XXIICARRYING THE GREAT NEWS
“Lincoln’s elected!” The words continued to ring in Davy’s ears, and the flying shape of the Pony Express, bearing the great news, was constantly in his eyes as at trot and gallop the stage rolled along the Salt Lake Overland trail from Fort Laramie on. Irish Tom and his hard pushed pony were out of sight, but they were not forgotten.
The trail was almost deserted this morning; only one emigrant train was passed, and, drawing aside to let the stage by, it cheered to the three persons on the box: “Hooray for Lincoln!”
Davy cheered back; but Gentleman Bob and Messenger Mayfield looked straight ahead and said nothing. That was the fashion. Emigrant trains and bull trains were considered beneath the notice of the stage coach box.
However, in another mile something did attract the notice of Gentleman Bob, whose eyes were ever on the lookout, although he usually spoke little.
“Looks like trouble, yonder,” he remarked, pointing with his whip. “How’s your gun, Jack? O. K.?”
“Yes.”
“Better have it ready. Red, you get down in the boot under the seat and stay there, when I say so. You’re liable to be shot full of holes.”
Bob gathered his lines tighter and peered keenly. His jaw set, as, holding up his mules, prepared for sudden dash, he sent them forward at brisk trot. Messenger Mayfield shifted his short double-barrelled gun loaded with buckshot from between his knees to his lap and pulled down his hat.
Half a mile before, in the hollow of the sweeping curve which the coach was rounding, was a riderless horse moving restlessly hither-thither in the brush beside the trail; he was equipped with saddle and bridle—at least so Bob muttered, and so the messenger agreed, and so Davy believed that he, also, could see—but of the rider there was no signyet.
Indians! Then why hadn’t they taken the horse? Or road agents, as the bandits were called! The rider must have been shot from the saddle. And would the coach, passing, find him? Or were the Indians, surprised in the act, ambushed and waiting? Or whathadhappened, anyway?
“That’s the Pony Express horse, gentleman,” said Bob, quietly. “I know the animal. There’s been bad work.”
Mr. Mayfield, who was as nervy as Bob himself, nodded; Davy breathed faster, his heart beating loudly; Bob flung his lash, straightened out his team,and with brake slightly grinding descended the hill at a gallop.
“I see him!” exclaimed Messenger Mayfield. “At the edge of the road. He’s hurt, but he can move.”
Davy, too, could see a dismounted man—Irish Tom or somebody else—half raising himself from the ground, and crawling into the trail, where he sat waving his handkerchief.
With rattle and shuffle and grinding of brake the coach bore down, prepared to stop—and prepared for anything else that might befall.
Yes, it was Irish Tom, the Pony Express rider, and that was his horse, the saddle bags still on it, fidgeting in the brush. Tom was half lying, half sitting, supporting himself with one arm and waving with the other. His hat was gone, his uplifted hand bleeding, one leg seemed useless, and altogether he appeared in a sad state.
In a cloud of dust from the braced hoofs and locked wheels Gentleman Bob halted with the leaders’ fore hoofs almost touching Tom.
“What’s the matter here?”
Tom’s face, grimy and streaked and pinched with pain, gazed up agonizedly, but he did not mince words. The Pony Express rider was superior even to a stage driver.
“Catch that horse for me. I’ve broken my leg.”
Down from the box nimbly swung Mr. Mayfield;jamming his brakes tighter and tying the lines short, down swung Gentleman Bob. Down clambered Dave.
“How’d it happen?”
“Fell and threw me. Catch him and help me on; and hurry up.”
“Catch him, Jack; you and Dave,” bade Bob, crisply. “Where’s it broken, Tom?”
“High up, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll ride if it kills me. I’m late now.”
Luckily the horse was easily caught; his dragging lines, entangled in a sage clump, held him until Mr. Mayfield laid hand upon them. When Dave, with Mr. Mayfield leading the horse, returned into the road and hustled back to Bob and Tom, Bob was arguing tensely.
“But you can’t, Tom! You can’t do it, man! You can’t fork a saddle with your hip broken.”
Tom struggled to sit up—and the great beads of sweat stood out on his red brow.
“You help me on, and tie me there; that’s all I ask. I’ll make it. I’vegotto.”
“We’ll take you on to the next station, and the saddle bags, too,” retorted Bob. “That’s the quickest way. Strip that horse, Red. Give me a lift with Tom, here, Jack. Open the coach door.”
“But there’s nobody except the agent at the next station, Bob!” appealed Tom, wildly. “Who’ll take the express?”
“Then we’ll go through to the next station. They can send somebody from there, I reckon.”
Suddenly a great thought struck Davy—and he wondered why the same hadn’t occurred to the others.
“I’ll ride it, Tom! I’ll ride it, Bob! Letme.” And he sprang for the express pony.
Bob slapped his dusty thigh: The idea struck him.
“Go it,” he exclaimed. “Take those lines. Unbuckle your guns, Tom, old man, while I hold you.”
“Somebody put my spurs on him,” panted Tom, tugging at his belt buckle.
Words had been rapid, fingers worked fast; and almost in less time than it takes to tell it, after the halting of the coach, Davy was in the Pony Express saddle, with the final orders filling his ears.
“Now ride, boy; ride!”
Scarcely yet settled into the stirrups, he bounded forward (the jerk of the mettlesome pony almost snapped his head loose), and was away.
“Ride, boy; ride!”
Davy jammed tighter his hat; his feet clinging to the stirrups, he half turned in the saddle and waved his hand to the little group behind. They would see that he was all right. They were grouped just as he had left them: Mr. Mayfield standing, where he had strapped the spurs to Davy’s heels after Dave had mounted; Gentleman Bob half erect, over Tom, from whom he had passed the revolver belt.
But even as Davy looked, they all moved, preparingto lift Tom into the coach. Davy faced ahead and settled to his work.
“Ride, boy; ride!”
Well, hecouldride! he knew how; and if he didn’t know how he was bound to stick, anyway. There were the plump saddle bags under him, crossed by his legs; he was carrying the fast mail—and Lincoln was elected!
The pony ran without a break and needed no urging. He was trained to his work—a stanch, swift, apparently tireless animal. The wind smote Davy in the face, bringing water to his eyes; the sandy, beaten trail flowed backward beneath them like a dun torrent, the sage and rocks reeled dizzily past on either hand, and amidst the rhythmic beat of hoofs the pony’s breaths rose to snorty grunts.
Now another emigrant train for Salt Lake City and the Mormon colony dotted the trail before. Past them thudded Dave, and as he raced down the line he yelled shrilly:
“Lincoln’s elected! Lincoln’s elected!”
“By how much?”
“New York gives him fifty thousand!”
Dave was not certain what this conveyed, exactly, but it had sounded important from Irish Tom.
Some of the train cheered, some growled, but he speedily left both cheers and growls behind him.
The first of the stations appeared ahead—a blot of darker drab beside the trail. This was one of theway stations—the stations where horses were changed in less than two minutes. Two minutes was the limit, but frequently the change was made in fifteen seconds.
Dave’s pony seemed to know where he was and what was at hand. He snorted, and at pick of spur let himself out a little longer in his stride and doubled and stretched a little faster.
The station swiftly enlarged. A poor place it was, Dave remembered: a low log cabin, sod roofed, with rude log stable close behind it, and a pole corral. The station man would be about as rude in appearance: unshaven, well weathered, dressed in slouch hat, rough flannel shirt, red or blue, belted trousers and heavy boots. There he lived, by the roadside, 700 miles into the Indian country, alone amidst the unpeopled, rolling sagy hills through which flowed the North Platte River and extended, unending, the ribbon-like road. Dave could see him standing in front of the buildings, holding the relay horse and peering down the trail for its rider. The stations were required by the company to have the fresh horse saddled and bridled and ready half an hour before the express was due.
Dave knew his duty, too. Not slackening pace, he loosened from the fastenings the saddle bags under him. Up at full gallop he dashed, and even before he had pulled his pony to its haunches, he tore the saddle bags from beneath him and tossed them ahead. Then he was off in a twinkling, staggering as he landed.
“Quick!” he gasped, out of parched throat.
The station man had stared, but he grabbed the saddle bags.
“Who are you? Where’s Tom?”
“Hurt. Coming on stage.”
The saddle bags were clapped on the other saddle. Dave grasped the bridle lines.
“Bad?”
“Leg broken.” And Davy, thrusting foot into stirrup, vaulted aboard almost over the station man’s head.
One last twitch to the saddle bags.
“What’s the news?”
“Lincoln’s elected. New York gives him fifty thousand majority.” And away sprang Dave, headlong on the next leg of his route.
Thudding through the sand, clattering over the rocks, echoing through short defiles, ever urging his pony, rode Davy. He was resolved to go clear through, to the home station at Red Buttes, over sixty miles. The stations ahead had no means of knowing that an accident had befallen the regular rider; and to mount another substitute, at short notice, would consume valuable time. At Red Buttes Billy Cody would take the saddle bags—and to give them to Billy he must.
At the next station, fourteen miles, the station man had helpers in the shape of two hostlers or stable hands. They also gazed, astonished at sight of Dave instead of Irish Tom; but no one wasted precious moments in explanations. The conversation was muchthe same as before—and on his fresh horse Dave spurred again up the long, long trail. He passed a toiling bull train. “Lincoln’s elected,” he shrieked as before; but he was going so fast that he did not catch their response. He only noted them wave their whips in salute.
Horseshoe Station hove into view. This was headquarter’s station for the division. Here stayed, when not on the trail, Mr. Slade, the division superintendent; and he was in front of the station cabin with the other men, peering down the road.
Davy galloped in. He was assailed by a volley of queries—until Mr. Slade cut them short.
“No matter,” he bade curtly. “Fasten that mochila. Now ride, my lad; you’re half an hour late!”
“Lincoln’s elected,” gasped Davy, spurring away.
He was getting tired. His feet were growing numb, and his ankles were being chafed raw. Before he arrived at the next station, the Platte River had to be forded. As he passed through, a man sprang into sight, in the trail at the farther bank. Dave’s heart leaped into his throat. The man was partially screened by willows. He was armed. With ears pricked, the horse forged ahead, and the man waited. To leave the stream bed required a little climb up the rather steep bank, and as Dave reached it out whipped the man’s revolver and the muzzle was trained true at Dave. It seemed to him that the round hole covered every inch of his body. His horse shied and balked.
“Throw off that mail bag.”
The man was “Yank,” assistant wagon boss under Charley Martin! Dave recognized him at once, although the slouch hat was pulled low. But beneath the brim the eyes were those of “Yank.”
“No,” panted Dave, trying to hold his voice steady and think of what Billy Cody or Irish Tom would do. “It’s only election news.”
“Throw off that mail and be quick, too,” ordered “Yank,” with a string of curses.
Hardly knowing what he did, but resolved to do something, Dave plunged his spurs into his pony’s heaving flanks. With a great snort and a long leap the pony lunged forward straight up the bank. “Yank” uttered a sudden vicious exclamation and dived aside; but the horse’s shoulder struck him, hurled him aside, and at the instant veering sharply into the fringe of willows Dave sent his mount crashing through. The willows slapped him in the face and on the body. He bent low—in a moment more they were out of the willows, again into the trail, and tearing onward. He heard a shot—just one; but the bullet went wide, and thudity, thudity, he was galloping safe. A little shaky, Dave laughed; he felt like giving a whoop—although he could not spare breath for even that. He imagined, though, how mad “Yank” must be, and this was what had made him laugh.
Even with the excitement of the hold-up that failed, the road began to seem wearisome, the ride one monotonouspound. The chafing stirrups tortured his ankles almost beyond endurance—but not quite; no, not quite. The saddle chafed his thighs. His mouth was parched, he could scarcely breathe; he could scarcely see, when, ever and anon, his head swam giddily. He forded the river again. From throbbing pain, his ankles changed to the relief of numbness, and his feet, blistered, and his blistered thighs gradually ceased to be his; they felt as if they belonged to somebody else.
He had vague recollection of arriving at the way stations, of staggering from horse to horse, of being helped into the saddle, of voices hailing him, and hands and voices forwarding him on again. Once he passed the east-bound stage—and again he passed it, or another: and he piped to the staring faces: “Lincoln’s elected. New York gives fifty thousand majority.” The words issued mechanically, and he did not know what effect they had.
He had vague recollection that a bevy of Indians yelled at him and flourished their bows, and that he heard the hiss of arrows travelling even faster than he; but he could not stop to argue. The one fact that stuck in his mind was that he was nearly on time. “Three minutes late,” he thought that somebody said at the last station where he changed horses. And—“Go it, lad! You’re a plucky one.”
“Three minutes late” was all. The thought buoyed him up and glued him to his saddle. Gallop, gallop, over rock and sand, through brush and through thebare open and through occasional scrubby growth of trees; through shaded canyons, and through the burning, windy sunshine.
Was that Red Buttes? Was that really Red Buttes at last—the end of his trip, where waited Billy Cody? Supposing Billy wasn’t there; would they wanthimto continue riding, riding, forever? He uttered a little sob of despair, but he set his teeth hard, and resolved that he’d do it; he’d do it, if hehadto.
The road was hilly and his horse flagged. He spurred ruthlessly and struck with his hat. If he did not arrive on time he would be ashamed, for nobody could know how hard he had tried. Up the hill he forced his pony and would not let him relax into a trot. Down the grade he galloped—every forward jump a torment. Red Buttes—thatmustbe Red Buttes—wavered strangely amidst the level expanse before. But he reached it. At least he thought that he reached it, and he fumbled at his saddle bags to loosen them.
Somebody rushed forward as if to meet him and help him; and he saw, lined plainly amidst the confused other countenances and figures, the astonished face of Billy.
“It’s Red! Look out! He’ll fall off!” Billy’s voice rang like a trumpet.
“Where’s the regular man?” they demanded.
“Tom’s hurt—away back. I took his place.Quick, Billy! Go on. Election news. Lincoln’s elected.”
Billy vented an exclamation. He was into the saddle atop the saddle bags; he sprang away.
“Take good care of that kid,” he called back. “He’s a good one.”
“You bet we will.”
“Am I on time?” wheezed Davy, vaguely, unable to see straight.
“Two minutes ahead of time, lad.”
Then they picked up Davy and carried him in, for he had fallen. He felt that he was entitled to fall. Besides, he could not have walked to save his life, now that he was done with the saddle bags.