our young friends had plenty of
time in which to prepare for the undertaking. Of course, they saw to it
that they had plenty of ammunition. Their rifles were muzzle-loaders,
with percussion caps, but they used the conical bullet, and Alden had
learned long before to shoot from the saddle with his horse on a run.
Jethro Mix did well while standing, but he insisted that it was too
“blamed bothersome” to hit anything when his horse was trotting or
galloping.
The extra clothing and few necessary articles were placed in the wagon
of Mr. Fleming, and, as was the custom, each vehicle carried quite a
lot of provisions, though the owners counted on shooting a good deal of
game on the way――an expectation that was not disappointed.
Among the men making up the company was only one in whom we feel
special interest. He was a massive fellow, six feet in height, of vast
frame and prodigious strength. His heavy beard was grizzled, but
under his shaggy brows the little gray eyes seemed at times to sparkle
with fire. He wore a sombrero, with a fringed hunting shirt, leggings
and moccasins, and rode a powerful, bony Indian horse, larger than
any animal in the train. The beast was not only tough and strong, but
capable of good speed and great endurance.
None of the acquaintances of this singular person had ever heard him
called by any other name than “Shagbark.” It was known that he was a
native of the Ozark region, and had spent years with the American Fur
Company, as trapper and hunter. From some cause he quarreled with those
above him, and left their employ three or four years before we find him
acting as guide for the emigrant train of Abner Fleming.
Shagbark had trapped many winters far up among the wild solitudes of
the Rockies, and was so familiar with the overland route that none
could be better qualified than he to lead a party over the plains. It
may seem odd that though he had spent so much time in the West, and was
there during the height of the gold excitement, he never passed beyond
Salt Lake City. Many of his old friends urged him to join them in a
trip to the diggings, but the stubborn old fellow shook his head. He
preferred to fight Indians and cold and hunger for the sake of a few
peltries, whose sale brought enough to support him in idleness between
trapping seasons.
Shagbark was a peculiar character. He was fond of smoking a brier wood
pipe, and often rode for hours without speaking a word to anyone, or
giving the slightest attention when addressed. Mr. Fleming had hired
him as a guide to Salt Lake, where it would be necessary to engage some
one to take his place. When the trapper was asked to name his charge he
growled:
“One hundred dollars a month in gold and found.”
“Very well; I am willing to pay you each month in advance.”
“I want it when it’s airned; ye’d be a fool to pay it afore.”
Nothing more was said on the subject. Shagbark crumpled up some dry
fragments from a plug of tobacco, in the palm of his hand, punched
them into the bowl of his pipe, switched a match along the side of his
buckskins, applied the tiny flame, and rode to the head of the company
without another word.
He always carried a long-barrelled rifle across his saddle in front,
with a formidable Colt’s revolver at his hip. A keen hunting knife was
an indispensable part of his equipment. Beyond telling Fleming and
his companions that they were sure to have plenty of trouble before
reaching Salt Lake, he made no further reference to the matter. He
generally kept some distance in advance of the company and maintained a
sharp watch of the country on all sides.
Shagbark was a man of moods. The second night after crossing the
Missouri, when the wagons had been placed in a circle, the animals
allowed to browse on the luxuriant grass, so well guarded that they
could not wander afield, he came back and sat down among the group that
were eating from the food spread on a blanket. He was so talkative that
all were astonished. He laughed, chuckled, and went so far as to relate
some of his strange experiences in the wild regions of the Northwest.
He took special notice of Alden Payne. Sitting beside him, cross-legged
on the ground, he asked the youth his name, where he was from and
how he came to be with the party heading for the other side of the
continent.
“I rather like yer looks, younker,” added the grim old trapper; “I hope
ye’ll git through right side up and scoop more gold than yer hoss can
carry.”
“I haven’t any idea of that,” replied Alden, proud that he should have
caught the pleased attention of this veteran of the plains.
The conversation went on with no particular point to it, and before it
was late, the guard was set for the night, while the others turned in
to sleep. Shagbark explained that they were not yet far enough out on
the plains to be in much danger, though he had had more than one scrap
with the redskins still farther to the east. But he insisted that a
strict watch should be set each night. The training was needed in view
of what was sure to come later on.
Having had so pleasant a chat with Shagbark, Alden naturally expected
pleasant attention from him. He waited till the man had lighted his
pipe and ridden a hundred yards ahead, when the youth twitched the
rein of Firebug and galloped up beside him.
“Good morning, Shagbark; it looks as if we shall have another fine day.”
The guide puffed his pipe without answering or so much as glancing at
the young man. Alden said a few more things, but he might as well have
addressed a boulder, for all the notice they received from the guide.
Mortified and resentful, the lad checked his mare and held her until
joined by Jethro and the others.
“He’s the queerest man I ever saw,” he said to the African; “I can’t
get a word out of him.”
“Ob course not; I found dat out de fust day, when I axed him how old he
was, what war de name ob his fader and mother, wheder he was married or
engaged and who he war gwine to wote fur as President, and some more
sich trifles.”
“I don’t wonder that he paid no attention to you. I shall let him alone
after this.”
Three nights later, however, Shagbark was overtaken again by one of
his genial moods, and won the good opinion of all by his jollity. He
chatted with Alden as if they had always been the closest of friends,
but the youth was alert. The next morning found the guide as glum as
ever. He took his place well beyond the train, with the blue whiffs
drifting first over one shoulder and then over the other, and Alden did
not intrude.
Thus matters stood on the afternoon of a bright day, when the company
was slowly making its way westward along the Platte River. The oxen
plodded on, easily dragging the heavy loads, for traveling was much
better than it would be found farther on. The country was level, and
every morning seemed to bring a deepening of color and an increase of
verdure. So long as this lasted the animals would not have to forage or
draw upon the moderate supply of hay and grain that had been brought
from the States.
Few of the men kept their saddles throughout the day. It was too
tiresome for horses and riders. The latter sometimes walked for hours,
or climbed into the lumbering wagons and rode behind the oxen. The
children, of whom there were more than a score of different ages,
delighted to play hide and seek, chasing one another over the prairie
and then tumbling into the rear of the vehicles, where their merry
shouts were smothered by the canvas covers which hid them from sight.
Alden and Jethro had tramped for two hours and were again in the
saddle, their horses on a walk. Alden was surprised when, as they
gathered up the reins, his companion heaved a profound sigh. He did
not speak, and a few minutes later repeated the inspiration. Glancing
across, the perplexed youth asked:
“What’s the matter with you, Jeth?”
“I wish I could tell,” he answered, with a more prodigious intake than
before.
“What’s to hinder you?” said the other, not a little amused.
“I’m carryin’ an orful secret.”
“Seems to weigh you down a good deal; do you wish to tell me?”
“Dat’s what I oughter do, but I hain’t got de courage, Al; it’s been
on my mind two, free times, and I started in to let you know, but I’se
afeard.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Ob _you_.”
It was hard for Alden to restrain his laughter. He had not the remotest
idea of what was in the mind of Jethro, and it must be confessed felt
little curiosity to know. Understanding the fellow as he did, he could
not believe that the “secret” which was bearing so heavily upon him,
was of any account.
“I’ll promise not to punish you, no matter what it is.”
“But you doan’ know what it am.”
“Of course; that’s why I’m inviting you to tell me.”
“But when I do tell, den what?”
“Haven’t I promised that no matter what it is, I shan’t punish you,
provided you make a clean breast of it.”
“You wouldn’t say dat if you knowed.”
“Have you killed anybody, Jethro?” asked Alden in the most solemn voice
he could assume.
“Bress your heart, no! what put dat sarcumflexous idee in your head?”
“Have you been stealing anything?”
“Neber stole even a watermillion in all my life.”
“Because, when you were round, the owners watched their property too
closely to give you a chance.”
Jethro’s eyes seemed to bulge more than ever. He said in a husky
undertone:
“Al, it am wuss dan dem two tings togeder.”
“Ah, I know, then, what it is.”
“WHAT?”
“You have been smoking cigarettes; you look pale round the gills.”
“Pshaw! what’s de matter wid you?” muttered Jethro disgustedly; “you
talk as if you didn’t hab no sense.”
“I am trying to suit my words to you. See here, Jeth, I am tired of
all this; if you wish to tell me anything, I have assured you there is
nothing to fear in the way of consequences from me. If that doesn’t
satisfy you, keep the matter to yourself.”
“If dat’s de way you talks, I’ll hab to wait a while; daresn’t unburden
my mind now; mebbe I’ll let you know to-night.”
“I don’t care enough to ask it.”
And yet, strange as it may seem, Jethro Mix _did_ carry a secret,
which, had he made it known to his friend, would have had a marked
effect upon his subsequent life.