regiment would take him, and besides, his mother, who was in feeble health
and who had all the family to look out for, begged and prayed him to stay
at home, as she said it was more important for him, the man of the family,
to watch over them than to put his services at his country's disposal. The
boy wanted to go. It was a natural contingency for a young man brought up
as he had been brought up. Yet he gave up his ambition for his mother.
Bill promised his mother that he would never go to war as long as she was
alive, but that as he must do something to earn money, he had to go to
work at once. His chance came with an opportunity to join a group of men
who will be read about as long as there is any history of the United
States. Their work only lasted a few years, but it was so extraordinary,
so exciting, so near to the ideal of a life of adventure, that it stands
out more important than many an era in this country's history which had
greater results and extended over a longer time.
The firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell, who have already been mentioned,
increased in importance because they were the only men who carried out on
a large scale successfully the business of transporting freight across the
desert and the mountains to California. But as California grew--and it
grew very fast in a few years--there came a demand for a speedier method
of communication between the Western frontier in the East and the Eastern
frontier in the West. Those two thousand miles of waste land consumed a
month or more when transportation was by means of bull trains. It did not
matter very much with freight, but in the transportation of money, of
letters, of business arrangements that time grew to be too long for
advancing civilization.
The great freight transporters, therefore, conceived the idea of getting
up a scheme for carrying a few letters at a much faster rate from St.
Joseph to San Francisco by means of a single horseman riding a pony at
full speed. Their idea was that a man should mount a swift pony, well
tried for his endurance before starting; that this man should ride fifteen
miles straight out into the desert, and that at the end of the fifteen
miles there should be a station, a house with a couple of men in it, who
would have another pony ready. The horseman was to ride up to this shanty,
jump to the ground with his bag of letters, immediately jump on the fresh
pony, and rush along another fifteen miles to a similar station. Some of
these stations were in settlements, some were in towns, but most of them
were on the bleak prairies or in the hills of the Rocky Mountains. The
trail was the same as that used by the freight bull trains. The bull-train
stations were of course used, but it was necessary to increase the number
of stations. Some of the divisions were longer than others. But the
average was a distance of forty-five miles; that is, the man who rode one
of these divisions of the two thousand miles, rode fifteen miles on one
pony, fifteen miles on the second, and fifteen miles on the third. Then he
began his return trip of forty-five miles. The longest division was two
hundred and fifty miles.
Sometimes the country was open and moderately easy for riding. Sometimes
it was up rocky gulches or through forests where the riding was hard. It
required in the men the hardest kind of physique and endurance, in the
ponies surefootedness as well as swiftness. Sometimes in order to keep up
the schedule the men were obliged to cover twenty-five miles in an hour on
flat country, in order to make up for slower going in the hills. They
received about one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, which was very
high pay. But that gave the promoters of the scheme their choice among the
best men of the frontier.
The letters were carried in mail pouches or bags that hung over the
saddle, and no rider was allowed to carry more than twenty pounds. In
order to get as much mail within the twenty pounds as possible letters
were written on tissue paper. Whatever money was carried was in paper, and
one Eastern newspaper printed a special edition on tissue paper for use
only on this famous Pony Express. So in the twenty pounds there were
hundreds of letters. In fact, the paper was so thin that even a hundred
letters would not occupy a space larger than that occupied by an ordinary
monthly magazine to-day. The mail pouches were waterproof, and once locked
at St. Joseph, Missouri, they were not opened until they were delivered in
Sacramento, California, two thousand miles away.
It seems almost incredible, but that distance was covered in a time that
was extraordinarily short for those days, when one remembers that the
whole journey was made by running ponies. It was an exciting time when the
first pony was ready and saddled at the offices of Russell, Majors &
Waddell, in St. Joseph. A large crowd gathered long before the appointed
time for starting, and when the pony was brought forth he was greeted with
cheers. At the exact moment a frontiersman came out of the office, threw
the pouch over the saddle, leaped on the pony, and started off at the top
speed the pony was capable of, followed by the cries and cheers of the
crowd. This first trip was started on the 3d of April, 1860. That journey,
where the mail bags were thrown across the ponies and carried by a number
of riders, took ten days to do the two thousand miles. It was an average
of two hundred miles a day, or between eight and nine miles an hour for
every hour of the twenty-four for ten days, including all stops and all
delays. But in a short time the average trip was made regularly in nine
days, and the fastest trip was made when President Lincoln's inaugural
address was carried over the two thousand miles in seven days and
seventeen hours.
When Cody was looking for work he conceived the idea of enlisting as one
of the Pony Express riders, and he went to the office of the company and
asked if he could not be one of the riders. They told him that he was too
young, as he was then only a little over fourteen. But he insisted he
could do it, and finally they gave him the shortest trip, a ride of
thirty-five miles with three changes of ponies.
When the time came for him to be ready for the first trip the boy was
outside of his station with his pony ready, looking across the prairie for
the rider who was to bring the mail pouches from the next station. Close
upon time the man appeared. Drawing up to the station he jumped off, threw
the bag to Cody, who in turn leaped into his saddle with it and started on
his fifteen miles. He reached his first station on time, dismounted, and
mounted a fresh pony which was standing ready, and started on the second
relay. And so with the third, until he finished his thirty-five miles and
threw the bag to the next man, who was waiting. And within an hour he was
ready again for the rider coming from the direction of San Francisco. As
soon as he had the mail he mounted a fresh pony and rode back over the
same thirty-five miles.
Thus the boy did seventy miles every day for three months. But endurance
was not the only quality the rider must have. Through most of the whole
route there was constant danger of a "hold up" either from Indians or
from outlaws, who knew that the bag frequently contained money. He must be
as alert and as good a frontiersman in the knowledge of Indian warfare as
he was a good horseman. It was some time before the boy had any incident
other than the ordinary episodes of the long ride. However, the time came.
He was riding as fast as his pony could go through a ravine one day when
there sprang out in front of him in the narrow track a man with his rifle
at his shoulder. Young Cody knew enough to know that the man had what was
called the "drop" on him. There was nothing to do but pull up and await
events. It was a white man--a desperado of the plains. He told the boy
that he meant him no harm, but that he wanted the money in the bag. Cody
could do nothing but sit quietly on his pony. But always alert, always on
the watch for every opportunity, in a situation that, young as he was, he
had been in many times before, he kept a keen eye on the man while
appearing to submit. The outlaw was careless enough to approach the pony
from the front, and as he got within reach the young horseman by a trick
that he had used many times before made the pony rear so suddenly that his
fore foot struck the man in the head and knocked him senseless.
Bill knew that somewhere in the vicinity the highwayman had a horse. He at
once dismounted, bound the man hand and foot while he was insensible, and
then began to hunt for the horse in the bushes. He found him a few rods
away, and when he got back his opponent had come to. Unbinding his legs,
Bill forced him to mount his own horse, and then strapped him on. Although
the young Pony Expressman was late at the next station, the fact that he
had brought in a robber and had saved his mail pouch was quite sufficient
excuse for the delay of the mail that day.
At the end of a few months the work proved too severe for him to continue,
and he was laid off as supernumerary--that is, a man who could be called
on to ride in any emergency. It was not long, however, before he made
application for another job on the Pony Express. He went to Fort Laramie
and looked up a man named Slade, who was agent of the line there. Slade
told him he was too young, but on hearing his name he slapped him on the
shoulder and said that he had heard of him before and that he would give
him a job. This run was from Red Buttes to a place called Three Crossings,
and the distance was seventy-six miles. The boy started running this route
regularly each day, and for a time had no unusual experience. One day,
however, having made the run out of seventy-six miles, he found, when he
arrived at his last station, that the man who was supposed to carry the
bag to the next station, a distance of eighty-five miles, had been wounded
by Indians. Bill offered to go on and carry the bag over that man's
section, and as there was no one else to do it he was sent on. This second
division covered a distance of one hundred and sixty-one miles. That made
one continuous route of three hundred and twenty-two miles out and back
without stopping. In that time he rode twenty-one ponies and made the
longest trip ever made by a Pony Express rider.
It was while on this route that one day he suddenly came upon a man who
appeared from behind a large rock as Cody passed. There was no time for
thought, and Bill immediately reached for his revolver, but upon seeing
him the man dropped his rifle and came forward. He turned out to be a
famous character of the plains named "California Joe," and on seeing the
young boy he immediately asked him if he were not Bill Cody. Then the
frontiersman told him that a little way back on the road he had what he
called "a little misunderstandin' with two men, and now I has to plant
'em."
It was only a little later that, as Bill left one of the stations, the
boss called to him to look out, there were reports of Indians in the
vicinity. Cody said he would, and started away at breakneck pace. Here
again, as many times before and after, the boy's instinctive knowledge and
immediate perception of anything, no matter how small, that was unusual or
unnatural on the plains saved his life. Always keeping a keen watch, he
suddenly saw above the top of a pile of rocks something that he knew was
not put there by nature. It was a little speck of color, and long before
any average human being would have seen it at all he knew that it was a
feather in the headdress of an Indian in war paint. He did not stop or
turn. He kept on at his furious pace until he was within rifle shot. Then
ducking behind his pony, he turned him instantly off the trail, and at the
same moment a puff of smoke from behind the rock showed that his guess had
been true. The bullet went where the rider should have been, but it missed
by the swerve which he had caused the pony to make. Out sprang two
warriors, and a party of Indians appeared from a little distance further
away. And now it became a ride for life. As he approached the end of the
valley, which narrowed into a point, he saw that some of the Indians on
the slopes were riding down to cut off his track. He watched his
opportunity, and luckily for him those Indians had no rifles. He saw them
fit the arrows to their bows, waited for the right moment, and just before
the leading Indian fired his arrow the boy shot him with his revolver.
When he reached the next station he found that his pony had two arrows
sticking in its flesh.
At this time the Pony Express had to be stopped for some time on account
of the number of Indians who were lying in wait all along the trails to
capture the riders, and so the boy was once more out of a job.
He became a supernumerary again, and as there were days in which he had
nothing to do, he was in the habit of going out hunting, selling the skins
of the animals he shot. On one of these trips he came upon a group of
horses tied near a stream, and hearing voices in a dugout cave near by, he
went to investigate. It turned out that the men were a group of prairie
ruffians. They supposed him to be an advance scout in search of
themselves, and for a few moments there was a quick play of wit against
wit.
They asked him where he came from. He pointed backward. They asked where
his horse was. He said it was down by the stream. They asked him to go and
get it and join them. He said he would, volunteering, with the keenness of
men whose lives are always at stake, to leave his gun with them. That
allayed suspicion for the moment, but they even went so far as to send two
of their number with him. The boy, as they reached the horse, carelessly
said that he had shot some game and would pick it up, in the meantime
asking the men to lead his horse on ahead. Then turning behind the second
man, he struck him a blow with his revolver and shot the other. Mounting
his pony, Cody then dashed down the ravine. In a moment the whole party
were after him. It was certain that he would soon be overtaken, as his own
pony was tired and theirs were fresh. Bill turned the corner of some rocks
and, dismounting, gave the pony a slap and sent him tearing down the
ravine, while he himself hid in the bushes and watched the whole party
tear by in the pursuit of the riderless horse. He then calmly walked back
to the station at Horseshoe and told of the adventure. Such experiences as
this followed one after another, until in 1863, with the Civil War in full
progress, Cody, then seventeen years old, received word that his mother
was dying. He went immediately to their home, and arrived in time to see
his mother before she died.
It was a sad household that gathered together after the burial, and when
the children talked over what they should do, they were astonished to hear
that Cody had made up his mind to enlist at once in the Northern army. He
had kept his word with his mother and had not become a soldier as long as
she lived; but now that she was dead and the family homestead out of debt,
he was free from all promises.
He at once enlisted, and his regiment was soon ordered to the front, but
the young man was so able as a scout that he soon came to be used on
special duty. Then, too, his fame as a plainsman was well known, and it
reached military headquarters long before he himself arrived. He was at
once selected, therefore, as a bearer of military dispatches at Fort
Larned, and one of his first escapades took place soon after he was put
upon this work. Some of the Southerners bore a grudge against him that
dated back to the time when he had saved his father from them. These
men--now on the Southern side--heard of his journey and laid in ambush by
a stream in a gulch where it was necessary for him to cross on account of
the ford. They hid their horses in a clump of trees and went to a cabin
near the ford to wait for his arrival. Darkness came on before he reached
the spot, and as by this time the young man had acquired the habit of
absolutely observing everything at all times about him, he soon discovered
the fresh tracks of horses. Without any other object than the natural
instinct to find the reason for everything that presented itself, he
quietly dismounted, followed the trail, and found the five horses. It was
evident that there were five men near by watching for him.
The only thing to do was to ride on as quietly as possible and try to make
the ford. He was in the act of entering the water when he heard their
cries, and, urging his horse into the stream, he turned in his saddle, and
before any of the five could pull a trigger he had shot one of them. Still
he spurred the horse on, turned again and shot another. But the others
were firing now, and so Cody fell forward across his horse and was lucky
enough to make the other side of the stream. There he was safe, because
the other three were not mounted.
When the scout returned with answers to the dispatches he became very wary
as he approached the ford. There were no signs, however, of an attacking
party, and, coming up to the shanty, he found one of the men whom he had
shot dying there alone. The man had been left by his pals with enough food
to last him until he should die, and Bill discovered that he was a man
whom he had known from his earliest boyhood, and who had been a supposed
friend of his father. As the man was near his end, the boy gave him water
and sat by him until he died. He then returned to Fort Larned.
IV
"BILL CODY, THE SCOUT"
With his entrance into the United States army "Bill Cody," as he had come
to be known, arrived at man's estate, although he was scarcely eighteen
years of age. He was known not only all over the West, but every army
headquarters knew of the skillful frontiersman, and even at that early
date most boys of the United States had read some part of his life in the
newspapers.
Now his work became that of a man, and he had plenty of narrow escapes
during the war, which in their way were as remarkable as his experiences
on the plains. For example, once General Smith, who was in charge of
headquarters at Memphis, got hold of him and told him that he wished to
get some information and have some maps drawn of the position of the
Confederate troops; and that it was impossible to secure this unless he
could find a man who would go into the Confederate camp in disguise. Cody
immediately consented to go. It did not seem any more dangerous or any
less honorable than carrying out the regular life of a scout and Indian
hunter of the plains.
Just before the trip he had captured a man whom he knew, but who sided
with the Southerners--a man named Nat Golden, who had been one of Russell,
Majors & Waddell's freightmen. On this man he found some dispatches, which
he promptly read. Golden was such an old friend that Cody took the papers
from him, and when the man was arrested, nothing being found on him to
make him a spy, he was simply imprisoned. Bill never told. With these
papers in his possession and dressed in the Confederate uniform, the spy
entered the Confederate lines, after telling General Smith what was in the
dispatches.
He was, of course, immediately halted by the pickets, to whom he stated
that he was a Confederate soldier with information for the general. After
being disarmed he was taken to General Forrest, and a conversation then
took place in which Cody told Forest that Golden had been captured, and
that as he was being taken prisoner he had handed Cody the dispatches,
asking him to take them to General Forrest. The story seemed so plausible
that the General allowed him to stay in camp. And for two days he kept his
eyes open, drew plans, and was ready to leave, when he came near losing
his presence of mind, as well as his life, by discovering General Forrest
talking with Golden himself, who had escaped from the Union lines. He knew
that there was no time for delay. Golden, having no idea that Cody was in
the Confederate lines, would tell Forrest the whole story as it actually
happened, and the General would at once have him arrested. He went,
therefore, apparently in great calmness, to his tent, got his horse
saddled, and rode quietly toward the picket line. No one suspected that
anything was the matter. No one paid any attention to him. As he got to
the picket the sergeant spoke to him, recognized him, and allowed him to
pass.
He was outside the lines--in fact, he was between the Union and the
Confederate lines--when he heard the sound of a squad of cavalry
approaching. Then he put his horse to the run and in a moment discovered
that a troop of Confederate cavalry was approaching from behind to meet a
troop of Union cavalry approaching from the front. The one thought a spy
was escaping; the other thought that a deserter or a spy was approaching.
It was a hard situation. Fortunately, he got into some timber, and as he
came out on the other side he discovered the Union lines. But it was not
safe for him to approach in Confederate uniform, and so, with the
knowledge that the Confederate cavalry was looking for him in the woods,
Cody calmly dismounted at the spot where he had left his uniform, changed
his clothes, and was able to lay his maps and report before General Smith
within forty-eight hours from the time he had left.
After some further experiences with the force at the front, Cody was
assigned to duty at St. Louis. Office work palled on him, however, and he
soon procured his release, as the war was practically over. He then
returned to Fort Leavenworth and looked again for a job. This time it
turned out to be the work of driving the famous overland stage which ran
from St. Joseph to Sacramento, doing the two thousand miles in nineteen
days on the average. This stage was another of the enterprises of the
great firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell. It was a difficult enterprise,
too. The stage frequently carried large sums of money, and was therefore
frequently held up by desperadoes or Indians.
No one seemed very anxious to undertake the work of driver, although it
was well paid. And the now famous Indian scout saw his opportunity again
of making relatively large sums of money by taking risks that few others
would take. He was at once offered the opportunity on his application, and
started driving the coach for what was called a division--that is, two
hundred and fifty miles.
Those were strange old coaches. One of them may be seen to-day by any boy
who will go to Buffalo Bill's famous Wild West Show and watch the old
Deadwood coach drive around the ring. They were large-wheeled wagons swung
on braces. They had to be strong, for they went over the most frightful
roads one can imagine. Passengers could ride inside or on top, and every
one who traveled went as fully armed as he could. There never was a time
in the night or day when the coach was not apt to be attacked. And if it
were attacked, the man on the box was the first one shot. Cody's run was
from Fort Kearny to Plum Creek, and he drove six horses. When he took hold
of the job he was warned that Indians were all about, and rumors came
thicker and thicker in the first month of his driving.
Nothing happened, however, with the exception of one trip, where he saved
the coach and the lives of all in it by a daring rush through a stream in
the face of a party of Indians. But shortly after this he was told by the
division superintendent, as he left Fort Kearny, that in the coach was a
very large amount of money being sent in a box to Plum Creek. It was a
question whether the existence of this treasure had become known or not.
At any rate, Cody said he would be on the watch. First, before mounting on
the box, he looked over the passengers--and here again was the same habit
of looking at everything and everybody that might have any relation to the
situation. He did not like the looks of two of the passengers, and as the
conductor, who always traveled with the driver on the trip, was suddenly
prevented from going, his suspicions became keener.
Again the keen boy decided that the thing to do was to take time by the
forelock. He had proceeded only a part of the distance after all but the
two passengers had left when he pulled up the coach and got down as if to
examine the running gear. Then he asked the two men to help him. As they
started to come out of the coach Cody pointed two revolvers at them and
held them up in the most approved fashion. He made them throw out their
revolvers, then bound them and put them back in the coach.