Chapter VIII: The Pony Express (2)

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.