XXFAST TIME TO CALIFORNIA
Dave was heartily glad to see Wild Bill again—and Wild Bill seemed glad to see Davy.
“I heard you were out in this region,” said Wild Bill, after they had shaken hands. “Billy Cody told me.”
“When did you see him, Bill?”
“Last time was when I was out to his house about a month ago. He was planning on a trapping and hunting trip with a man named Harrington up in the Republican country north of Junction City. But he’ll be on the trail again in the spring; you mark my word.”
“So you’re driving stage, are you, Bill?”
“Yes; I’m running between Horse Creek and Laramie, forty-two miles. It’s a great outfit, the C. O. C. & P. P.—the finest coaches and mules I’ve ever seen, and plenty of stations and feed. Now it’s up to the drivers to make the schedule.” And Wild Bill sauntered off, nodding to acquaintances, to wash and eat.
Davy joined the group admiring the coach. Itevidently had been 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 beavercollar) 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 Lakeand 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 thewillow 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.”
“This, oh this is the life for me,Driving the C. O. C. & P. P.”
“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 DAYSBYTHE CENTRAL OVERLAND CALIFORNIAANDPIKE’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.
TO SAN FRANCISCO IN EIGHT DAYSBYTHE CENTRAL OVERLAND CALIFORNIAANDPIKE’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 otherwas 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 seemeda 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 themacross 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.