prepared especially for the occasion of the first trip through. It was
a new “Concord,” built by the famous stage-coach manufacturers, the
Abbot-Downing Company, of Concord, New Hampshire. The large round,
deep body was enclosed at the sides by canvas curtains that could be
rolled up; and behind, it was extended to form a large roomy triangular
pocket, or “boot,” for mail and baggage. The driver’s seat, in front,
was almost on the level with the roof; and beneath it was another
pocket, or boot, for express and other valuables. A pair of big oil
lamps sat upon brackets, at either end of the driver’s seat. The coach
body was slung upon heavy straps forming the “throughbrace,” instead of
resting upon springs; and here it securely cradled. It had been painted
red and decorated with gilt.
This coach had space for six passengers, three in a seat facing three
others in an opposite seat. The coach was filled, when it had arrived,
with the six passengers and a lot of mail; Wild Bill on the box, and
beside him a wiry little man, who was Captain Cricket, the express
messenger.
Bob Scott and Wild Bill ate dinner together at the station. The fresh
team of mules had been harnessed into the traces, and were being held
by the heads. Bob looked at his watch, drew on his gloves, circuited
the mules with an eye to their straps and buckles, laid his overcoat (a
fine buffalo coat with high beaver collar) on his seat, and grasping
lines and whip climbed up. Captain Cricket nimbly followed.
“All ready, gentlemen,” announced Bob, his foot on the brake, poised
to release it. The passengers came hurrying out and into the coach.
Bob gave one glance over his shoulder. Then――“Let ’er go,” he bade the
hostlers.
“Whang!” his brake released; the hostlers leaped aside; out flew his
lash, forward sprang the mules, and away went coach and all, in a
flurry of dust, for the next run, to Horseshoe Creek, thirty-six miles.
Run by run, up the Sweetwater River, over South Pass, down to the Sandy
and the Green Rivers, through Fort Bridger and Echo Canyon, one hundred
and more miles every day, would it speed, by relays of teams and of
drivers, until the last team and last driver would bring it into Salt
Lake.
Wild Bill took a horse and returned to his east station, to drive in
the next westbound stage. Every day a stage came through, and presently
the stages from the west began coming back. The driver who brought in
a stage from one direction took back the stage going in the opposite
direction.
The stages through to Salt Lake and to the Missouri brought considerable
new life to Fort Laramie. Papers and letters from New York and San
Francisco arrived so quickly after being mailed that it was easy to see
what a great treat this service was to Salt Lake and Denver and every
little settlement along the whole route.
Mr. Ficklin was general superintendent of the line, and was constantly
riding up and down. No person who passed by was better liked than
Superintendent Ficklin. Mr. Russell was in Washington, but Mr. Majors
appeared, once, stepping from the stage; and he had not forgotten Davy.
“Your pardner, Billy Cody, almost met his end this winter, my lad,” he
informed. “Did you hear about it?”
“No, sir,” gasped Dave.
“Well, he did. He was up in central Kansas on a trapping trip, and
lost his oxen and broke his leg and had to be left alone in a dug-out
while his companion went one hundred and twenty-five miles, afoot, to
the nearest settlement for a team and supplies. Billy got snowed in,
couldn’t move anyway, a gang of Indians plundered him and might have
murdered him, and when, on the twenty-ninth day――nine days late――his
friend finally arrived and yelled to him, Billy could scarcely answer.
Even then the snow had to be dug away from the door. But he reached
home safely and he’s getting along finely now. He’s plucky, is
Billy――and so was his friend, Harrington.”
“Maybe he won’t want to go out on the plains any more,” faltered Dave.
“Who? Billy Cody?” And Mr. Majors laughed. “You wait till the grass
begins to get green and the willow buds swell, and you’ll see Billy
Cody right on deck, ready for business.”
Back and forth, between Salt Lake and the Missouri River shuttled the
stages of the Central Overland, California & Pike’s Peak Express. They
seemed to be making money for the company, but rumors said that the
company needed more money; in fact, the company were in a bad way. The
expenses had been tremendous. The big coaches cost $1000 apiece――and
there were fifty of them. The harness for each four-mule team was made
in Concord, and it cost about $150. Then there were 10,000 tons of hay
a year, at twenty to thirty dollars a ton; and 3,000,000 pounds of corn
and another 3,000,000 pounds of grain, at several cents a pound; and
2000 mules at seventy-five dollars each; and the wages of the men――$100
a month and board for the division agents, $50 and $75 a month for the
drivers, $50 a month for the station agents, and $40 a month for the
hostlers who took care of the mules.
But even under this expense it seemed as though the passenger fare of
$125 to Denver and $200 to Salt Lake (meals extra at a dollar and a
dollar and a half), and the heavy rates on express ought to bring the
company a profit. Davy, trying to figure out the matter, hoped so. Of
course, it was not his business, but a fellow likes to have his friends
successful; and Dave looked upon Mr. Majors, and Mr. Russell, and Mr.
Waddell as very good friends of his.
He took a trip, once in a while, on the stage east with Wild Bill, or
west with “Gentleman Bob,” on quartermaster’s affairs, to some of the
stations. There always was room on the driver’s box, and generally Wild
Bill or “Gentleman Bob” was glad to have him up there along with the
messenger.
“Gentleman Bob” proved to be as remarkable a character as Wild Bill
Hickok. When approaching stations Wild Bill signalled with a tremendous
piercing: “Ah-whoop-pee!” and arrived on the run. Gentleman Bob
whistled shrilly. The teams for either of them had to be changed in
less than four minutes, or there was trouble. The Overland stage waited
for naught.
Wild Bill passed the news on to Gentleman Bob, and Gentleman Bob it was
who passed it to Davy, as one fresh, windy morning in this the spring
of 1860, Dave gladly clambered up to the driver’s box to ride through
to the end of the run at Horseshoe.
“Let ’er go!” yelped Bob, kicking the brake free; and to mighty lunge
and smart crack of lash the coach jumped forward, whirling away from
the station for another westward spurt.
“This, oh this is the life for me,
Driving the C. O. C. & P. P.”
warbled Gentleman Bob, flicking the off lead mule with the whip
cracker. No bull whacker in any Russell, Majors & Waddell outfit could
sling a whip more deftly than “Gentleman Bob,” a “king of the road.”
“Do you know what that means, nowadays, Red――‘C. O. C. & P. P.’?”
“What, Bob?”
“Clean Out of Cash & Poor Pay!”
“Aw!” scoffed Davy. “Is it as bad as that?”
“Pretty near,” asserted Bob. But that wasn’t his news. His news
followed. “Do you know something else; what’s going to happen next on
this blooming road?”
“Pony express!” hazarded Dave.
Bob turned his head and coolly stared.
“How’d you find out?”
“I guessed. Mr. Ficklin spoke about it a long time ago.”
“Well, she’s due, and Ben Ficklin and Billy Russell and Alex Majors and
that crowd are back of it. You saw Billy Russell go through Laramie
last month. He’s been buying hosses――the best in the country, two
hundred of ’em, at from one hundred to two hundred dollars apiece.
Read this advertisement in the paper; that’ll tell you the scheme.”
And reaching in behind the leather apron which covered the front of
the pocket or “boot” under his seat, Bob extracted a newspaper. He
indicated with his thumb. “Read that,” he bade.
It was a “Missouri Republican,” date of March 26. The article said:
TO SAN FRANCISCO IN EIGHT DAYS
BY
THE CENTRAL OVERLAND CALIFORNIA
AND
PIKE’S PEAK EXPRESS CO.
The first courier of the Pony Express will leave the Missouri
River on Tuesday, April 3, at 5 o’clock p. m., and will run
regularly weekly thereafter, carrying a letter mail only. The
point of departure on the Missouri River will be in telegraphic
connection with the East and will be announced later.
* * * * *
The letter mail will be delivered in San Francisco in ten days
from the departure of the Express. The Express passes through
Forts Kearney, Laramie, Bridger, Great Salt Lake City, Camp
Floyd, Carson City, The Washoe Silver Mines, Placerville, and
Sacramento.
* * * * *
W. H. RUSSELL, President.
LEAVENWORTH CITY, KANSAS,
March, 1860.
There was more than this to the advertisement, but these were the
paragraphs that appealed to Davy.
“Pretty slick they’ve all been about it, too,” resumed Bob, tucking the
paper away again.
“You’re right,” spoke the express messenger――who was Captain Cricket,
again on his way through to Salt Lake. “They’ve bought the ponies and
hired the riders, sixty of them. The route’s being divided into runs of
seventy-five or a hundred miles, and stocked with horses, every ten or
fifteen miles, for change of mounts.”
“Do you think it’ll pay?” asked Gentleman Bob.
“Pay? No! It can’t pay. But it’ll be a big advertisement for this
company. They count on showing the Government that the Salt Lake Trail
can be travelled quicker and easier than the old Butterfield overland
trail through Texas, and on taking the mail and express business away
from it.”
“I’d like to ride one of those runs,” asserted Dave, boldly.
Gentleman Bob laughed and cracked his silk lashed whip, of which he was
very proud.
“I expect you would, Red,” he agreed. “But this riding a hundred miles
or more at a gallop without rest is no kid’s job, you’d find.”
“Billy Cody’ll ride, though, I bet a dollar,” returned Davy.
Gentleman Bob scratched his cheek with his whip stock, and deliberated.
“Well,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder if he would.”
Events moved rapidly now after the Pony Express had been announced.
Three new horses were stabled at the stage station; two were wiry
ponies, the other was a mettlesome horse of such extra good points
that Gentleman Bob pronounced him a Kentucky thoroughbred. The station
force of men were increased by Pony Express employees, and a rider
himself arrived who had been engaged to take the run from Laramie west
to the next “home” station, Red Buttes, ninety-eight miles. His name
was “Irish Tom,” and he did not weigh more than one hundred pounds; but
every pound of him seemed to be good hard muscle.
Irish Tom had come in from the west. He said that he had been one
of sixty riders hired at Carson City, Nevada, by Bolivar Roberts,
who was the superintendent of the Western Division of the Pony
Express. According to Irish Tom every man had to prove up that he
was experienced on the plains and in the mountains, and could ride.
Altogether, there were eighty riders waiting, stationed all the way
across the continent from St. Joseph on the Missouri to Sacramento in
California; there were over 400 picked horses, which would gallop at
top speed up hill and down, through sand and mud, snow and water and
sun, for at least ten miles at a stretch.
The start from both ends of the route, from St. Joseph and from
Sacramento, was to be made (as advertised) on April 3. Of course there
was no way of knowing at Laramie, for instance, whether the start had
been made; the Pony Express would bring its own news, for the railroad
and the telegraph were the only things that could beat it, and these
seemed a long way in the future. As for the Overland Stage, the Pony
Express was scheduled to travel two miles to the stage’s one!
April 3rd passed; so did April 4th and 5th. It was figured at the post
and stage station that on a schedule of ten miles an hour, including
stops, the 600 miles to Laramie would bring the first rider through
early on April 6th. The west-bound rider would reach Laramie before the
east-bound rider, because the distance from the Missouri River was the
shorter distance.
Davy was among those who turned out at daybreak to watch for the first
rider. He hustled down to the stage station. The air was frosty, ice
had formed over night, and the sunrise was only a pink glow in the
east, beyond the expanse of rolling, sage-brush plain. A group of stage
and pony express employees and of people from the post had gathered,
wrapped in their buffalo-robe coats and army coats, shivering in the
chill air, but waiting. By evidence of this group the rider had not
come; but the fresh horse was standing saddled and bridled (he was the
Kentucky thoroughbred), and Irish Tom was also standing, ready, beside
it. Irish Tom wore a close-fitting leather jacket and tight buckskin
trousers, and boots and spurs and a slouch hat tied down over his ears
with a scarf. At his belt were two revolvers and a knife; and slung to
his back was a Spencer carbine, which could fire eight shots.
All eyes were directed down the trail.
“He’s due,” spoke the station agent. And――
“There he comes!” shouted somebody. “There he comes!”
“There he comes! Hurray! There he comes!”
Upon the dun sandy trail had appeared a black speck. How rapidly it
neared! Every eye was glued to it; Irish Tom put foot into stirrup,
hand upon mane; his horse, as if knowing, pawed eagerly.
Now the speck had enlarged into a horseman, rising, falling, rising,
falling, upon galloping steed. The horse itself was plain――and through
the still thin air floated the heralding beat of rapid hoofs.
The rider was leaning forward, lifting his mount to its every stride;
the horse’s head was stretched forward, he was running low and hard,
and now the steam from his nostrils could be seen in great puffs. On
they swept, they two, man and horse, every second nearer――and suddenly
here they were, the horse’s chest foam-specked, his nostrils wide and
red, his legs working forward and back, forward and back, his rider a
little fellow not much larger than Dave, crimson faced from the swift
pace through the cold night. He swung his hat, and whooped, exultant.
Up rose a cheer to greet him; and the crowd scattered, for into its
very midst he galloped at full speed.
He jerked from underneath him a set of saddle-bags, and ere he had
stopped he flung them ahead; the station agent sprang to grab them,
and before the rider had landed upon the ground had slung them across
Irish Tom’s saddle and shouted: “Clear the way!”
Into his saddle leaped Irish Tom, tightened lines, thrust spurs against
hide, and at a single great bound was away, bending low and racing like
mad at full gallop on up the trail for Red Buttes, almost 100 miles
westward again. In an astonishingly brief space of time he was around
the turn and out of sight; but the rapid thud of his hoofs still echoed
back.
XXI
“PONY EXPRESS BILL”
The name of the rider who had just arrived was Charley Cliff. As he
stiffly swung from the saddle, a dozen hands were thrust at him to clap
him on the shoulder and to shake his hand in congratulation.
“What did you make it in?”
“What time is it?” he panted.
“You arrived at five ten.”
“Is that so? Then I made the last twenty miles in sixty-two minutes.”
The horse looked like it. It staggered, weak-kneed, as the hostler
carefully led it to the stable. Charley also slightly staggered from
stiffness as he walked away with the agent through a lane of admirers,
for breakfast and sleep.
Before the east-bound mail arrived on its swift journey from California
to the Missouri River, Davy and everybody else at Laramie knew just how
the system was being worked. Charley had been well questioned.
Only the best horses were used――horses that could beat Indian horses or
anything else on the road. The Pony Express riders were supposed not
to fight but to run away. Their Spencer carbine and two revolvers and
knife were carried for use only in case that they couldn’t run away.
They all had to sign the regular Russell, Majors & Waddell pledge, and
each one was given a calf-bound Bible, just as with the bull trains.
Small horses were preferred, and a very light skeleton saddle was used.
A set of saddle-bags called a mochila (mo-cheela) was hung across the
saddle; each corner was a pocket for the mail. The pocket flaps were
locked by little brass keys, and could be unlocked only by the station
agents. The mochila was passed from rider to rider, and the mail was
taken out or put in along the route. Of course, the most of the mail
was through mail, from the East to the Coast, and from the Coast to the
East. The rate was five dollars a half ounce, and most of the letters
were written on tissue paper; the New York and St. Louis papers also
were to be printed on tissue paper for mailing by the Pony Express.
The limit was twenty pounds. Charley thought that he had brought
about three pounds. The letters were wrapped in oiled silk, so that
they would not soak with water, and were in Government Pony Express
envelopes, which cost ten cents apiece. Later Dave saw some of these
letters, directed to Laramie. Several addressed to the post sutler,
for instance, from merchant houses, had as much as twenty dollars in
postage stamps and Pony Express stamps on the envelopes!
Gradually the names of the Pony Express riders passed back and forth
along the line. There were eighty of the riders, forty carrying the
news in one direction, forty carrying it in the other. Out on the
west end――the Pacific Division――were riding Harry Roff and “Boston,”
and Sam Hamilton (through thirty feet of snow on the Sierra Nevada
mountain range!) and Bob Haslam, and Jay Kelley, Josh Perkins, Major
Egan. In and out of Laramie rode Irish Tom, and Charley Cliff, who was
only seventeen years old. In and out of Julesburg rode Bill Hogan, and
“Little Yank,” who weighed a hundred pounds and rode 100 miles without
a rest. Further east, down the Platte, were Theo Rand and “Doc” Brink,
and Jim Beatley, and handsome Jim Moore, and little Johnny Frye――who
took the first trip out of St. Joe.
Their names and the names of other riders travelled from mouth to
mouth――and soon tales were being told of storms and Indians and
outlaws and accidents that tried to stop the express but couldn’t. No
matter what conspired to stop him, the Pony Express rider always got
through. The first relays had carried the mail from the Missouri River
to Sacramento, California, 1966 miles, in nine days and twenty-three
hours――one hour under schedule! And after that the mail went through,
both ways, on schedule time or less.
So, regularly as clockwork, into Laramie galloped the rider from Mud
Springs, with the west-bound mail, and the rider from Red Buttes with
the east-bound mail; in fifteen seconds the saddle bags were changed
from horse to horse and out galloped the fresh riders. Davy burned to
vault aboard the saddle, like Irish Tom or Charley, and scurry away, on
business bent, to carry the precious saddle bags to the next rider.
But meanwhile, where was Billy Cody?
The question was soon answered by Billy himself when, one afternoon,
into Fort Laramie pulled a Russell, Majors & Waddell bull outfit with
Government freight from Leavenworth; also with Billy Cody riding beside
Wagon Boss Lew Simpson! Never was sight more welcome to Dave, who from
the quartermaster’s office espied the familiar figure and immediately
rushed out to give greeting.
Billy looked a little thin after the strenuous time that he had had on
the trapping expedition when he was disabled and snowed in helpless;
but he could shake hands and exchange a “Hello,” before he swung from
his mule and made for Jack Slade.
Mr. Slade was division superintendent of the stage and Pony Express,
with headquarters at Horseshoe Station, thirty-six miles west from
Laramie. Just now he was coming across the grounds and Billy stopped
him.
“How are you, Mr. Slade?”
“How are you?”
“My name’s Billy Cody, Mr. Slade. I want to ride pony express. Mr.
Russell’s sent me out to your division with a letter.” And Billy
extended the letter.
Mr. Slade was a straight, muscular, rather slender man, with
smooth-shaven face, high cheek-bones, cool, steady gray eyes and thin
straight lips. He had the reputation of being a dangerous man in a
fight, and already he had driven Old Jules, down at Julesburg, into
hiding. He was rapidly cleaning his division of outlaws and thieves.
Without opening the letter he scanned Billy from head to foot. Billy
stood stanch.
“You do, do you?” presently said Mr. Slade. “You’re too young for a
pony express rider, my boy. It takes men for that business.”
Evidently he did not know Billy Cody.
“I rode a while on Bill Trotter’s division, sir,” responded Billy,
eagerly. “I filled the bill there, and I think I can do as well or
better now.”
Mr. Slade seemed interested.
“Oh! Are you that boy who was riding down there a short time back, as
the youngest rider on the road?”
“Yes, sir. I’m the boy.”
Mr. Slade proceeded to read the Russell letter. It must have
recommended Billy highly, for Mr. Slade appeared to be satisfied.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. I shouldn’t wonder if it
would shake the life out of you, but maybe you can stand it. I’ll give
you a trial, anyhow; and if you can’t stand up to it you can tend stock
at Horseshoe. I’ll let you know your run in the morning.”
He walked away, and Billy turned to Dave with face aglow.
“I’ve got it!” he asserted. “Hurrah! It’s on the toughest division
west of the mountains, too! I tell you that’s no joke, riding pony
express――making eighty or a hundred miles at a dead gallop night
and day, and changing horses every ten miles or so in less than two
minutes.”
What luck! Or, no, not luck; Billy had earned it. That evening Dave
and he had a great old-time visit exchanging news. Dave did not have
much, it seemed to him, worth while to report, but Billy was full of
adventures, as usual. Davy heard again all about the trapping trip of
last winter, and how another Dave――Dave Harrington――had fought a heroic
fight with the snow to find Billy in the dug-out, and rescue him. Billy
was all right now; and after having had a short, rather easy, pony
express run down the line, was here anxious to tackle something harder.
Mr. Slade went on to Horseshoe early the next morning, but he saw Billy
before he left, and Billy got the assignment. He hailed Dave in high
feather.
“I’m off,” he announced. “But I’m on, too. I’ve got the run between Red
Buttes and Three Crossings! Seventy-six miles――about the hardest run on
the toughest division of the trail! Reckon maybe he thinks he has my
scalp, but he hasn’t. I’ll go through like greased lightning. That’s an
Injun and outlaw country both; and I have to ford the Sweetwater three
times in sixty yards! Slade’s a hard man to work for, too, they say.
He won’t stand for any foolishness. But I’ll get along with him all
right as soon as he finds out I do my duty. So long, Red. I’ll see you
later. You’ll hear from me, anyway. I told you I was going to ride pony
express, remember? I used to think I’d be president; but I’d rather
have this run than be boss at Washington all the rest of my life!”
He hastily shook hands. Dave envied him heartily, but he also wished
him success. Nobody deserved success more than Billy. Of course, to be
the youngest rider on the whole route from St. Joe to Sacramento was
a big thing, and nobody can blame Davy for a trace of honest envy. He
went back to his day’s routine. The bull train pulled out at once, and
Billy started with it for his new job.
Soon word from him travelled back to Laramie and Dave by Irish Tom, who
received the saddle bags from him at Red Buttes, and by Gentleman Bob,
who heard from him through the other stage drivers. “Pony Express Bill”
he began to be called; the “kid” rider between Red Buttes and Three
Crossings, on the Platte and Sweetwater Rivers of the Salt Lake Trail
in what is to-day south central Wyoming but which was then western
Nebraska Territory.
Great things were reported of Billy. One time when the rider west of
him was killed, Billy rode his own run and the other run, too, and all
the way back again――322 miles at a stretch! When Mr. Slade learned of
this he said: “That boy’s a brick!” and he gave Billy extra pay.
Another time bandits stopped Billy and demanded his express package,
which they knew contained a large sum of money. But Billy was smart.
He had hidden the real package under his saddle, and now he threw them
a dummy package containing only paper. When they stooped to pick it
up and examine it he spurred his horse right over them and was away,
flying up the trail――and although they fired at him they never touched
him!
Another time the Sioux Indians ambushed him, and when he dashed past
they chased him. But he lay flat on his pony’s back while the arrows
whistled over him, and he rode twenty-four miles without stopping.
Another time one bandit halted him in a lonely canyon.
“You’re a mighty leetle fellow to be takin’ sech chances,” said the
bandit, while he held his gun pointed at Billy’s head.
“I’m as big as any other fellow, I reckon,” answered Billy, coolly.