Chapter VIII: The Pony Express (1)

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.”