THE OVERLAND SERIES

ALDEN THE PONY EXPRESS RIDER

[The Sharp Crack of Weapons Rang Out in the Stillness]

THE OVERLAND SERIES

ALDEN
——THE——
Pony Express Rider

——OR——

Racing for Life

——BY——

EDWARD S. ELLIS
Author of the Deerfoot Books,
The Arizona Series, etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY
EDWIN J. PRITTIE

THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA

Copyright 1909, by

The John C. Winston Co.

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

CONTENTS

RACING FOR LIFE

CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY

Never did the town of St. Joseph, in the State of Missouri, pass through more stirring excitement than on the afternoon of April 16, 1860.

Every man, woman and child seemed to feel the pulsing in the air. Most of the people were on the street, though hundreds of mothers and daughters were at the upper windows, on the alert that something which was expected should not elude them. The men talked together in earnest voices, sometimes moving restlessly over the pavements, glancing at their watches and saying, in those hushed, eager tones which often accompany tense emotion:

“It’s pretty near time! I hope he won’t be late.”

“No fear for Alec; he’s always on time.”

“Poor fellow! he doesn’t look strong,” remarked a sympathizer.

“Alec Carlyle is one of those chaps that you can’t judge by looks; there isn’t a better horseman west of the Alleghanies.”

St. Joseph in those days was not a large town. There was room to hold in comfort most of the population on Third Street, and it was there that nearly all of them had gathered on this soft spring afternoon. Had you been a member of the crowd you would have noticed that the eyes of nearly every one were turned expectantly toward the one-story, brick express office on the east side of the street, between Felix and Edmond Streets. Something was going on inside of that modest structure, but as yet it was veiled from the public. Several men and boys who stood nearest the building tried to peep through the windows, but, unable to do so, intently listened. All that they heard was the occasional stamp of a horse’s feet, and the confused murmur of voices. But it was not hard for them to imagine the scene within.

It was about four o’clock, when a small cannon boomed from the side of the street, two or three doors distant. The report was a signal to the ferry boat to come across from the Ellwood side of the river and await a certain horseman who would soon arrive at the bank.

Only a few minutes had passed, when from within the stables near the express office, some one vigorously shoved open the doors. At the same instant, a wiry pony, with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils and fine muscles aquiver, made a tremendous leap which carried him almost to the middle of the street, and heading toward the river, plunged away under the prick of the spur, on a dead run.

Horse and rider made a fine picture. Silver mounted trappings decorated both. The man might have been mistaken for a circus performer, in his brilliant uniform, with plated horn, pistol, scabbard and belt, gay, flower-worked leggings, jingling spurs and fine boots with high heels, such as cowmen and rustlers affect. He was of slight figure, dark mustache, flashing hazel eyes, flowing hair and closely compressed lips, and he sat his steed with perfect grace. He wore the broad-brimmed sombrero that seemed scarcely affected by the gale which his animal created. He did not look to the right or left, nor notice the cheers, shouts and waving of hats and hands. He peered grimly ahead, as if his life depended upon his reaching the ferry without a second’s loss of time.

As the pony shot like a cannon ball out of the doors of the stable and sped with arrowy swiftness down the street, the two men with whom he had been in consultation within the structure stepped forward and watched him. They smiled, though there was a serious expression on each face, for both felt they were looking upon an epoch-making event. And it was Alexander Carlyle, the superb horseman, who was making it.

Neither of the couple took their eyes from him as long as he was within sight. One was Ben Fickland, superintendent of the stage line to Denver, known as “Pike’s Peak Express,” the uncle of the horseman. The other was Mr. Russell of the firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell, who had been running for years a daily coach from the Missouri River to Salt Lake City. The two were thrilled not so much by what they saw as by their knowledge of what it meant.

On the afternoon that I have named, the first “Pony Express” left St. Joseph, Missouri, on the long westward trip to San Francisco. The four small leather sacks holding the mail were each six by twelve inches, one being fastened at the front and the other at the rear of the saddle, so that the rider sat between them. The pouches were impervious to rain, and for further protection, the letters were wrapped in oiled silk and then sealed. The pouches themselves were locked, not to be opened until they reached their destination. It was ordered from the first that they and their contents should never weigh more than twenty pounds. A rider might carry several hundred letters on each trip, for all were written on the finest of tissue paper. The postage at first was five dollars for each letter, later reduced as the building of the telegraph line progressed, to one dollar an ounce. In addition to this enormous postage, the merchants who were awaiting the important missives joined in paying the carrier a liberal fee, when he maintained the schedule or made quicker time than usual.

Mr. Russell had been persuaded by Senator Gwin of California to start the Pony Express. He had made an arrangement with the railways between New York and St. Joseph to run a fast train; the Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad used a special engine, and the boat which made the crossing of the Missouri was held so that not a minute would be lost in transferring the mail. A piercing whistle notified the horseman that the boat was waiting for him.

About the same time, Harry Roff, mounted on a mettled half-breed broncho, galloped eastward from Sacramento. He, too, did his part in opening one of the most romantic episodes in the history of our country. Two sets of mail bags were approaching each other from points two thousand miles apart, and there were times when this approach was at the astounding speed of forty and even fifty miles an hour! The average daily rate was two hundred and fifty miles a day, but where everything was favorable, or when an express rider was fleeing from the vengeful red men, his pony struck a gait of twenty-five miles and maintained it, when an untrained horse would have dropped in his tracks.

When Harry Roff dashed out from Sacramento, he made one change and covered the first twenty miles in fifty-nine minutes. He changed again at Folsom and headed for Placerville, at the foot of the Sierra Nevada range, fifty-five miles away. At that point, he found a rider awaiting him, who, quickly shifting the two packed mail pouches, was off with the speed of the wind. Thus from point to point and relieving one another at comparatively regular distances, the entire run of 185 miles was made in a little more than fifteen hours. Be it remembered that in crossing the western summit of the mountains the horse had to wallow through thirty feet of snow. Not only that, but most of the distance was through a hostile Indian country, where a slight mistake on the part of the horseman was likely to prove fatal to him. There was no saying what boulder or rock sheltered a crouching redskin waiting exultingly with bow and arrow or rifle for the horseman to come within range. A white man was legitimate game for the warrior, as much as was the deer or bear, and the sentiments of the rider were the same regarding the warrior. One rider covered the last 130 miles of the western division, from old Camp Floyd to Salt Lake City, where his partner from the east met and exchanged mails with the comrade going toward the Missouri.

After the rider from St. Joseph had reached the river side, he passed upon the waiting ferry boat, and entering a room prepared for him, changed his fancy costume for what might be called a business suit. Hardly had the boat touched the other shore, when the eager pony was off again on a dead run.

It is worth remembering in these later days, that the route of the Pony Express westward was that which was followed by the Mormons in 1847, and by the emigrants a year or two later when on their way to California in quest of gold. Crossing the Missouri, the messenger veered slightly to the southwest, holding to the course until he struck the old military road, forty-odd miles distant, where he shifted to the northwest and crossed the Kickapoo Reservation. Then in succession he passed through Grenada, Logchain, Seneca, Ash Point, Guittard’s, Marysville, Hollenburg, thence following Little Blue Valley to Rock Creek, Big Sandy, Liberty Farm, across prairies to Thirty-Two Mile Creek, over the divide, sand hills and plains to Platte River, and then westward and up that valley to Fort Kearny.

When the Pony Express began operations, the messengers from St. Joe rode to the station of Guittard, 125 miles away. This was done every week, until two months later the service was made semi-weekly, when the first rider finished his run at Seneca, 80 miles out.

Fort Kearny was an old post in Nebraska. It is now a thriving town and the capital of the county of the same name. The trail from this point led westward for 200 miles along the Platte River to Julesburg, in the northeastern corner of Colorado, then to Fort Laramie, whose gray ruins stand to-day in southeastern Wyoming, fifty miles west of Cheyenne. Next, over the foothills to the northwest, and through the famous South Pass of the Rocky Mountains, by Fort Bridger to Salt Lake City.

This completed the long ride over the eastern division. From Salt Lake, the express rider strained every nerve to Fort Churchill, 50 miles away, thence to Rush Valley, or old Camp Floyd, Deep Creek, Ruby Valley, Smith’s Creek, Fort Churchill, over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and so on through points that have been already named, to Sacramento, whence the mail was carried by boat to San Francisco.

A glance at the map will show that this long run—not quite two thousand miles from St. Joe—was across and through the wildest portion of our continent. Rugged mountains, inaccessible to the ordinary traveler, had to be crossed, and only he who was familiar with the route could do it. Tumultuous torrents had to be forded or swum, where horse and rider were often hurled far down stream before the animal could clamber up the rocky bank on the other side. Those desolate solitudes were swept by furious storms of sleet, hail and rain, vast valleys were turned into swirling lakes, and the driving snow often blinded horse and rider, so he could not see twenty feet beyond the nose of his animal.

There were stretches of plain where the panting pony and his master could not get a drop of water for hours. When they plunged into the mountains in the depth of winter, the temperature was often far below zero, but the undaunted rider kicked away the snow on the lee side of some boulder, kindled a fire of dead limbs, when he could find such sparse fuel, but more often he had nothing of that nature. The tough little pony was wrapped about by his blanket, the master inclosed his iron body in another, or partly in the same one, lay down and slept, with never a dream to disturb his rest. But he could not forget his duty, which was so impressed on his mind that he awoke to the minute he had set for awaking. Probably the first faint streakings of morning were showing in the east, when he flung his blanket aside, remounted and dashed off again.

It will be understood that when the Pony Express was organized, it was necessary to establish relief stations at intervals of a dozen miles or so. Now and then these were separated by greater distances, when it was impossible to have it otherwise. Between the stations, the rider kept his horse at the highest possible speed. The average time scheduled was ten or twelve miles an hour, but where the route was favorable, the ponies held a speed of twenty and sometimes of twenty-five miles. Thus, as has been stated, the rider from the east and he from the west thundered toward each other at the incredible rate of fifty miles an hour—equal to the speed of an express railway train.

There were portions of the trail where no rider dared show himself and pony during the daytime, because of the Indians on the alert for his scalp. The intrepid fellow and animal remained in hiding till night. When darkness came the man stealthily re-saddled his horse, led him out from the covert in which they had been crouching, climbed silently into the saddle and resumed his headlong ride.

The late Major Chorpenning, remembered as one of the most prominent of freighters across the plains, told me that more than once he had labored through the mountains in the depth of winter when the snow under his feet was sixty feet deep! He was in Salt Lake City, talking with Brigham Young, when word came that the mail rider westward had been killed by Indians. The fiery-tempered Major bounded to his feet and swore he would follow up the rider, recover the mail and carry it to Sacramento. When he refused to take any companion with him, President Young forbade him to go, insisting that it would be sure death.

“I’m serving the United States and not you,” replied the Major, laying his hand on his revolver; “I don’t think it will be healthy for either you or any one else to try to stop me.”

So it was the daring Major rode out of Salt Lake City alone. Being perfectly familiar with the route, he made good progress. He had decided in his mind where the rider had met his death, and there sure enough he came upon the body. It was shockingly mutilated, and it was evident the man had made a brave defense. Chorpenning found his watch, which strangely enough had not been taken away by his slayers, and within a rod of where he lay were the mail pouches, unharmed. The pony, of course, was gone.

The Major strapped the pouches in place and resumed his ride westward.

“From that hour,” said he, “until I came in sight of Carson City, it seemed to me I was playing hide and seek with the Indians. The first thing that caught my eye was what looked like a crow sitting on the edge of a rock only a little way in front. A second glance showed that it was the topknot of a redskin, who dropped down before I could draw bead on him. He wasn’t the only one of his kind in the neighborhood, for I caught glimpses of several, and believe I winged one of them.

“Having found secure shelter, I waited till night before moving on again. For the following three days and nights I did not do a mile of traveling when the sun was shining. As it was, I pushed so hard that, being lucky in catching the boat at Sacramento, I reached San Francisco several hours ahead of schedule time. The people would not believe my story at first. I remember that the famous mountaineer Kit Carson was one of the doubters, but when convinced of what I had done, he declared it the most remarkable ride ever made by any man in crossing the plains.”

Since this chapter is introductory and intended merely to clear the ground for what follows, I shall close it with an account of the most wonderful ride in the history of the West. It took place in 1851, and the hero was F. X. Aubrey, who made a wager of $1,000 that he would ride alone from Santa Fè, New Mexico, to Independence, Missouri, in six days. The distance is not quite 800 miles.

With the grim resolve to win or die in the attempt, Aubrey sent half a dozen of his toughest and fleetest ponies ahead, and had them stationed at different points, to be used by him as he came up to where they were waiting. He galloped out of Santa Fè at a sweeping pace, smilingly bowing in response to the cheers of his friends who had gathered to see him start. Several undertook to accompany him part of the way, but his pace was so tremendous that he soon left all behind. He did not stop for rest at any point of that terrible ride. Arriving at a station, he halted just long enough to change horses, when he was off again at the same furious speed. He snatched a few bits of bread and meat, and ate them without drawing rein. Nature could not be denied, and he must have slept for hours at a time while automatically spurring his animal and holding his seat in the saddle.

The terrific strain killed several of his best horses, but he dashed into Independence, just five days and nineteen hours after leaving Santa Fè. He had to be carried into the hotel, where he lay in a stupor for forty-eight hours. But for his superb constitution and health, he must have succumbed. In the course of a few days, however, he fully recovered, having given an exhibition which will stand for many a day as a record beyond the reach of any horseman of the plains.

CHAPTER II
A QUARREL

I have tried to give you an idea of the scene in the town of St. Joseph, Missouri, on that afternoon in April, 1860, when Alexander Carlyle, the first Pony Express rider, dashed out of the stables and galloped full speed down the street to the ferry, amid the huzzahs of the excited multitudes.

You will recall the hint I dropped as to the appearance of the young man. He was a consumptive, and had to give up the trying work at the end of two months. Half a year later he died and was succeeded by John Frye. This daring fellow afterward became a member of General Blunt’s Union scouts, and was killed in 1863, in a hand to hand fight with a squad of “Arkansas Rangers,” after he had slain five of them.

Among the crowds swarming in St. Joe were three persons of whom I shall have considerable to tell you. Alden Payne was a lusty, bright-witted youth, seventeen years old, whose home was on a small farm, two or three miles from the town. His father owned the place, and he and his wife were industrious and thrifty. The couple, however, caught the gold fever, though the discovery of the precious metal in California was more than ten years old and the excitement had largely died out. They decided to sell the property and go overland to the Pacific slope. Their two children were Alden and “Vixey,” a sweet girl, eight years younger than her brother. In addition, Mr. Payne had a colored youth who had been turned over to him when an infant by his widowed mother, she having consented to become the wife of a big, lazy darky, with no love for other folks’ children.

Jethro Mix, although a year younger than Alden, was half a head taller, several inches bigger around, and more than twenty pounds heavier. It cannot be said he was bright, but he was strong, fond of every member of the family, indolent, and a good servant when forced to work.

Mr. Payne sold his property to Otis Martin, his brother-in-law. While making preparations to join an emigrant train soon to start across the plains, an unexpected obstacle appeared. Mr. Martin refused to pay over the purchase money, unless Payne kept charge and took care of the place until the following spring. At first, the owner believed he would have to put off his western journey until the time named, but a compromise was reached. Naturally because the delay impended, the couple were more anxious than before to start on the long, dangerous journey. They decided to do so, taking Vixey with them, but leaving Alden and the colored youth, Jethro, to look after the property until the middle of the following April, when they would turn it over to Mr. Martin, and follow the family across the plains.

It was the keenest of disappointments to the two youths, who, if possible, were more eager to start on the two-thousand-mile journey than were the adults; but this disappointment was greatly softened by the knowledge that the delay was only for a few months. The assurance that it was much better to set out in the spring than in the autumn had not a feather’s weight with them: they would have been glad to head westward in the midst of a December snowstorm.

It should be added regarding Alden and Jethro that, having spent their lives on what might be called the frontier, they had used every privilege which came within their reach. Both were fine horsemen, and Alden had no superior among the young men in the neighborhood as a hunter and marksman. The two spent every hour they could command in roaming through the forests, some of which were miles distant. While the colored youth did well when all the circumstances are remembered, he was by no means the equal of his young master in courage or in skill with the rifle.

Alden, accompanied by Jethro, walked into St. Joe and joined the spectators who were waiting to see Carlyle start on his ride of a hundred and thirty miles westward. They had known of his intention for several days. The enterprise bore so close a relation to their own plans that they felt peculiar interest in it.

“Gorry! ain’t it queer, Al?” asked his companion, after the gaily bedecked rider had dashed by on his way to the ferry.

“Isn’t what queer?” inquired his companion, in turn.

“Why, dat Alec Carlyle am gwine ober de same road dat we’re gwine to go ober in a day or two.”

“There’s nothing strange in that.”

“Why couldn’t we fetched down our war steeds and gone wid him?”

“He wouldn’t allow it; we should be too much in his way, and we couldn’t keep up with him for more than a few miles.”

“Dunno ’bout dat; Jilk and Firebug don’t take de dust ob any other animiles.”

Jethro thus alluded to the horse owned by himself and the mare which was the favorite of his master.

“That may be so, Jeth, but we expect to ride our horses all the way to California, while Alec will change his every ten or twelve miles.”

“Can’t we do de same?”

“How?”

“Why, ebery ten miles I’ll get into de saddle ob Firebug, and you kin get into de saddle ob Jilk: dat will be changing hosses.”

Alden looked at Jethro. The colored lad tried to keep a sober face, but had to duck his head and chuckle. He might be slow-witted, but he was not in earnest in making his proposition.

Alden made a feint of chastising the African, who caught hold of his flapping hat to keep it on and dived three or four paces away. Just then several cheers came from the ferry, and Alden withdrew his attention from his companion. Thus he stood, his back toward the negro, when it suddenly seemed to him that a runaway horse had collided with his shoulder.

The blow knocked Alden toward the middle of the street, his hat falling, as he strove desperately to keep his feet and barely succeeded. The next instant, as he replaced his hat, he turned hurriedly around to learn the cause of the shock.

A youth about his own age and size had violently bumped him. Alden was quick tempered and flamed with anger. The young man, whom he had never seen before, said something, but in his blind rage our friend did not catch the words.

“What do you mean by doing that?” he demanded, doubling his fists and striding toward the stranger, whose smile added oil to the flames. The other held his ground and seemed to catch the hot resentment of Alden.

“I can’t say I meant anything in particular, my red-faced friend; what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll mighty soon show you,” replied Alden, who, without an instant’s hesitation, launched his right fist at the face of the other; but he neatly dodged the blow and delivered so stinging a one on the cheek of Alden that he reeled for several paces. The single repulse did not scare the assailant, however, but made him more cautious. His antagonist was lithe and active, and coolly awaited the second assault, which you may be sure was not as blind as before.

The Express Rider having gone upon the ferry boat, the attention of the crowd was shifted to the two youths, confronting each other with doubled fists and savage countenances.

“A fight! a fight!” was shouted, and men and boys swarmed around the couple, taking care to keep far enough back to give them plenty of room.

It was quickly evident that he whom Alden had attacked was a stranger to every one in the crowd. None the less, it was equally evident that some sympathized with him, although the majority were with Alden.

“Give it to him, Payne! Knock him out!”

“Look out for yourself!” called a tall man to the unknown; “Alden is a fighter from Fight Town, at the head of Fight River; keep your eye peeled!”

“I’ll help you soak him!” added Jethro, bounding to the side of his master, putting up his big hands, see-sawing with them, ducking his head, and making several feints from a safe distance.

“Keep out of the way!” commanded Alden; “I don’t want your help.”

“Can’t get along widout me; you knock him ober and I’ll stomp on him and smash—”

His impatient master made a vigorous sweep with his hand which tumbled Jethro on his back, with his shoes kicking toward the sky.

“All right!” exclaimed the African, clambering to his feet; “den I’ll help de oder feller.”

And he ran across and assumed a fighting attitude.

“It’s time to teach Al some sense—”

But the stranger was equally impatient, and made a similar back-handed stroke which sent the colored lad down again.

“Keep away or you’ll get hurt,” he warned.

“Gorrynation! if dat’s de way I’m treated I’ll lick bofe of you!”

And in order the better to carry out his threat, he began fiercely doffing his coat. He made a great pretense of hurrying, but, before he could shed the garment, a man standing near seized him by the arm and yanked him back with a force that came near throwing him to the ground again.

“What’s the matter with you, Mix? ’tend to your own business.”

This same person afterward remarked:

“I noticed that it didn’t take much pulling to keep that darky out of the muss.”

The briers being cleared from the path, the two combatants now came together. The stranger did not retreat, when Alden quickly but guardedly approached, and after a couple of feints landed a blow fair and square on his cheek that staggered him. He held his feet, however, and advanced again. The two would have closed the next minute, with the result in doubt, but an unlooked for interruption came. A loud voice demanded:

“What do you mean, Ross?”

And without waiting for an answer, a tall man, with bearded face and dressed in rough homespun, strode forward. With his right hand he flung back the youth whom he had addressed, and in the same moment did the same to Alden with the other hand. His black eyes shone with anger.

“You young fools! I ought to spank both of you, and I’ll do it, if either strikes another blow. Off with you, Ross!”

If the youth called “Ross” felt no fear of Alden Payne, he held the man in awe. He dropped his hands, though they remained clenched, and tried to make excuse.

“He attacked me, uncle; haven’t I a right to defend myself?”

“How is that?” sternly asked the man, turning upon Alden.

“He pushed me almost off my feet, and instead of apologizing, added an insulting remark.”

“He is speaking false,” said the nephew.

“Probably you are right,” commented the man, who evidently had faith in the veracity of his nephew, “but there has been enough of this; come with me.”

“I hope you will let us fight it out,” said Alden, keenly regretting the interference; “I should like to give him a lesson in speaking the truth.”

“Please let us finish,” pleaded the other, with a beseeching look to his relative. Certainly there was no questioning the courage of either young man.

“Yes; let ’em settle it,” added one of the bystanders, uttering the sentiments of the spectators; “the fight will be a thing of beauty.”

Others joined in the request, but the man paid no heed. He did not lay his hand on his nephew, but merely said, “Come,” and strode off in the direction of the river. The youth walked reluctantly after him. Looking back at Alden, he paused a moment, shook his fist and said:

“We’ll meet again some day and have it out.”

“That will suit me down to the ground,” replied Alden, emphasizing his words also with a gesture of his fist.

“Gorrynation!” said Jethro, after the stranger was at a distance, “but it was lucky for bofe of you dat dese four men held me back. When I git mad, I’m orful, and if I’d got at you, dere wouldn’t anyting been left ’cept a couple of grease spots.”

This boast caused uproarious laughter. Jethro looked around in the faces of the crowd and asked reprovingly:

“What you all laughing at? What’s de matter wid you, Tony Burke? If yo’ doan’ shet up straight off, I’ll frow you down so hard you’ll make a bulge on toder side de yarth.”

This warning was addressed to a lad about the size of Alden. He was a clerk in a St. Joe grocery store, and known to everybody. His merriment was more boisterous than anybody else’s. The instant the threat was uttered, however, his face became sober. He took a step forward.

“Are you talking to me?” he demanded, and an instant hush fell on the bystanders.

“Yas, I is; doan’ you hyar me? Is you deef? You’s getting too sassy, Tone Burke; you need taking down a peg or two, and I’m de gemman dat am gwine to doot.”

“I’m your apple tart; put up your fists.”

“Who said anyting ’bout fists? I was talking ’bout wrastlin’; if your head warn’t so thick you’d understood me.”

“Very well; I prefer fists, but I’ll wrestle.”

“Fus’ holt!” shouted Jethro, his face lighting up with a grin at the advantage thus gained by his promptness.

“Suit yourself,” calmly replied the other.

Both were right-handed. Jethro because of his call secured the choice as to which side he should take, when they made ready for the struggle. Naturally, he placed himself on the left of his antagonist, and slipped the right arm behind his neck, with the hand over the farther shoulder. The white youth assumed a reverse position, making his left arm take the place of the other’s right.

Thus the right hand of the white youth and the left hand of the African were free. The two loosely gripped hands in front, for be it remembered the method described was the old fashioned way of wrestling, and is still popular in many parts of the country.

Alden Payne’s anger was wafted aside by the new turn of matters, and the eyes of all were fixed upon the couple. Alden took upon himself the duty of umpire.

“Are you ready, Tony?” he called.

“Ready,” was the reply.

“Ready, Jeth?”

“Ise allers ready; you oughter know dat, Al—”

Before he could end his sentence, his big feet shot upward as high as his head had been a moment before. The white youth with fine dexterity flung off the grasp of Jethro in the same instant, and he went down on his back with an impact that seemed to shake the earth and forced a loud grunt from him.

“First fall for Tony!” called Alden; “change holds!”

“Dat warn’t fair,” protested Jethro, as he clambered to his feet.

“Why wasn’t it fair?” asked the umpire.

“I warn’t ready.”

“You said you were; change holds.”

“I won’t wrestle if I’ve got to use my left arm.”

“That’s the rule of the game; you must do it.”

“I’m satisfied,” said the grinning Tony, who, before Jethro could back out, slid his left arm behind the burly neck of the African. In the same instant, the struggle was renewed with all the cunning, power and skill of which the two were masters.

Tony did not find his task as easy as before. Jethro was certainly a powerful youth, fully the equal of the other, but was slower of movement. He baffled two or three attempts to take him unawares, and then tried hard to lift Tony clear so as to fling him helpless to the ground. The white youth skillfully prevented. Then Jethro placed one foot behind the knees of the other, intending to force him over. It was a fatal mistake, for it left Jethro standing on one foot only. In the twinkling of an eye, as may be said, he went down precisely as before, and with as terrific a bump. But he grinned as he climbed to his feet and called out triumphantly:

“Dat’s de way I allers fetches ’em; I frows myself on my back and dey’re gone!”

CHAPTER III
WESTWARD BOUND

The “Southern Overland Mail” was the first transcontinental stage line in this country, and probably the longest continuous run ever operated in the world. It lacked 241 miles of an even three thousand. The terminal points were St. Louis and San Francisco. From each of these cities a coach started at the same hour, the first setting out on September 15, 1858. In order to avoid the stupendous snows in the Rocky Mountains, the course was made far to the southward, by way of El Paso, Yuma and Los Angeles. At first the schedule time was twenty-five days, soon shortened by two days. The quickest run ever made was twenty-one days.

This enterprise required more than a hundred Concord coaches, 1,000 horses, 500 mules, 150 drivers and 600 other employes. It led through flaming deserts for nearly half the way, where the deadly sandstorm, the torturing thirst and the sleepless enmity of Indians were a constant menace to the traveler. The vast scheme was that of John Butterfield, who did more than any other man in his peculiar conquest of the West.

For upward of two years and a half this line was in operation. Then came the Civil War, which compelled the course to shift farther north, and combat the Arctic cold and snows. The new route was from St. Joe to Placerville, the start being made from each of those points on July 1, 1861. The opening of the Pony Express was really intended to force this change of route, so as to make it lead through Denver and Salt Lake City. Ben Holladay had a stage route running tri-weekly to Denver and weekly to Salt Lake. He secured the mail contract from the Missouri River to Salt Lake, while the old southern route folks covered the run between Salt Lake City and Sacramento.

As regards the freighting business, the figures are beyond comprehension. The regular size of one of the freighting trains was twenty-five “prairie schooners,” each with from six to twelve yoke of oxen. The immense Conestoga or Pittsburg or Pennsylvania wagons were often six feet deep and seventeen feet long, flaring out from the bottom to the round covered top. They cost from a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars apiece; the mules, which had to be of the best, ranged from $500 to $1,000 a pair. Thus a ten-mule team was sometimes worth $7,000 per wagon, without including provisions, salaries and minor items. At one time, the single firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell had in service 6,250 of these huge wagons, and 75,000 oxen, more than were operating in all the rest of the United States.

Since our interest henceforward lies with the Pony Express, a few more preliminary words must be given to that unique enterprise. It has been said that the shortest time trip made by the Butterfield route was twenty-one days between San Francisco and New York. The Pony Express immediately cut this time in half, an achievement which ranks among the greatest of the last century.[A]

[A] In 1859, Ben Holladay had sixteen large steamers running between San Francisco and Panama, Oregon, China and Japan, operated 5,000 miles of daily stage coaches, with 500 coaches and express wagons, 500 freight wagons, 5,000 horses and mules with oxen beyond counting. His harness alone cost $55,000 and his feed bill $1,000,000 annually. The government paid him a million dollars each year in mail contracts. He was greatly crippled in 1864–66 by the Indians, who burned many of his stations and killed scores of employees. In the latter part of 1866, Holladay sold out all his interests to Wells Fargo & Co.

In order to meet the demand upon the originators of the system it was necessary to have nearly five hundred horses specially fitted for the work. Along the long, dangerous route, one hundred and ninety stations were established, and eighty sober, skilful, daring riders were hired. They had to be of light weight, since every pound counted. At certain stretches, where the danger was not great from Indians, the riders carried only their revolvers and knives, in order to save the weight of a rifle. The mail pouches, as has been stated, were not permitted to weigh more than twenty pounds. The most famous of the Pony Express riders was William F. Cody, or “Buffalo Bill.” This remarkable man was found when weighed at a certain time to tip the scales at a hundred and sixty pounds. This, according to regulations, debarred him from service as a rider, but because of his fine qualities, an exception was made in his case.

Each rider had to cover a third of a hundred miles on the average. He used three ponies in doing so, but conditions often arose in which horse and rider had greatly to exceed this amount of work.

In the month of May, 1860, a caravan of emigrants was slowly making its way through what was then the Territory of Nebraska. It was following the southern bank of the Platte River, and was still more than a hundred miles from Julesburg, just over the border in Colorado. The train was smaller than most of those which crossed the plains during those years when the lure of gold still drew men and their families from every quarter of the globe. The outfit consisted of six Conestoga wagons, each with six span of oxen, no mules, eight horses and twelve men, two-thirds of them with wives and from one to five children. In addition to the men, two youths, not quite grown, rode with them. One was Alden Payne and the other his African servant, Jethro Mix.

The head of the party, which was bound to California, was Abner Fleming—a middle-aged man, with a wife, but no children. He was an old acquaintance of Hugh Payne, the father of Alden, and willingly took the two youths under his charge while making the long journey. They were strong, willing to work, of cheerful minds, fine horsemen, and, as I have said, each knew how to use a rifle.

During the months of waiting, after the departure of Mr. Payne, wife and daughter, for the Pacific coast, our young friends had plenty of time in which to prepare for the undertaking. Of course, they saw to it that they had plenty of ammunition. Their rifles were muzzle-loaders, with percussion caps, but they used the conical bullet, and Alden had learned long before to shoot from the saddle with his horse on a run. Jethro Mix did well while standing, but he insisted that it was too “blamed bothersome” to hit anything when his horse was trotting or galloping.

The extra clothing and few necessary articles were placed in the wagon of Mr. Fleming, and, as was the custom, each vehicle carried quite a lot of provisions, though the owners counted on shooting a good deal of game on the way—an expectation that was not disappointed.

Among the men making up the company was only one in whom we feel special interest. He was a massive fellow, six feet in height, of vast frame and prodigious strength. His heavy beard was grizzled, but under his shaggy brows the little gray eyes seemed at times to sparkle with fire. He wore a sombrero, with a fringed hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins, and rode a powerful, bony Indian horse, larger than any animal in the train. The beast was not only tough and strong, but capable of good speed and great endurance.

None of the acquaintances of this singular person had ever heard him called by any other name than “Shagbark.” It was known that he was a native of the Ozark region, and had spent years with the American Fur Company, as trapper and hunter. From some cause he quarreled with those above him, and left their employ three or four years before we find him acting as guide for the emigrant train of Abner Fleming.

Shagbark had trapped many winters far up among the wild solitudes of the Rockies, and was so familiar with the overland route that none could be better qualified than he to lead a party over the plains. It may seem odd that though he had spent so much time in the West, and was there during the height of the gold excitement, he never passed beyond Salt Lake City. Many of his old friends urged him to join them in a trip to the diggings, but the stubborn old fellow shook his head. He preferred to fight Indians and cold and hunger for the sake of a few peltries, whose sale brought enough to support him in idleness between trapping seasons.

Shagbark was a peculiar character. He was fond of smoking a brier wood pipe, and often rode for hours without speaking a word to anyone, or giving the slightest attention when addressed. Mr. Fleming had hired him as a guide to Salt Lake, where it would be necessary to engage some one to take his place. When the trapper was asked to name his charge he growled:

“One hundred dollars a month in gold and found.”

“Very well; I am willing to pay you each month in advance.”

“I want it when it’s airned; ye’d be a fool to pay it afore.”

Nothing more was said on the subject. Shagbark crumpled up some dry fragments from a plug of tobacco, in the palm of his hand, punched them into the bowl of his pipe, switched a match along the side of his buckskins, applied the tiny flame, and rode to the head of the company without another word.

He always carried a long-barrelled rifle across his saddle in front, with a formidable Colt’s revolver at his hip. A keen hunting knife was an indispensable part of his equipment. Beyond telling Fleming and his companions that they were sure to have plenty of trouble before reaching Salt Lake, he made no further reference to the matter. He generally kept some distance in advance of the company and maintained a sharp watch of the country on all sides.

Shagbark was a man of moods. The second night after crossing the Missouri, when the wagons had been placed in a circle, the animals allowed to browse on the luxuriant grass, so well guarded that they could not wander afield, he came back and sat down among the group that were eating from the food spread on a blanket. He was so talkative that all were astonished. He laughed, chuckled, and went so far as to relate some of his strange experiences in the wild regions of the Northwest. He took special notice of Alden Payne. Sitting beside him, cross-legged on the ground, he asked the youth his name, where he was from and how he came to be with the party heading for the other side of the continent.

“I rather like yer looks, younker,” added the grim old trapper; “I hope ye’ll git through right side up and scoop more gold than yer hoss can carry.”

“I haven’t any idea of that,” replied Alden, proud that he should have caught the pleased attention of this veteran of the plains.

The conversation went on with no particular point to it, and before it was late, the guard was set for the night, while the others turned in to sleep. Shagbark explained that they were not yet far enough out on the plains to be in much danger, though he had had more than one scrap with the redskins still farther to the east. But he insisted that a strict watch should be set each night. The training was needed in view of what was sure to come later on.

Having had so pleasant a chat with Shagbark, Alden naturally expected pleasant attention from him. He waited till the man had lighted his pipe and ridden a hundred yards ahead, when the youth twitched the rein of Firebug and galloped up beside him.

“Good morning, Shagbark; it looks as if we shall have another fine day.”

The guide puffed his pipe without answering or so much as glancing at the young man. Alden said a few more things, but he might as well have addressed a boulder, for all the notice they received from the guide. Mortified and resentful, the lad checked his mare and held her until joined by Jethro and the others.

“He’s the queerest man I ever saw,” he said to the African; “I can’t get a word out of him.”

“Ob course not; I found dat out de fust day, when I axed him how old he was, what war de name ob his fader and mother, wheder he was married or engaged and who he war gwine to wote fur as President, and some more sich trifles.”

“I don’t wonder that he paid no attention to you. I shall let him alone after this.”

Three nights later, however, Shagbark was overtaken again by one of his genial moods, and won the good opinion of all by his jollity. He chatted with Alden as if they had always been the closest of friends, but the youth was alert. The next morning found the guide as glum as ever. He took his place well beyond the train, with the blue whiffs drifting first over one shoulder and then over the other, and Alden did not intrude.

Thus matters stood on the afternoon of a bright day, when the company was slowly making its way westward along the Platte River. The oxen plodded on, easily dragging the heavy loads, for traveling was much better than it would be found farther on. The country was level, and every morning seemed to bring a deepening of color and an increase of verdure. So long as this lasted the animals would not have to forage or draw upon the moderate supply of hay and grain that had been brought from the States.

Few of the men kept their saddles throughout the day. It was too tiresome for horses and riders. The latter sometimes walked for hours, or climbed into the lumbering wagons and rode behind the oxen. The children, of whom there were more than a score of different ages, delighted to play hide and seek, chasing one another over the prairie and then tumbling into the rear of the vehicles, where their merry shouts were smothered by the canvas covers which hid them from sight.

Alden and Jethro had tramped for two hours and were again in the saddle, their horses on a walk. Alden was surprised when, as they gathered up the reins, his companion heaved a profound sigh. He did not speak, and a few minutes later repeated the inspiration. Glancing across, the perplexed youth asked:

“What’s the matter with you, Jeth?”

“I wish I could tell,” he answered, with a more prodigious intake than before.

“What’s to hinder you?” said the other, not a little amused.

“I’m carryin’ an orful secret.”

“Seems to weigh you down a good deal; do you wish to tell me?”

“Dat’s what I oughter do, but I hain’t got de courage, Al; it’s been on my mind two, free times, and I started in to let you know, but I’se afeard.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Ob you.”

It was hard for Alden to restrain his laughter. He had not the remotest idea of what was in the mind of Jethro, and it must be confessed felt little curiosity to know. Understanding the fellow as he did, he could not believe that the “secret” which was bearing so heavily upon him, was of any account.

“I’ll promise not to punish you, no matter what it is.”

“But you doan’ know what it am.”

“Of course; that’s why I’m inviting you to tell me.”

“But when I do tell, den what?”

“Haven’t I promised that no matter what it is, I shan’t punish you, provided you make a clean breast of it.”

“You wouldn’t say dat if you knowed.”

“Have you killed anybody, Jethro?” asked Alden in the most solemn voice he could assume.

“Bress your heart, no! what put dat sarcumflexous idee in your head?”

“Have you been stealing anything?”

“Neber stole even a watermillion in all my life.”

“Because, when you were round, the owners watched their property too closely to give you a chance.”

Jethro’s eyes seemed to bulge more than ever. He said in a husky undertone:

“Al, it am wuss dan dem two tings togeder.”

“Ah, I know, then, what it is.”

“WHAT?”

“You have been smoking cigarettes; you look pale round the gills.”

“Pshaw! what’s de matter wid you?” muttered Jethro disgustedly; “you talk as if you didn’t hab no sense.”

“I am trying to suit my words to you. See here, Jeth, I am tired of all this; if you wish to tell me anything, I have assured you there is nothing to fear in the way of consequences from me. If that doesn’t satisfy you, keep the matter to yourself.”

“If dat’s de way you talks, I’ll hab to wait a while; daresn’t unburden my mind now; mebbe I’ll let you know to-night.”

“I don’t care enough to ask it.”

And yet, strange as it may seem, Jethro Mix did carry a secret, which, had he made it known to his friend, would have had a marked effect upon his subsequent life.

CHAPTER IV
THE DANGER CLOUD

The emigrant train to which our young friends belonged ran into bad weather, while crossing northeastern Kansas, and again before reaching Fort Kearny, in Nebraska. A cold, drizzling rain set in which made people and animals so uncomfortable that a halt of nearly two days was made. The oxen and horses cropped the lush grass which grew exuberantly, and their masters spent most of the time in the big covered wagons, where they were protected from the chilling storm. Some read the few books and newspapers brought with them, a number played cards, smoked and exchanged reminiscences, yawned and longed for the skies to clear.

During the whole period, Shagbark was in one of his grumpy moods, and rarely passed a word with any one. One night he told Mr. Fleming the weather would clear before morning. He proved to be right, as every one expected, and the cavalcade resumed its plodding tramp westward.

Then for days the weather was perfect. The sun shone from the clear blue heavens, unflecked except here and there by a rift of snowy cloud. The air was bright and clear, with just enough crispness to make walking or riding pleasant. The country was level or rolling. The eye, wandering over every point of the compass, caught no misty mountain range or peak, and the work of the patient oxen was play compared to what it would be when they should have entered the rougher regions farther toward the setting sun.

The course most of the time was in sight of the Platte River, which, swollen by the melting snows near the headwaters and the recent rains, was a broad, majestic stream. Yet there were times during the summer drought, when one could pick his way across dry shod. More than once, as the company went into camp, they saw the twinkling fires of another party who had also halted for the night. Once these starlike points glimmered to the south, once to the northwest and twice to the north, on the other side of the Platte. When it is stated that more than 40,000 persons crossed the plains in 1849, and that later 500 wagons were counted in one day as they lumbered past Fort Kearny, the wonder is that more trains did not meet and mingle. This was often done when a common danger threatened from Indians.

Jethro Mix and Alden Payne, with their ponies on a walk, were riding side by side, and the colored youth had just made his decision not to reveal at that time the secret which weighed so heavily upon him, when his friend exclaimed:

“Helloa, Jeth! do you see that?”

In answer to his inquiring look, Alden, who had turned part way round in his saddle, pointed to the rear. Far in the distance, a dark object was seen, which was quickly recognized as a horseman coming with his animal on a dead run. He was not in a direct line behind the train, but a little to the south. If he kept to his course he would pass a couple of hundred yards to the south.

On he came with his half-breed pony running as if a hundred lives were at stake. He made swift, tremendous leaps, his thin neck outstretched, his flowing tail streaming straight behind, with his nose extended, as he strained every muscle to reach his destination without the loss of a minute. His rider was a small man, weighing not more than a hundred and twenty pounds, and his riding revealed a master of the art. He leaned slightly forward in the saddle, the front of his hat standing straight up as if plastered against his forehead, the ends of the handkerchief looped about his neck fluttering in the gale caused by his own swiftness, while he occasionally pricked the ribs of his horse with his spurs, though such urgency was hardly needed.

As he flashed opposite, the rhythmic thump of the pony’s hoofs on the sod was heard by the emigrants, all of whom were gazing at man and animal. The former’s garments fitted so snugly that only the fringes over and back of the shoulders, and those on the thighs quivered. The trousers were thrust into the tops of his boots, whose heels were high and pointed, and after the fashion among cowmen and plainsmen.

The watchers identified his character at once, and needed not the sight of the broad flat flaps fastened across the saddle, one in front and the other behind him. He glanced toward the train, and observing all eyes upon him, raised a hand in salutation, but did not speak or make any further acknowledgment of the cheers. In a twinkling the emigrants were gazing upon his back, the ends of the fluttering handkerchief, fringes of clothing, streaming tail and flying hoofs of the pony, which flung chunks of earth into the air as he skimmed away on the wings of the wind.

“A Pony Express Rider!” said Alden; “how he goes!”

“How long hab he been doing it?” asked Jethro.

“From the station five miles back, and he’ll keep it up till he reaches the next station farther on.”

“What den?”

“He’ll shift his saddle and mail bags to a pony that is waiting, and then gallop at the same headlong speed for ten or twelve miles more, and change again unless that is the end of his run. This isn’t the first time, Jeth, we have seen those men riding like mad, and we are likely to see many more before we get sight of the Pacific.”

“I didn’t obsarve dat he carried a rifle.”

“He had none, but a few of the riders carry them; this one doesn’t think he is likely to need any, and so he lightens the load of his horse that much. Shagbark managed to say a few words to me last night, and one thing he told me was that the Pony Express riders sometimes miss it in not taking a rifle with them. They are so anxious to make schedule time that they run into danger. It often happens that when they most need a gun they haven’t it. I hope that fellow won’t be caught in such a fix.”

“Gorrynation! don’t he trabbel? Why can’t we do de same ting, Al?”

“If we could change horses every ten or twelve miles, we might keep it up for a day at a time, but we should have to have two or three hundred horses waiting for us at the different stations,” observed Alden, thinking to close the argument.

“How would it do fur us to ride ahead and fix it dat way? Den we could come back and skim ober de kentry like a couple ob muskeeters.”

“After we had placed our ponies at the last station this side of Sacramento, what should we gain by coming here and going over the ground a second time?”

Jethro lifted his well worn hat and scratched his head.

“Dat’s so; I didn’t tink ob dat; blamed queer how it slipped my mind—what’s de matter wid Shagbark?”

Before the flying horseman vanished in the distance, the emigrant train resumed its slow progress. The massive guide, on the back of his gaunt steed, kept his place well in advance. Often he went for hours without looking back to note in what order the company were following him, but now he had turned like Alden did a few minutes before, and, without checking his steed or shifting his course, was gazing fixedly to the rear. His brierwood was between his lips, and from the thicket of whisker and mustache the blue vapor issued as if from the funnel of a small steamcraft.

At the moment the two youths looked at him, he raised one of his huge hands and beckoned.

“His eyes are on us,” said Alden.

“He’s looking at me,” added Jethro; “he feels bad at de way he snubbed me jest arter we started, and means to apolergize; he don’t want you; notice now. Gee up, Jilk!”

The negro twitched the rein, and his pony struck a moderate trot. He had not crossed a fourth of the intervening distance, when the guide thundered:

“NO! I don’t want ye, ye black imp! Stay whar ye are! Young Payne is the chap I meant; why don’t ye come when I tell ye to come?”

The laughing youth spoke to his mare, and hurried forward.

“Wal, if he ain’t the mos’ umbrageous rapscallion dat eber trod on two legs,” growled Jethro as his friend passed him, hurrying to answer Shagbark’s call.

Acquainted by this time with the moods of the old trapper, Alden did not speak as he drew up beside him, but waited to learn what he had in mind.

“I want ye to keep with me a while,” remarked Shagbark, who had checked his animal and now resumed his progress on a walk; “I’ve something to say to ye.”

“I’m listening.”

“Have ye obsarved anything ’tickler?”

Uncertain what was meant, the youth replied:

“I can’t say that I have: what do you mean?”

“Ye carry a telescope by a cord round your neck; ’spose ye use it.”

Still in doubt, Alden brought the binocular round in front, and held it suspended with one hand.

“In what direction shall I look?”

“Anywhar ye choose, but thar’s no need of wastin’ time; p’int it ahead and a little to the left away from the river.”

The lad raised the instrument and scanned a fourth of the horizon to the right and left. At first he saw only the broad, level sweep of plain, and was about to say so, when something caught his eye. What seemed to be a half dozen or more specks flickered on the horizon, but even with the aid of the glass he could not make them out clearly and at first was in doubt.

Shagbark kept his keen eyes on the youth. He knew from the expression on Alden’s face that he had discovered that which the other meant him to see.

“Wal, what is it?” asked the guide.

“I am not sure, but I think a party of horsemen are hovering along the bank of the river, a little way out on the prairie.”

“Zactly; are they white or red?”

“It is impossible to tell at so great a distance.”

“Onpossible fur ye; what good is that gimcrack of yers, anyway?”

“It shows me what I could not otherwise see.”

“I never use them things, but my eyes tell me a blamed sight more than that can tell ye; them horsemen ye obsarved are Injins.”

“You have wonderful eyesight, Shagbark,” remarked Alden admiringly, again lifting the glass to his eyes and peering through them.

“I can make out the horsemen quite plainly, but that is all.”

“I seed ’em two hours ago and have been watching ’em ever since.”

“That Express Rider that went by will run into them.”

“No, he won’t; he ain’t such a fool; he’ll make a big sneak to the left and get past ’em; if it was among the mountains, he wouldn’t have half the chance, but he knows what to do and he’ll do it, as sure as ye are knee high to a grasshopper.”

“Why do they keep so far from us?” asked Alden.

“They don’t want us to see ’em, and they hain’t any idee that we do, but,” chuckled the guide, “they don’t know old Shagbark has charge of these folks.”

The old man seemed vastly pleased, and his massive shoulders bobbed up and down for a minute, while he puffed hard at his pipe.

“Do you think they intend to bother us?” asked Alden.

“No; I don’t think; I know it; we ain’t through with ’em; if they don’t pay us a visit to-night, we shall hear of ’em to-morrer night as sure as a gun.”

“Why don’t they make an open attack, as I have been told the Indians often do?”

“A red varmint never takes chances when he has a show of getting what he wants without it; there ain’t ’nough of ’em to ride up and open fire; don’t ye see that if they hold off till darkness, believing as how we haven’t an idee they’re within a thousand miles, and we ain’t keeping a lookout, they believe they can play thunder with us?”

There was no questioning the truth of this theory. Alden slipped the cord which held the glasses over his head and handed them to the guide.

“Try them; good as are your eyes, these will help you.” But the old fellow shook his head.

“I don’t need any of your new-fangled notions; when my eyes go back on me, I’ll resign and hike over the divide.”

Alden Payne was deeply interested in what he had been told. A crisis threatened in which under heaven all depended upon the sagacity of this veteran of the plains. The youth waited for him to explain his intentions.

“Ye see now the sense of my making some of the men stand guard every time we went into camp; they’ve been trained so they know how to do it; ye’ve had to take yer turn with the rest of ’em.”

“And glad was I to do so; I hope you will use me to-night.”

“Which is ’zactly what I’m going to do; that’s all I’ve got to say now; ride back to that thick-headed darky.”

“Shall I tell him what you have just said to me?”

“I hain’t any ’bjections; it’ll probably scare him half white, but ye needn’t say anything to anybody else, ’cepting Fleming; tell him to come up hyar for a little talk on bus’ness with me.”