CHAPTER VIII.

THE PONY EXPRESS.

Owing to the gold discoveries of 1849, the state of California was

born in almost a single day. The ocean route to the Pacific was

tedious and circuitous, and the impetuosity of the mining population

demanded quicker time for the delivery of its mails than was taken by

the long sea-voyage. From the terminus of telegraphic communication

in the East there intervened more than two thousand miles of a region

uninhabited, except by hostile tribes of savages. The mail from the

Atlantic seaboard, across the Isthmus of Darien to San Francisco,

took at least twenty-two days. The route across the desert by stage

occupied nearly a month.

To reduce this time was the absorbing thought of the hour.

Senator Gwinn of California, known after the Maximilian escapade in

Mexico as “Duke Gwinn,” first made the suggestion to the proprietors

of the Overland Stage Line that if they could carry the mails to the

Pacific coast in a shorter time than it then required, and would

keep the line open all the year, increased emigration and the building

of a railroad by the government would be the result.[26]

The following is an authentic history of the Pony Express, as related

to the authors of this work by Colonel Alexander Majors, the surviving

member of the once great firm of Russell, Majors, & Waddell, who were

the originators of the scheme.

In the winter of 1859, while the senior partner of the firm was in

Washington, he became intimately acquainted with Senator Gwinn of

California, who, as stated previously, was very anxious that a quicker

line for the transmission of letters should be established than that

already worked by Butterfield; the latter was outrageously circuitous.

The senator was acquainted with the fact that the firm of Russell,

Majors, & Waddell were operating a daily coach from the Missouri River

to Salt Lake City, and he urged Mr. Russell to consider seriously

the propriety of starting a pony express over the same route, and

from Salt Lake City on to Sacramento.

After a lengthy consultation, Mr. Russell consented to attempt the

thing, provided he could induce his partners to take the same view

of the proposed enterprise as himself, and he then returned to

Leavenworth, the head-quarters of the firm, to consult the other

members. On learning the proposition suggested by Senator Gwinn,

both Colonel Majors and Mr. Waddell at once decided that the expense

would be much greater than any possible revenue from the undertaking.

Mr. Russell, having, as he thought, partially at least, committed

himself to the Senator, was much chagrined at the turn the affair

had taken, and he declared that he could not abandon his promise

to Mr. Gwinn, consequently his partners must stand by him.

That urgent appeal settled the question, and work was commenced to

start the Pony Express.

On the Overland Stage Line operated by the firm, stations had been

located every ten or twelve miles, which were at once utilized for

the operation of the express; but beyond Salt Lake City new stations

must be constructed, as there were no possible stopping-places on

the proposed new route. In less then two months after the promise

of the firm had been pledged to Senator Gwinn, the first express was

ready to leave San Francisco, and St. Joseph, Missouri, simultaneously.

The fastest time ever thus far made on the “Butterfield Route” was

twenty-one days between San Francisco and New York. The Pony Express

curtailed that time at once by eleven days, which was a marvel of

rapid transit at that period.

The plant necessary to meet the heavy demand made on the originators

of the fast mail route over the barren plains and through the

dangerous mountains was nearly five hundred horses, one hundred and

ninety stations, two hundred men to take care of these stations,

and eighty experienced riders, each of whom was to make an average

of thirty-three and one-third miles. To accomplish this each man

used three ponies on his route, but in cases of great emergency

much longer distances were made.

The letters or despatches to be carried by the daring men were

required to be written on the finest tissue paper, weighing half

an ounce, five dollars being the charge for its transportation.

As suggested by two members of the firm, when they protested that

the business would not begin to meet the expenses, their prophecies

proved true; but they were not disappointed, for one of the main

objects of the institution of the express was to learn whether the

line through which the express was carried could be made a permanent

one for travel during all the seasons of the year. This was

determined in the affirmative.

One of the most important transactions of the Pony Express was the

transmittal of President Buchanan's last message, in December, 1860,

from the Missouri River to Sacramento, over two thousand miles,

in eight days and a few hours, and the next in importance was the

carrying of President Lincoln's message, his inaugural of March 4,

1861, over the same route in seven days and seventeen hours.

This was the quickest time for horseback riding, considering the

distance made, ever accomplished in this or any other country.

In the spring of 1860 Bolivar Roberts, superintendent of the western

division of the Pony Express, came to Carson City, Nevada, to engage

riders and station-agents for the Pony Express route across the

Great Plains. In a few days fifty or sixty were engaged—men noted

for their lithe, wiry physiques, bravery and coolness in moments

of great personal danger, and endurance under the most trying

circumstances of fatigue. Particularly were these requirements

necessary in those who were to ride over the lonely route. It was

no easy duty; horse and human flesh were strained to the limit of

physical tension. Day or night, in sunshine or in storm, under the

darkest skies, in the pale moonlight and with only the stars at

times to guide him, the brave rider must speed on. Rain, hail, snow,

or sleet, there was no delay; his precious burden of letters demanded

his best efforts under the stern necessities of the hazardous service;

it brooked no detention; on he must ride. Sometimes his pathway led

across level prairies, straight as the flight of an arrow. It was

oftener a zigzag trail hugging the brink of awful precipices, and

dark, narrow cañons infested with watchful savages eager for the

scalp of the daring man who had the temerity to enter their mountain

fastnesses.

At the stations the rider must be ever ready for emergencies;

frequently double duty was assigned him. He whom he was to relieve

had been murdered by the Indians perhaps, or so badly wounded, that

it was impossible for him to take his tour; then the already tired

expressman must take his place, and be off like a shot, although he

had been in the saddle for hours.

The ponies employed in the service were splendid specimens of speed

and endurance; they were fed and housed with the greatest care,

for their mettle must never fail the test to which it was put.

Ten miles at the limit of the animal's pace was exacted from him,

and he came dashing into the station flecked with foam, nostrils

dilated and every hair reeking with perspiration, while his flanks

thumped at every breath!

Nearly two thousand miles in eight days must be made; there was no

idling for man or beast. When the express rode up to the station,

both rider and pony were always ready. The only delay was a second

or two as the saddle-pouch with its precious burden was thrown on and

the rider leaped into his place, then away they rushed down the trail

and in a moment were out of sight.

Two hundred and fifty miles a day was the distance travelled by the

Pony Express, and it may be assured the rider carried no surplus

weight. Neither he nor his pony were handicapped with anything that

was not absolutely necessary. Even his case of precious letters made

a bundle no larger than an ordinary writing tablet, but there was

five dollars paid in advance for every letter transported across the

continent. Their bulk was not in the least commensurable with their

number, there were hundreds of them sometimes, for they were written

on the thinnest tissue paper to be procured. There were no silly

love missives among them nor frivolous correspondence of any kind;

business letters only, that demanded the most rapid transit possible

and warranted the immense expense attending their journey, found

their way by the Pony Express.

The mail-bags were two pouches of leather impervious to rain, sealed,

and strapped to the rider's saddle before and behind. The pouches

were never to contain over twenty pounds in weight. Inside the

pouches, to further protect their contents from the weather,

the letters and despatches were wrapped in oil-silk, then sealed.

The pockets themselves were locked and were not opened between

St. Joseph and Sacramento.

The Pony Express as a means of communication between the two remote

coasts was largely employed by the government, merchants, and traders,

and would eventually have been a paying venture had not the

construction of the telegraph across the continent usurped its

usefulness.

The arms of the Pony Express rider, in order to keep the weight at

a minimum, were, as a rule, limited to revolver and knife.

The first trip from St. Joseph to San Francisco, nineteen hundred

and sixty-six miles, was made in ten days; the second in fourteen,

the third and many succeeding trips in nine. The riders had a

division of from one hundred to one hundred and forty miles, with

relays of horses at distances varying from twenty to twenty-five miles.

In 1860 the Pony Express made one trip from St. Joseph to Denver,

six hundred and twenty-five miles, in two days and twenty-one hours.

The Pony Express riders received from one hundred and twenty to

one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. But few men can

appreciate the danger and excitement to which those daring and plucky

men were subjected; it can never be told in all its constant variety.

They were men remarkable for their lightness of weight and energy.

Their duty demanded the most consummate vigilance and agility.

Many among their number were skilful guides, scouts, and couriers,

and had passed eventful lives on the Great Plains and in the Rocky

Mountains. They possessed strong wills and a determination that

nothing in the ordinary event could balk. Their horses were

generally half-breed California mustangs, as quick and full of

endurance as their riders, and were as sure-footed and fleet as

a mountain goat; the facility and pace at which they travelled was

a marvel. The Pony Express stations were scattered over a wild,

desolate stretch of country, two thousand miles long. The trail

was infested with “road agents,” and hostile savages who roamed in

formidable bands ready to murder and scalp with as little compunction

as they would kill a buffalo.

Some portions of the dangerous route had to be covered at the

astounding pace of twenty-five miles an hour, as the distance between

stations was determined by the physical character of the region.

The day of the first start, says Colonel Majors, on the 3d of April,

1860, at noon, Harry Roff, mounted on a spirited half-breed broncho,

left Sacramento on his perilous ride, covering the first twenty miles,

including one change, in fifty-nine minutes. On reaching Folsom

he changed again and started for Placerville at the foot of the

Sierra Nevada Mountains, fifty-five miles distant. There he connected

with “Boston,” who took the route to Friday's Station, crossing the

eastern summit of the Sierra Nevada. Sam Hamilton next fell into line

and pursued his way to Genoa, Carson City, Dayton, Reed's Station,

and Fort Churchill, seventy-five miles. The entire run was made in

fifteen hours and twenty minutes, the whole distance being one hundred

and eighty-five miles, which included the crossing of the western

summit of the Sierra Nevada through thirty feet of snow! Here Robert

Haslam took the trail from Fort Churchill to Smith's Creek,

one hundred and twenty miles through a hostile Indian country.

From that point Jay G. Kelley rode from Smith's Creek to Ruby Valley,

Utah, one hundred and sixteen miles. From Ruby Valley to Deep Creek,

H. Richardson, one hundred and five miles; from Deep Creek to Rush

Valley, old Camp Floyd, eighty miles. From Camp Floyd to Salt Lake

City, fifty miles, the end of the western division, was ridden by

George Thacher.

On the same day, and the same moment, Mr. Russell superintended the

start of the Pony Express from its eastern terminus. An arrangement

had been made with the railroads between New York and Saint Joseph

for a fast train which was scheduled to arrive with the mail at the

proper time. The Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad also ran a special

engine, and the boat which made the crossing of the Missouri River

was detained for the purpose of instantly transferring the letters.

Mr. Russell in person adjusted the letter-pouch on the pony.

Many of the enthusiastic crowd who had congregated to witness the

inauguration of the fast mail plucked hairs from the hardy little

animal's tail as talismans of good luck. In a few seconds the rider

was mounted, the steamboat gave an encouraging whistle, and the pony

dashed away on his long journey to the next station.

The large newspapers of both New York and the Pacific coast were

ready patronizers of the express. The issues of their papers were

printed on tissue manufactured purposely for this novel way of

transmitting the news. On the arrival of the pony from the West,

the news brought from the Pacific and along the route of the trail

was telegraphed from St. Joseph to the East the moment the animal

arrived with his important budget.

To form some idea of the enthusiasm created by the inauguration of

the Pony Express, the _St. Joseph Free Democrat_ said in relation

to this novel method of carrying the news across the continent:—

Take down your map and trace the footprints of our

quadrupedantic animal: From St. Joseph, on the Missouri,

to San Francisco, on the Golden Horn—two thousand miles—

more than half the distance across our boundless continent;

through Kansas, through Nebraska, by Fort Kearney, along the

Platte, by Fort Laramie, past the Buttes, over the Rocky

Mountains, through the narrow passes and along the steep

defiles, Utah, Fort Bridger, Salt Lake City, he witches

Brigham with his swift pony-ship—through the valleys, along

the grassy slopes, into the snow, into sand, faster than

Thor's Thialfi, away they go, rider and horse—did you

see them?

They are in California, leaping over its golden sands,

treading its busy streets. The courser has unrolled to us

the great American panorama, allowed us to glance at the

home of one million people, and has put a girdle around

the earth in forty minutes. Verily the riding is like the

riding of Jehu, the son of Nimshi, for he rideth furiously.

Take out your watch. We are eight days from New York,

eighteen from London. The race is to the swift.

A whole volume might be gathered of the stirring incidents and

adventures of the hardy employees of the Pony Express in its two

years of existence. The majority of the actors in that memorable

enterprise have passed beyond the confines of time.

J. G. Kelley, one of the veteran riders, now living in Denver,

tells his story of those eventful days, when he rode over the lonely

trail carrying despatches for Russell, Majors, & Waddell.

Yes, I was a Pony Express rider in 1860, and went out with

Bolivar Roberts, and I tell you it was no picnic. No amount

of money could tempt me to repeat my experience of those days.

To begin with, we had to build willow roads, corduroy fashion,

across many places along the Carson River, carrying bundles

of willows two and three hundred yards in our arms, while

the mosquitoes were so thick that it was difficult to tell

whether the man was white or black, so thickly were they

piled on his neck, face, and arms.

Arriving at the Sink of the Carson River, we began the

erection of a fort to protect us from the Indians. As there

were no rocks or logs in that vicinity, it was built of

adobes, made from the mud on the shores of the lake. To mix

this and get it to the proper consistency to mould into

adobes, we tramped all day in our bare feet. This we did

for a week or more, and the mud being strongly impregnated

with alkali carbonate of soda, you can imagine the condition

of our feet. They were much swollen and resembled hams.

We next built a fort at Sand Springs, twenty miles from

Carson Lake, and another at Cold Springs, thirty-seven miles

east of Sand Springs. At the latter station I was assigned

to duty as assistant station-keeper, under Jim McNaughton.

The war against the Pi-Ute Indians was then at its height,

and as we were in the middle of their country, it became

necessary for us to keep a standing guard night and day.

The Indians were often skulking around, but none of them ever

came near enough for us to get a shot at him, till one dark

night when I was on guard, I noticed one of our horses prick

up his ears and stare. I looked in the direction indicated

and saw an Indian's head projecting above the wall.

My instructions were to shoot if I saw an Indian within

rifle-range, as that would wake the boys quicker than anything

else; so I fired and missed my man.

Later on we saw the Indian camp-fires on the mountain, and

in the morning many tracks. They evidently intended to

stampede our horses, and if necessary kill us. The next day

one of our riders, a Mexican, rode into camp with a bullet-hole

through him from the left to the right side, having been shot

by Indians while coming down Edwards Creek, in the Quaking

Aspen Bottom. He was tenderly cared for but died before

surgical aid could reach him.

As I was the lightest man at the station, I was ordered to

take the Mexican's place on the route. My weight was then

one hundred pounds, while I now weigh one hundred and thirty.

Two days after taking the route, on my return trip, I had to

ride through the forest of quaking aspen where the Mexican

had been shot. A trail had been cut through these little

trees, just wide enough to allow horse and rider to pass.

As the road was crooked and the branches came together from

either side, just above my head when mounted, it was

impossible for me to see ahead for more than ten or fifteen

yards, and it was two miles through the forest. I expected

to have trouble, and prepared for it by dropping my

bridle-reins on the neck of the horse, putting my Sharp's

rifle at full cock, and keeping both my spurs into the pony's

flanks, and he went through that forest “like a streak of

greased lightning.”

At the top of the hill I dismounted to rest my horse, and

looking back saw the bushes moving in several places.

As there were no cattle or game in that vicinity, I knew the

movements to be caused by Indians, and was more positive

of it, when, after firing several shots at the spot where I

saw the bushes in motion, all agitation ceased. Several days

after that two United States soldiers, who were on their way

to their command, were shot and killed from the ambush of

those bushes, and stripped of their clothing by the red devils.

One of my rides was the longest on the route. I refer to

the road between Cold Springs and Sand Springs, thirty-seven

miles, and not a drop of water. It was on this ride that

I made a trip which possibly gave to our company the contract

for carrying the mail by stage-coach across the Plains,

a contract that was largely subsidized by Congress.

One day I trotted into Sand Springs covered with dust and

perspiration. Before I reached the station I saw a number of

men running toward me, all carrying rifles, and one of them

with a wave of his hand said, “All right, you pooty good boy;

you go.” I did not need a second order, and as quickly as

possible rode out of their presence, looking back, however,

as long as they were in sight, and keeping my rifle handy.

As I look back on those times I often wonder that we were not

all killed. A short time before, Major Ormsby of Carson City,

in command of seventy-five or eighty men, went to Pyramid Lake

to give battle to the Pi-Utes, who had been killing emigrants

and prospectors by the wholesale. Nearly all of the command

were killed. Another regiment of about seven hundred men,

under the command of Colonel Daniel E. Hungerford and Jack

Hayes, the noted Texas Ranger, was raised. Hungerford was

the beau-ideal of a soldier, as he was already the hero of

three wars, and one of the best tacticians of his time.

This command drove the Indians pell-mell for three miles to

Mud Lake, killing and wounding them at every jump. Colonel

Hungerford and Jack Hayes received, and were entitled,

to great praise, for at the close of the war terms were made

which have kept the Indians peaceable ever since. Jack Hayes

died several years ago in Alameda, California. Colonel

Hungerford, at the ripe age of seventy years, is hale and

hearty, enjoying life and resting on his laurels in Italy,

where he resides with his granddaughter, the Princess Colonna.

As previously stated it is marvellous that the pony boys were

not all killed. There were only four men at each station,

and the Indians, who were then hostile, roamed over the

country in bands of from thirty to a hundred.

What I consider my most narrow escape from death was being

shot at by a lot of fool emigrants, who, when I took them to

task about it on my return trip, excused themselves by saying,

“We thought you was an Indian.”

Another of the daring riders of the Pony Express was Robert Haslam.[27]

He says:

About eight months after the Pony Express was established,

the Pi-Ute war commenced in Nevada. Virginia City, then the

principal point of interest, and hourly expecting an attack

from the hostile Indians, was only in its infancy. A stone

hotel on C street was in course of construction, and had

reached an elevation of two stories. This was hastily

transformed into a fort for the protection of the women and

children. From the city the signal-fires of the Indians could

be seen on every mountain peak, and all available men and

horses were pressed into service to repel the impending

assault of the savages.

When I reached Reed's Station, on the Carson River, I found

no change of horses, as all those at the station had been

seized by the whites to take part in the approaching battle.

I fed the animal that I rode, and started for the next

station, called Buckland's, afterward known as Fort Churchill,

fifteen miles farther down the river. It was to have been

the termination of my journey (as I had changed my old route

to this one, in which I had had many narrow escapes, and

been twice wounded by the Indians), and I had already ridden

seventy-five miles; but, to my great astonishment, the other

rider refused to go on. The superintendent, W. C. Marley,

was at the station, but all his persuasion could not prevail

on the rider, Johnson Richardson, to take the road. Turning

then to me, Marley said:—

“Bob, I will give you fifty dollars if you make this ride.”

I replied, “I will go at once.”

Within ten minutes, when I had adjusted my Spencer rifle,

which was a seven-shooter and my Colt's revolver, with two

cylinders ready for use in case of emergency, I started.

From the station onward it was a lonely and dangerous ride

of thirty-five miles, without a change, to the Sink of the

Carson. I arrived there all right, however, and pushed on

to Sand Springs, through an alkali bottom and sand-hills,

thirty miles farther, without a drop of water all along

the route. At Sand Springs I changed horses and continued

on to Cold Springs, a distance of thirty-seven miles.

Another change and a ride of thirty more miles brought me

to Smith's Creek. Here I was relieved by J. G. Kelley.

I had ridden one hundred and eighty-five miles, stopping

only to eat and change horses.

After remaining at Smith's Creek about nine hours, I started

to retrace my journey with the return express. When I

arrived at Cold Springs, to my horror I found that the

station had been attacked by Indians, the keeper killed,

and all the horses taken away. I decided in a moment what

course to pursue—I would go on. I watered my horse, having

ridden him thirty miles on time, he was pretty tired, and

started for Sand Springs, thirty-seven miles away. It was

growing dark, and my road lay through heavy sage-brush,

high enough in some places to conceal a horse. I kept a

bright lookout, and closely watched every motion of my poor

pony's ears, which is a signal for danger in an Indian

country. I was prepared for a fight, but the stillness of

the night and the howling of the wolves and coyotes made cold

chills run through me at times; but I reached Sand Springs in

safety and reported what had happened. Before leaving,

I advised the station-keeper to come with me to the Sink of

the Carson, for I was sure the Indians would be upon him the

next day. He took my advice, and so probably saved his life,

for the following morning Smith's Creek was attacked.

The whites, however, were well protected in the shelter of

a stone house, from which they fought the savages for four

days. At the end of that time they were relieved by the

appearance of about fifty volunteers from Cold Springs.

These men reported that they had buried John Williams,

the brave keeper of that station, but not before he had been

nearly devoured by the wolves.

When I arrived at the Sink of the Carson, I found the

station-men badly frightened, for they had seen some fifty

warriors, decked out in their war-paint and reconnoitring.

There were fifteen white men here, well armed and ready for

a fight. The station was built of adobe, and was large enough

for the men and ten or fifteen horses, with a fine spring

of water within a few feet of it. I rested here an hour,

and after dark started for Buckland's, where I arrived without

a mishap and only three and a half hours behind schedule time.

I found Mr. Marley at Buckland's, and when I related to him

the story of the Cold Springs tragedy and my success,

he raised his previous offer of fifty dollars for my ride to

one hundred. I was rather tired, but the excitement of the

trip had braced me up to withstand the fatigue of the journey.

After a rest of one and a half hours, I proceeded over my own

route from Buckland's to Friday's Station, crossing the

Sierra Nevada. I had travelled three hundred and eighty miles

within a few hours of schedule time, and was surrounded by

perils on every hand.

After the Pony Express was discontinued Pony Bob was employed by

Wells, Fargo, & Company as an express rider in the prosecution of

their transportation business. His route was between Virginia City,

Nevada, and Friday's Station and return, about one hundred miles,

every twenty-four hours; schedule time, ten hours. This engagement

continued for more than a year; but as the Union Pacific Railway

gradually extended its line and operations, the Pony Express business

as gradually diminished. Finally the track was completed to Reno,

Nevada, twenty-three miles from Virginia City, and over this route

Pony Bob rode for more than six months, making the run every day,

with fifteen horses, inside of one hour. When the telegraph line

was completed, the Pony Express over this route was withdrawn, and

Pony Bob was sent to Idaho, to ride the company's express route of

one hundred miles, with one horse, from Queen's River to the Owyhee

River. He was at the former station when Major McDermott was killed

at the breaking out of the Modoc War.

On one of his rides he passed the remains of ninety Chinamen who had

been killed by the Indians, only one escaping to tell the tale.

Their bodies lay bleaching in the sun for a distance of more than

ten miles from the mouth of Ives Cañon to Crooked Creek. This was

Pony Bob's last experience as Pony Express rider. His successor,

Macaulas, was killed by the Indians on his first trip.

A few daredevil fellows generally did double duty and rode eighty or

eighty-five miles. One of them was Charles Cliff, now living in

Missouri, who rode from St. Joseph to Seneca and back on alternate

days. He was attacked by Indians at Scott's Bluff, receiving three

balls in his body and twenty-seven in his clothes. He made Seneca

and back in eight hours each way.

James Moore, the first post-trader at Sidney, Nebraska, made a ride

which may well lay claim to be one of the most remarkable on record.

He was at Midway Station, in Western Nebraska, on June 8, 1860, when

a very important government despatch for the Pacific coast arrived.

Mounting his pony, he sped on to Julesburg, one hundred and forty

miles away, and he got every inch of speed out of his mounts.

At Julesburg he met another important government despatch for

Washington. The rider who should have carried the despatch east had

been killed the day before. After a rest of only seven minutes and

without eating a meal, Moore started for Midway, and he made the round

trip, two hundred and eighty miles, in fourteen hours and forty-six

minutes. The west-bound despatch reached Sacramento from St. Joseph

in eight days, nine hours, and forty minutes.

The authors of this book may be pardoned for the inevitable

introduction here of the part taken by one of them in this service.

Their old friend Colonel Majors, a well-known figure for many years

in frontier life, when speaking of “Billy” Cody, as he was called in

those days, says that while engaged in the express service, his route

lay between Red Buttes and Three Crossings,[28] a distance of one

hundred and sixteen miles. It was a most dangerous, long, and lonely

trail, including the perilous crossing of the North Platte River,

which at that place was half a mile wide and, though generally shallow,

in some places reached a depth of twelve feet, a stream often much

swollen and very turbulent. An average of fifteen miles an hour had

to be made, including change of horses, detours for safety, and time

for meals.

He passed through many a gauntlet of death in his flight from station

to station, bearing express matter that was of the greatest value.

Colonel Cody, in telling the story of his own experiences with the

Pony Express, says:—

The enterprise was just being started. The line was stocked

with horses and put into good running order. At Julesburg

I met Mr. George Chrisman, the leading wagon-master of

Russell, Majors, & Waddell, who had always been a good friend

to me. He had bought out “Old Jules,” and was then the owner

of Julesburg Ranch, and the agent of the Pony Express line.

He hired me at once as a Pony Express rider, but as I was so

young he thought I was not able to stand the fierce riding

which was required of the messengers. He knew, however, that

I had been raised in the saddle—that I felt more at home

there than in any other place—and as he saw that I was

confident that I could stand the racket, and could ride as far

and endure it as well as some of the old riders, he gave me

a short route of forty-five miles, with the stations fifteen

miles apart, and three changes of horses. I was fortunate in

getting well-broken animals, and being so light I easily made

my forty-five miles on my first trip out, and ever afterward.

As the warm days of summer approached I longed for the cool

air of the mountains; and to the mountains I determined to go.

When I returned to Leavenworth I met my old wagon-master and

friend, Lewis Simpson, who was fitting out a train at Atchison

and loading it with supplies for the Overland Stage Company,

of which Mr. Russell, my old employer, was one of the

proprietors. Simpson was going with this train to Fort Laramie

and points farther west.

“Come along with me, Billy,” said he, “I'll give you a good

lay-out. I want you with me.”

“I don't know that I would like to go as far west as that

again,” I replied, “but I do want to ride the Pony Express

once more; there's some life in that.”

“Yes, that's so; but it will soon shake the life out of you,”

said he. “However, if that's what you've got your mind set on,

you had better come to Atchison with me and see Mr. Russell,

who, I'm pretty certain, will give you a situation.”

I met Mr. Russell there and asked him for employment as a

Pony Express rider; he gave me a letter to Mr. Slade, who was

then the stage-agent for the division extending from Julesburg

to Rocky Ridge. Slade had his headquarters at Horseshoe

Station, thirty-six miles west of Fort Laramie, and I made the

trip thither in company with Simpson and his train.

Almost the first person I saw after dismounting from my horse

was Slade. I walked up to him and presented Mr. Russell's

letter, which he hastily opened and read. With a sweeping

glance of his eye he took my measure from head to foot, and

then said:—

“My boy, you are too young for a Pony Express rider. It takes

men for that business.”

“I rode two months last year on Bill Trotter's division, sir,

and filled the bill then; and I think I am better able to ride

now,” said I.

“What! are you the boy that was riding there, and was called

the youngest rider on the road?”

“I am the same boy,” I replied, confident that everything was

now all right for me.

“I have heard of you before. You are a year or so older now,

and I think you can stand it. I'll give you a trial, anyhow,

and if you weaken you can come back to Horseshoe Station and

tend stock.”

Thus ended our interview. The next day he assigned me to

duty on the road from Red Buttes on the North Platte to the

Three Crossings of the Sweetwater—a distance of seventy-six

miles—and I began riding at once. It was a long piece of

road, but I was equal to the undertaking; and soon afterward

had an opportunity to exhibit my power of endurance as a

Pony Express rider.

For some time matters progressed very smoothly, though I had

no idea that things would always continue so. I was well

aware that the portion of the trail to which I had been

assigned was not only the most desolate and lonely, but it

was more eagerly watched by the savages than elsewhere on the

long route.

Slade, the boss, whenever I arrived safely at the station,

and before I started out again, was always very earnest in

his suggestions to look out for my scalp.

“You know, Billy,” he would say, “I am satisfied yours will

not always be the peaceful route it has been with you so far.

Every time you come in I expect to hear that you have met

with some startling adventure that does not always fall to

the average express rider.”

I replied that I was always cautious, made detours whenever

I noticed anything suspicious. “You bet I look out for

number one.” The change soon came.

One day, when I galloped into Three Crossings, my home station,

I found that the rider who was expected to take the trip out

on my arrival, had gotten into a drunken row the night before

and had been killed. This left that division without a rider.

As it was very difficult to engage men for the service in that

uninhabited region, the superintendent requested me to make

the trip until another rider could be secured. The distance

to the next station, Rocky Ridge, was eighty-five miles and

through a very bad and dangerous country, but the emergency

was great and I concluded to try it. I therefore started

promptly from Three Crossings without more than a moment's

rest. I pushed on with the usual rapidity, entering every

relay station on time, and accomplished the round trip of

three hundred and twenty-two miles back to Red Buttes without

a single mishap and on time. This stands on the records as

being the longest Pony Express journey ever made.

A week after making this trip, and while passing over the

route again, I was jumped on by a band of Sioux Indians who

dashed out from a sand ravine nine miles west of Horse Creek.

They were armed with pistols, and gave me a close call with

several bullets, but it fortunately happened that I was

mounted on the fleetest horse belonging to the express company,

and one that was possessed of remarkable endurance. Being cut

off from retreat back to Horseshoe, I put spurs to my horse,

and lying flat on his back, kept straight for Sweetwater,

the next station, which I reached without accident, having

distanced my pursuers. Upon reaching that place, however,

I found a sorry condition of affairs, as the Indians had made

a raid on the station the morning of my adventure with them,

and after killing the stock-tender had driven off all the

horses, so that I was unable to get a remount. I therefore

continued on to Ploutz' Station—twelve miles farther—thus

making twenty-four miles straight run with one horse. I told

the people at Ploutz' what had happened at Sweetwater Bridge,

and went on and finished the trip without any further adventure.

About the middle of September the Indians became very

troublesome on the line of the stage-road along the Sweetwater.

Between Split Rock and Three Crossings they robbed a stage,

killed the driver and two passengers, and badly wounded

Lieutenant Flowers, the assistant division agent.

The redskinned thieves also drove off the stock from the

different stations, and were continually lying in wait for

the passing stages and Pony Express riders, so that we had to

take many desperate chances in running the gauntlet.

The Indians had now become so bad and had stolen so much stock

that it was decided to stop the Pony Express for at least six

weeks, and to run the stages only occasionally during that

period; in fact, it would have been impossible to continue

the enterprise much longer without restocking the line.

While we were thus all lying idle, a party was organized to

go out and search for stolen stock. This party was composed

of stage-drivers, express-riders, stock-tenders, and ranchmen

—forty of them all together—and they were well armed and

well mounted. They were mostly men who had undergone all

kinds of hardships and braved every danger, and they were

ready and anxious to “tackle” any number of Indians.

Wild Bill, who had been driving stage on the road and had

recently come down to our division, was elected captain of

the company. It was supposed that the stolen stock had been

taken to the head of the Powder River and vicinity, and the

party, of which I was a member, started out for that section

in high hopes of success.

Twenty miles out from Sweetwater Bridge, at the head of Horse

Creek, we found an Indian trail running north toward Powder

River, and we could see by the tracks that most of the horses

had been recently shod and were undoubtedly our stolen

stage-stock. Pushing rapidly forward, we followed this trail

to Powder River; thence down this stream to within about forty

miles of the spot where old Fort Reno now stands. Here the

trail took a more westerly course along the foot of the

mountains, leading eventually to Crazy Woman's Fork—

a tributary of Powder River. At this point we discovered that

the party whom we were trailing had been joined by another

band of Indians, and, judging from the fresh appearance of the

trail, the united body could not have left this spot more than

twenty-four hours before.

Being aware that we were now in the heart of the hostile

country and might at any moment find more Indians than we had

lost, we advanced with more caution than usual and kept a

sharp lookout. As we were approaching Clear Creek, another

tributary of Powder River, we discovered Indians on the

opposite side of the creek, some three miles distant; at least

we saw horses grazing, which was a sure sign that there were

Indians there.

The Indians, thinking themselves in comparative safety—never

before having been followed so far into their own country by

white men—had neglected to put out any scouts. They had no

idea that there were any white men in that part of the country.

We got the lay of their camp, and then held a council to

consider and mature a plan for capturing it. We knew full

well that the Indians would outnumber us at least three to one,

and perhaps more. Upon the advice and suggestion of Wild Bill,

it was finally decided that we should wait until it was nearly

dark, and then, after creeping as close to them as possible,

make a dash through their camp, open a general fire on them,

and then stampede the horses.

This plan, at the proper time, was very successfully executed.

The dash upon the enemy was a complete surprise to them.

They were so overcome with astonishment that they did not know

what to make of it. We could not have astounded them any more

had we dropped down into their camp from the clouds. They did

not recover from the surprise of this sudden charge until

after we had ridden pell-mell through their camp and got away

with our own horses as well as theirs. We at once circled the

horses around toward the south, and after getting them on the

south side of Clear Creek, some twenty of our men—just as the

darkness was coming on—rode back and gave the Indians a few

parting shots. We then took up our line of march for

Sweetwater Bridge, where we arrived four days afterward with

all our own horses and about one hundred captured Indian ponies.

The expedition had proved a grand success, and the event was

celebrated in the usual manner—by a grand spree. The only

store at Sweetwater Bridge did a rushing business for several

days. The returned stock-hunters drank and gambled and fought.

The Indian ponies, which had been distributed among the

captors, passed from hand to hand at almost every deal of

cards. There seemed to be no limit to the rioting and

carousing; revelry reigned supreme. On the third day of the

orgy, Slade, who had heard the news, came up to the bridge and

took a hand in the “fun,” as it was called. To add some

variation and excitement to the occasion, Slade got into a

quarrel with a stage-driver and shot him, killing him almost

instantly.

The boys became so elated as well as “elevated” over their

success against the Indians that most of them were in favour

of going back and cleaning out the whole Indian race. One old

driver especially, Dan Smith, was eager to open a war on all

the hostile nations, and had the drinking been continued

another week he certainly would have undertaken the job,

single-handed and alone. The spree finally came to an end;

the men sobered down and abandoned the idea of again invading

the hostile country. The recovered horses were replaced on

the road, and the stages and Pony Express again began running

on time.

Slade, having taken a great fancy to me, said, “Billy, I want

you to come down to my headquarters, and I'll make you a sort

of supernumerary rider, and send you out only when it is

necessary.”

I accepted the offer and went with him down to Horseshoe,

where I had a comparatively easy time of it. I had always

been fond of hunting, and I now had a good opportunity to

gratify my ambition in that direction, as I had plenty of

spare time on my hands. In this connection I will relate one

of my bear-hunting adventures. One day, when I had nothing

else to do, I saddled up an extra Pony Express horse, and,

arming myself with a good rifle and pair of revolvers,

struck out for the foot-hills of Laramie Peak for a bear-hunt.

Riding carelessly along, and breathing the cool and bracing

mountain air which came down from the slopes, I felt as only

a man can feel who is roaming over the prairies of the far

West, well armed and mounted on a fleet and gallant steed.

The perfect freedom which he enjoys is in itself a refreshing

stimulant to the mind as well as the body. Such indeed were

my feelings on this beautiful day as I rode up the valley of

the Horseshoe. Occasionally I scared up a flock of sage-hens

or a jack-rabbit. Antelopes and deer were almost always in

sight in any direction, but, as they were not the kind of

game I was after on that day, I passed them by and kept on

toward the mountains. The farther I rode the rougher and

wilder became the country, and I knew that I was approaching

the haunts of the bear. I did not discover any, however,

although I saw plenty of tracks in the snow.

About two o'clock in the afternoon, my horse having become

tired, and myself being rather weary, I shot a sage-hen, and,

dismounting, I unsaddled my horse and tied him to a small tree,

where he could easily feed on the mountain grass. I then

built a little fire, and broiling the chicken and seasoning it

with salt and pepper, which I had obtained from my saddle-bags,

I soon sat down to a “genuine square meal,” which I greatly

relished.

After resting for a couple of hours, I remounted and resumed

my upward trip to the mountain, having made up my mind to

camp out that night rather than go back without a bear, which

my friends knew I had gone out for. As the days were growing

short, night soon came on, and I looked around for a suitable

camping-place. While thus engaged, I scared up a flock of

sage-hens, two of which I shot, intending to have one for

supper and the other for breakfast.

By this time it was becoming quite dark and I rode down to one

of the little mountain streams, where I found an open place in

the timber suitable for a camp. I dismounted, and, after

unsaddling my horse and hitching him to a tree, I prepared to

start a fire. Just then I was startled by hearing a horse

whinnying farther up the stream. It was quite a surprise to me,

and I immediately ran to my animal to keep him from answering

as horses usually do in such cases. I thought that the strange

horse might belong to some roaming band of Indians, as I knew

of no white men being in that portion of the country at that

time. I was certain that the owner of the strange horse could

not be far distant, and I was very anxious to find out who my

neighbour was, before letting him know that I was in his

vicinity. I therefore resaddled my horse, and leaving him tied

so that I could easily reach him, I took my gun and started out

on a scouting expedition up the stream. I had gone about four

hundred yards when, in a bend of the stream, I discovered ten

or fifteen horses grazing. On the opposite side of the creek

a light was shining high up the mountain bank. Approaching

the mysterious spot as cautiously as possible, and when within

a few yards of the light—which I discovered came from a dugout

in the mountain side—I heard voices, and soon I was able to

distinguish the words, as they proved to be in my own language.

Then I knew that the occupants of the dugout were white men.

Thinking that they might be a party of trappers, I boldly

walked up to the door and knocked for admission. The voices

instantly ceased, and for a moment a deathlike silence reigned

inside. Then there seemed to follow a kind of hurried

whispering—a sort of consultation—and then some one called out:—

“Who's there?”

“A friend and a white man,” I replied.

The door opened, and a big ugly-looking fellow stepped forth

and said:—

“Come in.”

I accepted the invitation with some degree of fear and

hesitation, which I endeavoured to conceal, as I thought it

was too late to back out, and that it would never do to

weaken at that point, whether they were friends or foes.

Upon entering the dugout my eyes fell upon eight as rough and

villanous-looking men as I ever saw in my life. Two of them

I instantly recognized as teamsters who had been driving in

Lew Simpson's train, a few months before, and had been discharged.

They were charged with the murdering and robbing of a ranchman;

and, having stolen his horses, it was supposed that they had

left the country. I gave them no signs of recognition,

however, deeming it advisable to let them remain in ignorance

as to who I was. It was a hard crowd, and I concluded the

sooner I could get away from them the better it would be for

me. I felt confident that they were a band of horse-thieves.

“Where are you going, young man, and who's with you?” asked

one of the men, who appeared to be the leader of the gang.

“I am entirely alone. I left Horseshoe Station this morning

for a bear-hunt, and not finding any bears I had determined

to camp out for the night and wait till morning,” said I;

“and just as I was going into camp a few hundred yards down

the creek I heard one of your horses whinnying, and then I

came to your camp.”

I was thus explicit in my statement in order, if possible,

to satisfy the cut-throats that I was not spying upon them,

but that my intrusion was entirely accidental.

“Where's your horse?” demanded the boss thief.

“I left him down at the creek,” I answered.

They proposed going after the horse, but I thought that that

would never do, as it would leave me without any means of

escape, and I accordingly said, in hopes to throw them off

the track, “Captain, I'll leave my gun here and go down and

get my horse, and come back and stay all night.”

I said this in as cheerful and as careless a manner as

possible, so as not to arouse their suspicious in any way or

lead them to think that I was aware of their true character.

I hated to part with my gun, but my suggestion of leaving it

was a part of the plan of escape which I had arranged.

If they have the gun, thought I, they will surely believe that

I intend to come back. But this little game did not work at

all, as one of the desperadoes spoke up and said:—

“Jim and I will go down with you after your horse, and you can

leave your gun here all the same, as you'll not need it.”

“All right,” I replied, for I could certainly have done

nothing else. It became evident to me that it would be better

to trust myself with two men than with the whole party.

It was apparent from this time on I would have to be on the

alert for some good opportunity to give them the slip.

“Come along,” said one of them, and together we went down

the creek, and soon came to the spot where my horse was tied.

One of the men unhitched the animal, and said, “I'll lead

the horse.”

“Very well,” said I; “I've got a couple of sage-hens here.

Lead on.”

I picked up the sage-hens which I had killed a few hours

before, and followed the man who was leading the horse, while

his companion brought up the rear. The nearer we approached

the dugout the more I dreaded the idea of going back among

the villanous cut-throats. My first plan of escape having

failed, I now determined upon another. I had both of my

revolvers with me, the thieves not having thought it necessary

to search me. It was now quite dark, and I purposely dropped

one of the sage-hens, and asked the man behind me to pick

it up. While he was hunting for it on the ground, I quickly

pulled out one of my Colt's revolvers and struck him a

tremendous blow on the back of the head, knocking him

senseless to the ground. I then instantly wheeled around and

saw that the man ahead, who was only a few feet distant, had

heard the blow and had turned to see what was the matter,

his hand upon his revolver. We faced each other at about the

same instant, but before he could fire, as he tried to do,

I shot him dead in his tracks. Then, jumping on my horse,

I rode down the creek as fast as possible, through the

darkness and over the rough ground and rocks.

The other outlaws in the dugout, having heard the shot which

I had fired, knew there was trouble, and they all came rushing

down the creek. I suppose by the time they reached the man

whom I had knocked down that he had recovered, and hurriedly

told them of what had happened. They did not stay with the

man whom I had shot, but came on in hot pursuit of me.

They were not mounted, and were making better time down the

rough mountain than I was on horseback. From time to time

I heard them gradually gaining on me.

At last they came so near that I saw that I must abandon my

horse. So I jumped to the ground, and gave him a hard slap

with the butt of one of my revolvers, which started him on

down the valley, while I scrambled up the mountain side.

I had not ascended more than forty feet when I heard my

pursuers coming closer and closer; I quickly hid behind a

large pine-tree, and in a few moments they all rushed by me,

being led on by the rattling footsteps of my horse, which they

heard ahead of them. Soon they began firing in the direction

of the horse, as they no doubt supposed I was still seated on

his back. As soon as they had passed me I climbed further up

the steep mountain, and knowing that I had given them the slip,

and feeling certain I could keep out of their way, I at once

struck out for Horseshoe Station, which was twenty-five miles

distant. I had very hard travelling at first, but upon

reaching lower and better ground I made good headway, walking

all night and getting into the station just before daylight

—footsore, weary, and generally played out.

I immediately waked up the men of the station and told them

of my adventure. Slade himself happened to be there, and he

at once organized a party to go out in pursuit of the

horse-thieves. Shortly after daylight twenty well-armed

stage-drivers, stock-tenders, and ranchmen were galloping in

the direction of the dugout. Of course I went along with the

party, notwithstanding that I was very tired and had had

hardly any rest at all. We had a brisk ride, and arrived in

the immediate vicinity of the thieves' rendezvous at about

ten o'clock in the morning. We approached the dugout

cautiously, but upon getting in close proximity to it we could

discover no horses in sight. We could see the door of the

dugout standing wide open, and we marched up to the place.

No one was inside, and the general appearance of everything

indicated that the place had been deserted—that the birds had

flown. Such, indeed, proved to be the case.

We found a new-made grave, where they had evidently buried

the man whom I had shot. We made a thorough search of the

whole vicinity, and finally found their trail going southeast

in the direction of Denver. As it would have been useless

to follow them, we rode back to the station; and thus ended

my eventful bear-hunt. We had no trouble for some time

after that.

A friend who was once a station agent tells two more adventures of

Cody's:

It had become known in some mysterious manner, past finding

out, that there was to be a large sum of money sent through

by Pony Express, and that was what the road agents were after.

After killing the other rider, and failing to get the treasure,

Cody very naturally thought that they would make another

effort to secure it; so when he reached the next relay station

he walked about a while longer than was his wont.

This was to perfect a little plan he had decided upon, which

was to take a second pair of saddle-pouches and put something

in them and leave them in sight, while those that held the

valuable express packages he folded up in his saddle-blanket

in such a way that they could not be seen unless a search

was made for them. The truth was, Cody knew that he carried

the valuable package, and it was his duty to protect it with

his life.

So with the clever scheme to outwit the road agents,

if held up, he started once more upon his flying trip.

He carried his revolver ready for instant use and flew along

the trail with every nerve strung to meet any danger which

might confront him. He had an idea where he would be halted,

if halted at all, and it was a lonesome spot in a valley,

the very place for a deed of crime.

As he drew near the spot he was on the alert, and yet when

two men suddenly stepped out from among the shrubs and

confronted him, it gave him a start in spite of his nerve.

They had him covered with rifles and brought him to a halt

with the words: “Hold! Hands up, Pony Express Bill, for we

know yer, my boy, and what yer carries.”

“I carry the express; and it's hanging for you two if you

interfere with me,” was the plucky response.

“Ah, we don't want you, Billy, unless you force us to call in

your checks; but it's what you carry we want.”

“It won't do you any good to get the pouch, for there isn't

anything valuable in it.”

“We are to be the judges of that, so throw us the valuables

or catch a bullet. Which shall it be, Billy?”

The two men stood directly in front of the pony-rider, each

one covering him with a rifle, and to resist was certain death.

So Cody began to unfasten his pouches slowly, while he said,

“Mark my words, men, you'll hang for this.”

“We'll take chances on that, Bill.”

The pouches being unfastened now, Cody raised them with one

hand, while he said in an angry tone, “If you will have them,

take them.” With this he hurled the pouches at the head of

one of them, who quickly dodged and turned to pick them up,

just as Cody fired upon the other with his revolver in his

left hand.

The bullet shattered the man's arm while, driving the spurs

into the flanks of his mare, Cody rode directly over the man

who was stooping to pick up the pouches, his back turned to

the pony-rider.

The horse struck him a hard blow that knocked him down, while

he half fell on top of him, but was recovered by a touch of

the spurs and bounded on, while the daring pony-rider gave

a wild triumphant yell as he sped on like the wind.

The fallen man, though hurt, scrambled to his feet as soon

as he could, picked up his rifle, and fired after the

retreating youth, but without effect, and young Cody rode on,

arriving at the station on time, and reported what had happened.

He had, however, no time to rest, for he was compelled to

start back with his express pouches. He thus made the

remarkable ride of three hundred and twenty-four miles without

sleep, and stopping only to eat his meals, and resting then

but a few moments. For saving the express pouches he was

highly complimented by all, and years afterward he had the

satisfaction of seeing his prophecy regarding the two road

agents verified, for they were both captured and hanged by

vigilantes for their many crimes.

* * *

“There's Injun signs about, so keep your eyes open.” So said

the station-boss of the Pony Express, addressing young Cody,

who had dashed up to the cabin, his horse panting like a hound,

and the rider ready for the fifteen-mile flight to the next

relay. “I'll be on the watch, boss, you bet,” said the

pony-rider, and with a yell to his fresh pony he was off like

an arrow from a bow.

Down the trail ran the fleet pony like the wind, leaving the

station quickly out of sight, and dashing at once into the

solitude and dangers of the vast wilderness. Mountains were

upon either side, towering cliffs here and there overhung the

trail, and the wind sighed through the forest of pines like

the mourning of departed spirits. Gazing ahead, the piercing

eyes of the young rider saw every tree, bush, and rock, for

he knew but too well that a deadly foe, lurking in ambush,

might send an arrow or a bullet to his heart at any moment.

Gradually, far down the valley, his quick glance fell upon

a dark object above the bowlder directly in his trail.

He saw the object move and disappear from sight down behind

the rock. Without appearing to notice it, or checking his

speed in the slightest, he held steadily upon his way. But he

took in the situation at a glance, and saw that on each side

of the bowlder the valley inclined. Upon one side was a

fringe of heavy timber, upon the other a precipice, at the

base of which were massive rocks.

“There is an Indian behind that rock, for I saw his head,”

muttered the young rider, as his horse flew on. Did he intend

to take his chances, and dash along the trail directly by his

ambushed foe? It would seem so, for he still stuck to the trail.

A moment more and he would be within range of a bullet, when,

suddenly dashing his spurs into the pony's sides, Billy Cody

wheeled to the right, and in an oblique course headed for the

cliff. This proved to the foe in ambush that he was suspected,

if not known, and at once there came the crack of a rifle,

the puff of smoke rising above the rock where he was concealed.

At the same moment a yell went up from a score of throats, and

out of the timber on the other side of the valley darted a

number of Indians, and these rode to head off the rider.

Did he turn back and seek safety in a retreat to the station?

No! he was made of sterner stuff, and would run the gauntlet.

Out from behind the bowlder, where they had been lying in

ambush, sprang two braves in all the glory of their war-paint.

Their horses were in the timber with their comrades, and,

having failed to get a close shot at the pony-rider, they

sought to bring him down at long range with their rifles.

The bullets pattered under the hoofs of the flying pony, but

he was unhurt, and his rider pressed him to his full speed.

With set teeth, flashing eyes, and determined to do or die,

Will Cody rode on in the race for life, the Indians on foot

running swiftly toward him, and the mounted braves sweeping

down the valley at full speed.

The shots of the dismounted Indians failing to bring down the

flying pony or their human game, the mounted redskins saw that

their only chance was to overtake their prey by their speed.

One of the number, whose war-bonnet showed that he was a chief,

rode a horse that was much faster than the others, and he drew

quickly ahead. Below the valley narrowed to a pass not a

hundred yards in width, and if the pony-rider could get to

this wall ahead of his pursuers, he would be able to hold

his own along the trail in the ten-mile run to the next

relay station.

But, though he saw that there was no more to fear from the

two dismounted redskins, and that he would come out well

in advance of the band on horseback, there was one who was

most dangerous. That one was the chief, whose fleet horse

was bringing him on at a terrible pace, and threatening to

reach there at the same time with the pony-rider.

Nearer and nearer the two drew toward the path, the horse of

Cody slightly ahead, and the young rider knew that a

death-struggle was at hand. He did not check his horse, but

kept his eyes alternately upon the pass and the chief.

The other Indians he did not then take into consideration.

At length that happened for which he had been looking.

When the chief saw that he would come out of the race some

thirty yards behind his foe, he seized his bow and quick as

a flash had fitted an arrow for its deadly flight. But in

that instant Cody had also acted, and a revolver had sprung

from his belt and a report followed the touching of the

trigger. A wild yell burst from the lips of the chief, and

he clutched madly at the air, reeled, and fell from his

saddle, rolling over like a ball as he struck the ground.

The death-cry of the chief was echoed by the braves coming on

down the valley, and a shower of arrows was sent after the

fugitive pony-rider. An arrow slightly wounded his horse,

but the others did no damage, and in another second Cody had

dashed into the pass well ahead of his foes. It was a hot

chase from then on until the pony-rider came within sight of

the next station, when the Indians drew off and Cody dashed

in on time, and in another minute was away on his next run.

The history of all Colonel Cody's encounters with the savages during

the time he was in the service of the Pony Express would require many

pages to recite, and as there is naturally a repetition in the manner

of all attacks and escapes in his struggles with the Indians of the

Great Plains and mountains, it would perhaps be but supererogation

to tell them all without taxing the reader's interest.

Many stories of adventure are related of those terrible times, and

at the beginning of the opening of the route across the continent it

was with difficulty that the projectors of the dangerous undertaking

found men willing to take the chances that constantly menaced the

daring riders of the lonely route.

There was an old trapper whose only cognomen among the civilized men

of the border was “Whipsaw.” Of course he must have had another, but

none ever knew of it or cared to inquire.

One day, while in his lonely camp attending to his duties, a Sioux

Indian brought to him a captive Pawnee child about two years old.

The little savage was stark naked and almost frozen. The Sioux, who

was plainly marked by a horrid scar across his face, desired to

dispose of the child to the trapper, and the latter, as was every one

of that class now vanished forever, full of pity and kind-hearted to

a fault, did not hesitate a moment, but traded a knife for the

helpless baby—all the savage asked for the little burden of humanity.

The old trapper took care of the young Pawnee, clothed him in his

rough way, encased the little feet in moccasins, and with a soft

doe-skin jacket the little fellow throve admirably under the gentle

care of his rough nurse.

When the young Pawnee had reached the age of four years the old

trapper was induced to take charge of one of the overland stations

on the line of the Pony Express. The old agent began to love the

young savage with an affection that was akin to that of a mother;

and in turn the Pawnee baby loved his white father and preserver.

As the little fellow grew in stature he evinced a most intense hatred

for all members of his own dark-skinned race. He never let an

opportunity go by when he could do them an injury, however slight.

Of course at times many of the so-called friendly Indians would visit

the station and beg tobacco from the old trapper, but on every

occasion the young Pawnee would try to do them some injury. Once,

when he was only four years old, and a party of friendly Indians as

usual had ridden up to the station, the young savage quietly crept

to where their horses were picketed, cut their lariats, and stampeded

all of them! At another time he made an attempt to kill an Indian

who had stopped for a moment at the station, but he was too little to

raise properly the rifle with which he intended to shoot him.

As it is the inherent attribute of all savages to be far in advance

of the whites in the alertness and acuteness of two or three of the

senses, the baby Pawnee was wonderfully so. He could hear the

footsteps of a bear or the scratching of a panther, or even the tramp

of a horse's hoof on the soft sod, long before the old trapper could

make out the slightest sound. He could always tell when the Pony

Express rider was approaching, miles before he was in sight, if in

the daytime, and at night many minutes before the old trapper's ears,

which were very acute also, could distinguish the slightest sound.

The boy was christened “Little Cayuse” because his ears could catch

the sound of an approaching horse's foot long before any one else.

In the middle of the night, while his white father was sound asleep

on his pallet of robes, the little Pawnee would wake him hurriedly,

saying “Cayuse, cayuse!” whenever the Pony Express was due. The rider

who was to take the place of the one nearing the station, would rise,

quickly put the saddle on his broncho, and be all ready, when the pony

arrived, to snatch the saddle-bags from him whom he was to relieve,

and in another moment dash down the trail mountainward.

It was never too cold or too warm for the handsome little savage to

get up on these occasions and give a sort of rude welcome to the

tired rider, who, although nearly worn out by his arduous duty, would

take up the baby boy and pet him a moment before he threw himself down

on his bed of robes.

The young Pawnee had a very strange love for horses. He would always

hug the animals as they came off their long trip, pat their noses, and

softly murmur, “Cayuse, cayuse.”[29]

The precocious little savage was known to every rider on the trail

from St. Joe to Sacramento. Of course the Indians were always on the

alert to steal the horses that belonged to the stations, but where

Little Cayuse was living they never made a success of it, owing to his

vigilance. Often he saved the animals by giving the soundly sleeping

men warning of the approach of the savages who were stealthily

creeping up to stampede the animals.

The boy was better than an electric battery, for he never failed to

notify the men of the approach of anything that walked. So famous

did he become that his wonderful powers were at last known at the

headquarters of the great company, and the president sent Little

Cayuse a beautiful rifle just fitted to his stature, and before he had

reached the age of six he killed with it a great gray wolf that came

prowling around the station one evening.

One cold night, after twelve o'clock, Whipsaw happened to get out of

bed, and he found the little Pawnee sitting upright in his bed,

apparently listening intently to some sound which was perfectly

undistinguishable to other ears.

The station-boss whispered to him, “Horses?”

“No,” replied the little Pawnee, but continued looking up into his

father's face with an unmistakable air of seriousness.

“Better go to sleep,” said Whipsaw.

Little Cayuse only shook his head in the negative. The station-boss

then turned to the other men and said: “Wake up, all of you, something

is going wrong.”

“What is the matter?” inquired one of the riders as he rose.

“I don't exactly know,” replied the boss, “but Cayuse keeps listening

with them wonderful ears of his, and when I told him to go to sleep

he only shook his head, and that boy never makes a mistake.”

A candle was lighted, it was long after the express was due from

the east.

The little Pawnee looked at the men and said, “Long time—no cayuse—

no cayuse.”

They then realized what the Pawnee meant: it was nearly two o'clock,

and the rider from the East was more than two hours behind time.

The little Pawnee knew it better than any clock could have told him,

and both of the men sat up uneasy, fidgeting, for they felt that

something had gone wrong, as it was beyond the possibility for any

rider, if alive, to be so much behind the schedule time. They

anxiously waited by the dim light of their candle for the sound of

horses' feet, but their ears were not rewarded by the welcome sound.

Cayuse, who was still in his bed watching the countenances of the

white men, suddenly sprang from his bed, and, creeping cautiously out

of the door, carefully placed his ear to the ground, the men meanwhile

watching him. He then came back as cautiously as he had gone out,

and slowly creeping up to Whipsaw, merely said, “Heap cayuses!”

It was not the sound of the rider's horse whom they had so long been

expecting, but a band of predatory Sioux bent on some errand of

mischief; of that they were certain, now that the Pawnee had given

them the warning. Little Cayuse took his rifle from its peg over his

bed, and, walking to the door, peered out into the darkness. Then he

crept along the trail, his ears ever alert. The men seized their

rifles at the same moment, and followed the little savage to guard

being taken by surprise.

All around the rude cabin which constituted the station, the boss had

taken the precaution, when he first took charge, to dig a trench deep

enough to hide a man, to be used as a rifle-pit in case the occasion

ever offered.

It was to one of these ditches that Little Cayuse betook himself, and

the men followed the child's example, and took up a position on either

side of him. Lying there without speaking a word, even in a whisper,

the determined men and the brave little Cayuse waited for developments.

Soon the band of savage horse-thieves arrived at a kind of little

hollow in the trail, about an eighth of a mile from the door of the

station. They got off their animals and, Indian-fashion, commenced

to crawl toward the corral.

On they came, little expecting that they had been long since

discovered, and that preparation was already made for their reception.

One of them came so near the men hidden in the pit that the boss

declared he could have touched him with his rifle. The old trapper

was very much disturbed for fear that Little Cayuse would in his

childish indiscretion open fire before the proper time arrived, which

would be when the savages had entered the cabin. The child, however,

was as discreet as his elders, and although it was his initial fight

with the wily nomads of the desert, he acted as if he had thirty or

forty years of experience to back him.

The band numbered six, as brave and determined a set of cut-throats

as the great Sioux Nation ever sent out. The clouds had broken apart

a little, and the defenders of the station could count their forms

as they appeared between the diffused light of the horizon and the

roof of the cabin.

On reaching the door the Indians stopped a moment, and with their

customary caution listened for some sound to apprise them that the

inmates were sleeping. Suspecting this to be the case, they pushed

the door carefully open and entered the cabin, one after another.

Now had come the supreme moment which the boss had so patiently hoped

for! Whipsaw rose to his feet, and without saying a word to them,

his comrades, including Little Cayuse, followed him. He intended to

charge upon the savages in the cabin, although there were six to

three, for it would hardly do to count the little Pawnee in as a man.

The rider who had been waiting for the arrival of the other then

placed his rifle on the ground, and each taking their revolvers,

two apiece in their hands, ready cocked, advanced to the door.

They knew that the fight would be short and hot, so with the Pawnee

between them they arrived at the entrance. Now the Sioux evidently

heard them, and came rushing out, but it was too late! The Pony

Express men opened fire, and two of the savages bit the dust.

They returned the salute, but with such careless aim that their shots

were perfectly harmless; but as the white men fired again, two more of

the savages fell, and only two were left. The rider got a shot in

the shoulder, but he kept on with his revolver despite his pain,

while the boss, who had fired all his shots, was compelled to throw

the empty weapon into the persistent savage's face, while Little

Cayuse kept peppering the other with small shot from his rifle.

Then the Indian at whom the boss had thrown his revolver came at him

with his knife, and was getting the best of it, when Little Cayuse,

watching his chance, got up close to the savage who was about to

finish his father, and let drive into the brute's side a charge of

shot that made a hole as big as a water-bucket, and the red devil

fell without knowing what had hit him.

Both of the men were weak from loss of blood, and when they had

recovered a little, not far away in the hollow they found the horses

the savages had ridden and that of the express rider, all together.

About a mile farther down the trail they found the dead body of

the rider, shot through the head. His pony still had on the saddle

and the mail-pouch, which the Indians had not disturbed. In the

morning the men carried the remains of the unfortunate rider to the

cabin and buried it near the station, and it may be truthfully said

that if it had not been for the plucky little Pawnee, there would

have been no mourners at the funeral.

That afternoon the men dug a trench into which they threw the dead

Indians to get them out of the way, but while they were employed in

the thankless work, Little Cayuse was discovered most unmercifully

kicking and clubbing one of the dead warriors; then he took his little

rifle and cooking it emptied its contents into the prostrate body.

The boss then took the weapon away from him, but the boy cried out

to him, “See! see!”

Looking down closely into the face of the object of the boy's wrath,

he discovered by that hideous scar the fiend who had captured Little

Cayuse when a mere baby, the scar-faced Sioux from whom Whipsaw had

purchased the boy.[30]

The employees of the Pony Express were different in character from

the ordinary plainsmen of those days. The latter as a class were

usually boisterous, indulged in profanity, and were fond of whiskey.

Russell, Majors, & Waddell were God-fearing, temperate gentlemen

themselves, and tried to engage no man who did not come up to their

own standard of morality.

There was one notable exception in the person of Jack Slade, the

station-agent at Fort Kearney, who was a desperado in the strictest

definition of the term; that is, he was a coward at heart, as all of

his class are, and brave only when every advantage was in his favour.

The number of men he killed in cold blood would probably aggregate

more than a score. One of his most damnable acts was the killing of

an old French-Canadian trapper, whose name was Jules Bernard, who

lived on a ranch on the eastern border of Colorado. While he lived

there he got into a quarrel with Slade, and the latter swore he would

kill Jules on sight. Slade waited five years for his opportunity.

The story is told by an eye-witness as follows:[31]—

I was thirteen years old when Jules married me and took me

to his ranch at Cottonwood Springs. He had three log

buildings side by side; one contained our private apartments,

one was the store, and the other the kitchen and quarters

for the man and his wife who ran the ranch for us.

Slade was a Kentuckian, a very quiet man when sober, but

terribly ugly when drinking. He came to our store one day

fearfully drunk and swore he would shoot some d——d Frenchman

before night, at the same time reaching for his pistol.

Jules knew what he meant and sprang for his shot-gun, the only

weapon near; before Slade could bring his pistol to bear,

Jules levelled his gun and shot him in the stomach, filling it

full of fine shot. He fell, and Jules, going to him, said he

would take him to Denver and pay all his doctor-bills and

other expenses if he would shake hands. Slade agreed to this,

and Jules hitched up a team, hauled him clear to Denver, and

paid his bills there for four or five months. He came near

dying. Jules afterward heard that when Slade got well and

left Denver, he had sworn he would shoot him the first time

they met; so Jules was always ready for him.

One morning long after this Jules started for his old ranch

to get some horses and cattle that had been left there.

He had to pass by Slade's place, and knowing that Slade had

sworn to kill him, he took along a Frenchman living with us,

called Pete Gazzous, and an American named Smith. They rode

in a light wagon, and as they were all armed with rifles,

pistols, and knives, Jules thought he was well prepared to

defend himself.

They watched very close until they got past Slade's ranch,

but saw no signs of any one. They stopped at a spring a mile

or two beyond to water their horses, and as Jules was stooping

down to get a drink, a shot struck him in the leg and broke

it just above the knee. He called to Smith to unharness the

horses, bring him one, and help him on so that they could get

away; but the crowd was so frightened they could not stir,

and in a few moments they were surrounded by Slade and his

band of twenty-five men.

They carried Jules to the ranch, and tied him up to a

dry-goods box. Slade shot at him for a while, aiming as near

as he could without hitting him, finally shooting off one of

his ears; and then he ordered his twenty-five men to empty

the contents of their revolvers into him. They then threw his

body into a hole which they dug.

The next day a lot of Slade's men came and took away all the

goods in the trading-post; they left me about six hundred

dollars. They got three thousand dollars that Jules had when

he left, and they got the stock, I suppose. I never heard

anything about them. They said afterward that Jules had money

in the bank, but we could not find any bank-book, and if he

had one it was probably on his person. I was just a child and

did not know what to do. In a day or two a man came along who

lived on a ranch farther west; he was going to Denver for

goods; he took me, the man, and woman with him to Denver.[32]

Slade eventually drifted into Montana, and in 1865 was hanged by the

vigilantes on suspicion of being the leader of a band of road agents.

He was living on a ranch near Virginia City at the time, and every

few days came into town outrageously drunk, alarming the people by

shooting through the streets, riding into saloons, and proclaiming

himself to be the veritable “Bad man from Bitter Creek.”

The belief that he was connected with matters worse than bad whiskey

had overstrained the patience of the long-suffering citizens.

Soon the suggestive and mysterious triangular little pieces of paper

dropped upon the sidewalks of the town, surmounted with the skull and

cross-bones, called the vigilantes to a meeting at which the death of

Slade and two of his companions was determined upon. The next morning

following the evening of the meeting, Slade came to town with his two

men, actually sober, and went into a drug-store for a prescription.

While waiting for his preparation, twelve shotguns suddenly covered

them, and they were ordered to throw up their hands. Slade complied

smilingly, but proposed to reason with them as to the absurdity of

taking him for a bad man.

The only concession granted, however, was permission to send a note

to his wife at the ranch, and an hour allowed to make his peace with

the unknown.

Ropes were placed around the necks of the three men, who at the end

of the allotted time were given short shrift and were soon hanging

between heaven and earth. While their bodies were swaying in the

breeze, Slade's wife suddenly appeared mounted on a fine horse, with

a cocked pistol in each hand, determined to attempt a rescue.

On observing that it was too late, she quailed before the determined

countenances of the vigilantes. She soon left the scene of the

lynching, and in a short time moved out of the country, carrying with

her, as it was believed, a large amount of the proceeds of her

husband's robberies.

In the winter of 1860 Mr. Edward Creighton, who had for many years

been engaged in constructing telegraph lines all over the United

States, determined to inaugurate a pet project he had entertained for

a long time, to build one to the Pacific Coast.

In the year above referred to, he had many consultations with the

stockholders of the Western Union, the result of which was that a

preliminary survey was decided upon. Notwithstanding that travelling

by the Overland coach was beset with great danger from attacks by

road agents and Indians, Mr. Creighton was compelled to cross the

continent by the only means of transportation; and, stopping at Salt

Lake City, he excited the interest and enlisted the support of the

great head of the Mormon Church.

It had been arranged to invite the association of the California

Telegraph Company in the enterprise, and, notwithstanding the terrors

of a midwinter journey, Mr. Creighton pressed on on horseback for

Sacramento. It was a fearful trip, but the man who made it was stout

of heart and he braved the rigours of the mountains, accomplished

his mission, and in the spring of 1861 returned to Omaha to commence

the great work. The United States, meanwhile, had granted a subsidy

of forty thousand dollars a year to the first company who should

build a line across the continent. It may well be imagined that

a great race was immediately inaugurated for heavy wagers, between

Mr. Creighton's force and that of the Californians, who were building

eastwardly, each party trying to reach Salt Lake City before the other.

Mr. Creighton had eleven hundred miles to construct, while the

California company's distance from the objective point was only four

hundred and fifty; yet the indefatigable Mr. Creighton reached Salt

Lake City with his completed line on the 17th of October, one week

ahead of his competitors.

On the 24th of the same month, but a little more than half a year

after its commencement, Mr. Creighton had established telegraphic

communication from ocean to ocean. For his remuneration he took

one hundred thousand dollars worth of the stock of the new enterprise

at about eighteen cents on the dollar. When the project was completed,

the company trebled its amount of shares and Mr. Creighton's one

hundred thousand dollars immediately enhanced to three hundred

thousand. The stock at once rose to the value of eighty-five cents,

and he sold out his original one hundred thousand dollars for eight

hundred and fifty thousand, still retaining two hundred thousand

dollars worth of stock.[33]

With the completion of the telegraph across the continent all the

important news could be flashed from ocean to ocean in a few seconds,

so the Pony Express ceased to be necessary; the great Concord coach,

too, was limited to the mere transportation of passengers and express

matter. It was the avant courier of more rapid transit by the

palatial trains of the magnificent Union Pacific system which shod

the old trail with steel, though at the beginning of the era of the

Overland Stage such a railroad was regarded as an idle dream.