AT THE STATION
Dick the pony held his swift gallop for a half mile farther, when he
debouched into an open country, similar in many respects to that which
he had left behind him. While it could not be called level, it showed
no steep inclines and the masses of rocks and heaps of boulders were
readily flanked by the superb courser.
The plucky animal let himself out immediately and the admiring Alden
still allowed the reins to lie on his neck.
“You need no orders from me, old fellow,” said he; “when the history
of the Pony Express is written, more credit should be given to you and
your comrades than to some of the men who sat in the saddles.”
The ridge which caused Alden anxiety had been crossed, and now when he
looked back he traced the outlines of the vague column of smoke that
was slow in dissolving in the summer air. Surely nothing more was
to be feared from that source. No matter how well mounted a party of
Indians might be, none could overhaul the peerless Dick, whose graceful
legs were again doubling under him with marvelous rapidity and carrying
him and his burden as an eagle bears its eaglet on its broad back.
“Now, if I should have a flat sail on my right and left like a kite,”
mused Alden, giving rein to his whimsical fancy, “this speed would lift
us clear and we should skim through the air like a swallow. We should
have to come down now and then, when the hoofs would give us another
flip upward and away we should go. I’ll make the suggestion when I get
the chance.”
Suddenly he caught sight of a buck coursing in front. Where he came
from he could not guess. Dick must have headed for him without either
being aware of the fact, until the horse was almost upon the creature.
The latter kept up his wild flight for several hundred yards when he
was terrified to find that man and horse were gaining upon him. Then
the buck showed a gleam of sense by bolting to the right. He made
astonishing bounds and skimmed with arrowy speed, but it was less than
that of his pursuer. Was there any creature of the plains which could
surpass the half-bred mustang? No.
Alden wondered whether the pony would change his course and press
the pursuit of the game, as almost any one of his species would have
done in similar circumstances. But Dick did not vary a hair until he
confronted another pile of rocks. Instead of flanking them on the same
side with the buck, he whisked in the other direction. What was a whole
herd of deer to him? He carried the United States mail and everything
must give way to that.
From the moment that Alden saw the buck bounding in front of him, he
could have brought him down without checking the pony. But he did not
raise his rifle. To have fired would have been as wanton an act as the
slaughter of the hundreds of thousands of buffaloes during the few
years that followed.
He was convinced that Dick was again going at the rate of twenty-five
miles an hour. He would not have been surprised had the speed been
even greater. That, however, was hardly possible. Again the still air
rose to a gale and the velvety thumping of the delicate hoops was
bewildering in its swiftness. He sat firmly in the saddle, leaning
slightly forward and now and then jerking down his hat which was in
danger of being whisked off by the wind.
“What’s the use, Dick?” asked Alden. “Why not take things easier? But
to do that would be to rob you of your enjoyment. Helloa! there’s
something new!”
He was coursing over the undulating ground, when his gaze rested on
a building half a mile away and in the line of Dick’s run. It was a
low, flat structure of logs, such as is often seen on the frontier. At
the rear was a covered inclosure and from the rough, stone chimney,
built at one end on the outside of the main building, rose a spiral of
smoke――proof that the cabin had occupants.
“It’s the station!” exclaimed the rider the next moment. He observed
three men standing in front, with a saddled horse near them. Evidently
they were watching his approach.
It was the rule among Pony Express Riders that upon arriving within a
half mile of a station, they should proclaim the fact by giving the
“coyote yell.” This was notice to their friends to have a fresh horse
ready, for it must be borne in mind that the minutes were precious. As
the panting animal dashed up, his rider sprang from the saddle before
he had fairly halted and ready hands helped secure it to the back of
the waiting horse. The messenger leaped like an acrobat into place,
caught up the reins, touched with his spurs the flanks of the animal,
which instantly responded with a bound, and was off on a headlong run.
Often the rider snatched up the lunch that was waiting him, and ate
while his horse was going at top speed. He shouted back to his cheering
friends, with whom he had exchanged a few hurried words and the next
minute was beyond hearing.
Such was the rule while the rider was making his run. Generally the
stations were twelve or fifteen miles apart, and the ride of a one
man was thirty or forty miles. This compelled two changes such as
described, after starting on his furious race. At the end of his
“stunt,” the new man, freshly mounted was awaiting him. The pause after
the arrival of the courier was just long enough for the saddle and mail
pouches to be transferred, when the relief sped away for the next
station, and if all went well, completed his task in schedule time.
The stations as has been stated were scattered over a line nearly two
thousand miles long, through the wildest and most dangerous section of
our continent. This distance had to be covered in eight days, which
was an average of two hundred and fifty miles a day, the like of which
had never been known before and probably will never be known again.
We recall that the number of these stations between Sacramento and
St. Joseph, Missouri, was a hundred and ninety. No regular intervals,
however, could be established, for a great deal depended upon the
physical nature of the country. From what has been already said, it
will be understood that a horseman often had to do double duty because
of some accident to his partner. Thus more than one Express Rider
covered two and in a few instances three hundred miles never leaving
the saddle except for a minute or two when changing horses. While the
system was wonderful in its completeness, many breaks were inevitable.
The three men who were standing in front of the squat cabin were Tom
Harper, Tim Jenkins, and Gideon Altman. A brother of the last named
was absent hunting game for the larder of the establishment. The first
named――Harper――was wiry and slight of frame, while the other two were
of ordinary stature. Harper was a rider, but the weight of his comrades
shut them out, except in case of necessity.
Dick Lightfoot who had reached his “last station” a dozen miles to the
eastward, was due at the present place in time to meet his brother,
whom Alden encountered at the time of his flurry with the bear. The men
at the station knew that some accident must have befallen Dick and were
therefore on the watch, when they descried a stranger coming toward
them on the pony which they recognized as belonging to the missing
rider.
Dick was in a lather and his sides heaved. Alden did not dismount but
looked down in the faces of the group who scrutinized him keenly. Tim
Jenkins, massive and heavily bearded, acted as speaker for his comrades.
“Who are you?” he demanded of Alden, who gave his name.
“Where’s Dick Lightfoot?”
“He was killed by Indians eight or ten miles back.”
“How do you come to be mounted on his pony?”
There was an aggressiveness in the tone and manner of Jenkins, but
Alden ignored it. The circumstances warranted suspicion. So he told
his story as succinctly as he could. The three listened closely, and
must have felt the truth of the words of the youth whose looks and
personality pleased them.
“You’ve got grit, young man,” commented Jenkins; “did you have any idea
of the risks you had to run?”
“I saw Alexander Carlyle the first rider start from St. Joe last April,
and on our way across the plains I have exchanged a few words with
others. I knew it wasn’t any child’s play.”
“You’re right――it isn’t. Poor Dick! it will be a sad blow to his
brother Sam. I suppose your friends will look after the body when they
come up to it?”
“There’s no doubt of that; I sent word to Shagbark, our guide, who
would do it without any such request from me.”
“Shagbark, eh? So _he’s_ your guide; well, there isn’t a better one in
the West than he; that’s what Kit Carson has said many a time and he
knows. See here, my young friend, what’s the use of your staying in
that saddle? Your pony doesn’t go any farther.”
“But I should like to do so.”
“Tom Harper is here to take the place of any chap that gets knocked
out.”
“Why not let me complete the run?”
The three men looked in one another’s faces and smiled significantly.
“Do you really want to try it?”
“Nothing can suit me better.”
“You have never been over the route.”
“I have never been over the run just finished; I left everything to the
pony and he did not go astray.”
Alden did not think it worth while to tell of his adventure in the
gorge while coming through the ridge.
“You’re correct as to the ponies; all of them have been over the road
long enough to become familiar with it. What do you say, Tom?” asked
Jenkins, turning to the relief rider.
“Well, I ain’t partic’lar,” replied the wiry fellow, who despite his
youthful looks, was a veteran of the plains; “I expected to ride, if
anything happened to Dick, but this young chap seems to have set his
heart on it and I don’t want to spoil his fun.”
Alden’s eyes sparkled. Having begun the run, almost from the beginning,
he was ambitious to complete it.
“Then it’s settled,” said he, dropping from the saddle, and stepping
across to the waiting animal.
“Hold on a minute,” interposed Jenkins; “being as you ain’t a reg’lar
you needn’t be as strict as they have to be.”
“What do you mean?” asked the puzzled Alden fearing that he was to be
subjected to some vexatious handicap.
“It’s a good fifteen miles to the next station and most of the way is
so rough that your horse will have to walk; there are a few stretches
where you can let him out, but, for all that, you won’t reach the
station till well into the night.”
“What of that?”
“You need rest.”
“I’m not tired,” persisted Alden, afraid that the men would change
their minds.
“That may be, for you haven’t had much of a ride yet, but it is nearly
dark; you must eat supper with us.”
“You are kind, but have we time? The mail is already late.”
Jenkins threw back his head and laughed. His mirth was so unrestrained
that his comrades and even Alden smiled in sympathy.
“If you want a job I’ll recommend you to Colonel Majors. I saw from the
way you rode when you came in sight that you understand the business.”
“How much are we behind the schedule?”
Jenkins drew out a big silver watch whose ticking could be heard by
all. He squinted one eye and studied the figures.
“A little more than an hour: it’s no hanging matter if you make it two
or three hours more.”
The action of the man reminded Alden that he had the watch and papers
of Dick Lightfoot in his possession. He took them out and explaining
the matter, handed them to Jenkins.
Had the youth been given his choice, he would have resumed his ride
without another minute’s delay, but to refuse the invitation might
offend. Moreover, he was hungry.
“Your advice is good and I am thankful to eat with you.”
Four men made their quarters at this lonely cabin. One of them was an
extra rider for emergencies, while all, as has been said, could perform
the duty if required. Such supplies as they needed were sent to them
by their employers. Russell, Majors & Waddell were the proprietors,
who made their headquarters in the east, while Bolivar Roberts was
superintendent of the western division. In Carson City, Nevada, he
engaged the fifty or sixty riders needed, and he and the firm looked
carefully after their employees.
Since nearly all the stations were in the midst of superb hunting
grounds, the men at the remote posts obtained a large part of their
food by means of their guns. It was a pleasant variation of the
monotony, and the spice of danger from prowling redskins gave zest to
their enjoyment.
Dick having been unsaddled was turned out to graze with three others.
In the inclosure at the rear of the cabin, these were gathered at night
or during stormy weather, and one or two were always in readiness for
the regular riders. The horse which Alden was to ride for the next
station was allowed to wait, saddled and bridled, and ready to start
the moment called upon.
Alden followed his friend into the cabin, with Harper and Altman at
his heels. Leaning his rifle against the logs by the door, he glanced
around.
The dwelling could not have been of simpler structure. The single room
was some twenty feet square. At one end was an old fashioned fireplace,
in the middle of which stood a small cooking stove, a single joint of
pipe pushing up into the chimney. A few simple utensils hung around
on spikes, and a goodly pile of wood was always at hand. A barrel of
flour, a big can of coffee, another of sugar and smaller boxes of
spices and condiments were disposed of with more regard for convenience
than appearance. At one side of the room were four bunks, with blankets
and several buffalo robes. There were a bench, a table made of planks,
four stools and clothing hanging on nails driven into the logs. The
only picture on the walls was a woodcut from a newspaper, showing the
homely features of Abraham Lincoln who had been nominated a short time
before by the newly-born Republican party, for the presidency of the
United States.
Although the weather now was balmy, there were times when it raged like
a hurricane from the Arctic regions. Therefore the logs were thick and
the crevices between them filled with clay. The heavy planking on the
floor was wedged closely with a view of shutting off uncomfortable
drafts.
Only one door was sawed in front. It was made of massive planking and
swung on big iron hinges. All round the four sides were windows, none
of which had panes. They were too narrow for the slimmest man that
ever lived to squeeze through. When the storms beat against one side
of the cabin, the openings there were closed by means of small, wooden
shutters, turning on hinges of leather.
In the event of Indian attack――which impended at almost any hour of the
day or night――these loopholes were useful to the defenders. At other
times, they helped in the way of ventilation and the lighting of the
apartment.
The meal was ready when Alden Payne was waved by Jenkins to one of the
stools at the side of the table, which consisted of three unplaned
boards. A huge roast of venison, done to a turn, and resting on a
big tin platter was the main dish. There were thick slices, too, of
well-baked bread, though nothing in the way of butter or vegetables.
But Jenkins filled each large cup from the capacious pot simmering on
the stove, and the fragrant odor was delightful to the keen appetites.
Condensed milk answered well for the real article, and few meals were
more palatable than that eaten by Alden at this mail station in the
wilds of the West. Right glad was he that his host had insisted upon
his tarrying for that purpose. Nothing could have braced him better for
the task before him.