Part 16

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 them across 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.

XXI

“PONY EXPRESS BILL”

The name of the rider who had just arrived was Charley Cliff. As he stiffly swung from the saddle, a dozen hands were thrust at him to clap him on the shoulder and to shake his hand in congratulation.

“What did you make it in?”

“What time is it?” he panted.

“You arrived at five ten.”

“Is that so? Then I made the last twenty miles in sixty-two minutes.”

The horse looked like it. It staggered, weak-kneed, as the hostler carefully led it to the stable. Charley also slightly staggered from stiffness as he walked away with the agent through a lane of admirers, for breakfast and sleep.

Before the east-bound mail arrived on its swift journey from California to the Missouri River, Davy and everybody else at Laramie knew just how the system was being worked. Charley had been well questioned.

Only the best horses were used――horses that could beat Indian horses or anything else on the road. The Pony Express riders were supposed not to fight but to run away. Their Spencer carbine and two revolvers and knife were carried for use only in case that they couldn’t run away. They all had to sign the regular Russell, Majors & Waddell pledge, and each one was given a calf-bound Bible, just as with the bull trains. Small horses were preferred, and a very light skeleton saddle was used. A set of saddle-bags called a mochila (mo-cheela) was hung across the saddle; each corner was a pocket for the mail. The pocket flaps were locked by little brass keys, and could be unlocked only by the station agents. The mochila was passed from rider to rider, and the mail was taken out or put in along the route. Of course, the most of the mail was through mail, from the East to the Coast, and from the Coast to the East. The rate was five dollars a half ounce, and most of the letters were written on tissue paper; the New York and St. Louis papers also were to be printed on tissue paper for mailing by the Pony Express. The limit was twenty pounds. Charley thought that he had brought about three pounds. The letters were wrapped in oiled silk, so that they would not soak with water, and were in Government Pony Express envelopes, which cost ten cents apiece. Later Dave saw some of these letters, directed to Laramie. Several addressed to the post sutler, for instance, from merchant houses, had as much as twenty dollars in postage stamps and Pony Express stamps on the envelopes!

Gradually the names of the Pony Express riders passed back and forth along the line. There were eighty of the riders, forty carrying the news in one direction, forty carrying it in the other. Out on the west end――the Pacific Division――were riding Harry Roff and “Boston,” and Sam Hamilton (through thirty feet of snow on the Sierra Nevada mountain range!) and Bob Haslam, and Jay Kelley, Josh Perkins, Major Egan. In and out of Laramie rode Irish Tom, and Charley Cliff, who was only seventeen years old. In and out of Julesburg rode Bill Hogan, and “Little Yank,” who weighed a hundred pounds and rode 100 miles without a rest. Further east, down the Platte, were Theo Rand and “Doc” Brink, and Jim Beatley, and handsome Jim Moore, and little Johnny Frye――who took the first trip out of St. Joe.

Their names and the names of other riders travelled from mouth to mouth――and soon tales were being told of storms and Indians and outlaws and accidents that tried to stop the express but couldn’t. No matter what conspired to stop him, the Pony Express rider always got through. The first relays had carried the mail from the Missouri River to Sacramento, California, 1966 miles, in nine days and twenty-three hours――one hour under schedule! And after that the mail went through, both ways, on schedule time or less.

So, regularly as clockwork, into Laramie galloped the rider from Mud Springs, with the west-bound mail, and the rider from Red Buttes with the east-bound mail; in fifteen seconds the saddle bags were changed from horse to horse and out galloped the fresh riders. Davy burned to vault aboard the saddle, like Irish Tom or Charley, and scurry away, on business bent, to carry the precious saddle bags to the next rider.

But meanwhile, where was Billy Cody?

The question was soon answered by Billy himself when, one afternoon, into Fort Laramie pulled a Russell, Majors & Waddell bull outfit with Government freight from Leavenworth; also with Billy Cody riding beside Wagon Boss Lew Simpson! Never was sight more welcome to Dave, who from the quartermaster’s office espied the familiar figure and immediately rushed out to give greeting.

Billy looked a little thin after the strenuous time that he had had on the trapping expedition when he was disabled and snowed in helpless; but he could shake hands and exchange a “Hello,” before he swung from his mule and made for Jack Slade.

Mr. Slade was division superintendent of the stage and Pony Express, with headquarters at Horseshoe Station, thirty-six miles west from Laramie. Just now he was coming across the grounds and Billy stopped him.

“How are you, Mr. Slade?”

“How are you?”

“My name’s Billy Cody, Mr. Slade. I want to ride pony express. Mr. Russell’s sent me out to your division with a letter.” And Billy extended the letter.

Mr. Slade was a straight, muscular, rather slender man, with smooth-shaven face, high cheek-bones, cool, steady gray eyes and thin straight lips. He had the reputation of being a dangerous man in a fight, and already he had driven Old Jules, down at Julesburg, into hiding. He was rapidly cleaning his division of outlaws and thieves.

Without opening the letter he scanned Billy from head to foot. Billy stood stanch.

“You do, do you?” presently said Mr. Slade. “You’re too young for a pony express rider, my boy. It takes men for that business.”

Evidently he did not know Billy Cody.

“I rode a while on Bill Trotter’s division, sir,” responded Billy, eagerly. “I filled the bill there, and I think I can do as well or better now.”

Mr. Slade seemed interested.

“Oh! Are you that boy who was riding down there a short time back, as the youngest rider on the road?”

“Yes, sir. I’m the boy.”

Mr. Slade proceeded to read the Russell letter. It must have recommended Billy highly, for Mr. Slade appeared to be satisfied.

“All right,” he said. “I’ve heard of you. I shouldn’t wonder if it would shake the life out of you, but maybe you can stand it. I’ll give you a trial, anyhow; and if you can’t stand up to it you can tend stock at Horseshoe. I’ll let you know your run in the morning.”

He walked away, and Billy turned to Dave with face aglow.

“I’ve got it!” he asserted. “Hurrah! It’s on the toughest division west of the mountains, too! I tell you that’s no joke, riding pony express――making eighty or a hundred miles at a dead gallop night and day, and changing horses every ten miles or so in less than two minutes.”

What luck! Or, no, not luck; Billy had earned it. That evening Dave and he had a great old-time visit exchanging news. Dave did not have much, it seemed to him, worth while to report, but Billy was full of adventures, as usual. Davy heard again all about the trapping trip of last winter, and how another Dave――Dave Harrington――had fought a heroic fight with the snow to find Billy in the dug-out, and rescue him. Billy was all right now; and after having had a short, rather easy, pony express run down the line, was here anxious to tackle something harder.

Mr. Slade went on to Horseshoe early the next morning, but he saw Billy before he left, and Billy got the assignment. He hailed Dave in high feather.

“I’m off,” he announced. “But I’m on, too. I’ve got the run between Red Buttes and Three Crossings! Seventy-six miles――about the hardest run on the toughest division of the trail! Reckon maybe he thinks he has my scalp, but he hasn’t. I’ll go through like greased lightning. That’s an Injun and outlaw country both; and I have to ford the Sweetwater three times in sixty yards! Slade’s a hard man to work for, too, they say. He won’t stand for any foolishness. But I’ll get along with him all right as soon as he finds out I do my duty. So long, Red. I’ll see you later. You’ll hear from me, anyway. I told you I was going to ride pony express, remember? I used to think I’d be president; but I’d rather have this run than be boss at Washington all the rest of my life!”

He hastily shook hands. Dave envied him heartily, but he also wished him success. Nobody deserved success more than Billy. Of course, to be the youngest rider on the whole route from St. Joe to Sacramento was a big thing, and nobody can blame Davy for a trace of honest envy. He went back to his day’s routine. The bull train pulled out at once, and Billy started with it for his new job.

Soon word from him travelled back to Laramie and Dave by Irish Tom, who received the saddle bags from him at Red Buttes, and by Gentleman Bob, who heard from him through the other stage drivers. “Pony Express Bill” he began to be called; the “kid” rider between Red Buttes and Three Crossings, on the Platte and Sweetwater Rivers of the Salt Lake Trail in what is to-day south central Wyoming but which was then western Nebraska Territory.

Great things were reported of Billy. One time when the rider west of him was killed, Billy rode his own run and the other run, too, and all the way back again――322 miles at a stretch! When Mr. Slade learned of this he said: “That boy’s a brick!” and he gave Billy extra pay.

Another time bandits stopped Billy and demanded his express package, which they knew contained a large sum of money. But Billy was smart. He had hidden the real package under his saddle, and now he threw them a dummy package containing only paper. When they stooped to pick it up and examine it he spurred his horse right over them and was away, flying up the trail――and although they fired at him they never touched him!

Another time the Sioux Indians ambushed him, and when he dashed past they chased him. But he lay flat on his pony’s back while the arrows whistled over him, and he rode twenty-four miles without stopping.

Another time one bandit halted him in a lonely canyon.

“You’re a mighty leetle fellow to be takin’ sech chances,” said the bandit, while he held his gun pointed at Billy’s head.

“I’m as big as any other fellow, I reckon,” answered Billy, coolly.

“How do you figure that?” asked the bandit.

Billy tapped his Colt’s revolver.

“I may be little, but I can shoot as hard as if I were General Jackson,” he warned.

“I expect you can, an’ I reckon you would,” chuckled the bandit, tickled with Billy’s nerve; and he let him ride on.

So it was not long before “Pony Express Bill” was drawing $150 a month pay, which was the top wages paid on the road.

Meanwhile Dave felt that his work at Fort Laramie was rather tame. It was just the same thing day after day, with only ordinary pay, and three meals a day, and a good bed at night, and a lot of friends――and――and――that seemed about all, except that he was learning all the time from books and from the people about him; and he knew that he was growing inside as well as outside. To tell the truth, he was doing first-rate and getting ahead, and was being given more and more responsibility and showing that he could carry it; but of course he wanted to prove his pluck by riding pony express. That _seemed_ bigger――whether it really was or not.

His chance came, as it generally does to everybody who waits for it and holds himself ready. All the summer there had been talk among the army officers at the post and between them and the stage passengers who passed through of affairs in the East, where a presidential campaign was being hotly carried on. It appeared, by the talk and by the papers, that a man named Abraham Lincoln was a candidate of the North, and that Stephen A. Douglas was a candidate of the South, and that if Mr. Lincoln was elected South Carolina and other Southern States threatened to withdraw from the Union. They claimed that each State had the right of governing itself, and that States and Territories should decide for themselves whether or not they would own slaves within their borders.

The question as to whether Kansas should be “slave” or “free” had caused fighting when that territory was being settled; and Billy Cody’s father, who was a “Free State” man, had been so badly stabbed that he never recovered. The settlement of Nebraska Territory also had brought on much bitter feeling between North and South――for the North was against the extension of slavery. So was Abraham Lincoln. The army officers at Fort Laramie, some of whom were Northerners and some Southerners, declared that the election of Lincoln would mean war; according to the Northern officers, if the Southern States tried to withdraw; according to the Southern officers, if the Southern States were not permitted to withdraw.

The election was to be held on November 6, and it would be November 10 before the news of who won could reach Laramie by the Pony Express. That was a long time at the best when such important events were occurring; but even at that Davy (who was as impatient as anybody) found that he might be disappointed, for he was ordered by Captain Brown to take the stage west in the morning and go up the line to Horseshoe Station on Government business.

When the stage left, early, Irish Tom was still standing ready beside his horse to take the saddle bag from Charley Cliff. Charley had not come――and it was learned afterward that the mail was late in starting from St. Joseph because it had waited for the election news.

So Dave mounted the driver’s box on the C. O. C. & P. P. stage beside Gentleman Bob, and they drove away and left the unknown news behind them.

However, not for long. They had gone scarcely fifteen miles when Gentleman Bob, who had been constantly glancing over his shoulder, exclaimed: “There he comes! Look at him, will you!”

By “he” could be meant only one person――the Pony Express rider. Yes, the Pony Express it was――a dark spot, rising, falling, rising, falling, pelting up the dusty trail.

“He’s certainly going some,” commented the stage messenger, who this time was not Captain Cricket, but was Jack Mayfield.

Bob flung his lash over the backs of his four mules and broke them into a gallop. But although the stage was empty this trip and the mules fresh, and the road smooth, the pony express closed in as fast as if the coach were standing still.

“Going to pass us,” laughed Bob, and slowed his team.

And the pony express _did_ pass them. There was sudden staccato of hoofs, like a long roll of a drum――a rush, a whoop――“Who’s elected?” yelled Bob, turning in his seat to meet the onswoop.

“Lincoln. New York gives fifty thousand majority,” shouted back Irish Tom; and in a cloud of dust he was away, leaving a flake of froth on the coach box at Davy’s feet.

“Lincoln, huh?” remarked Gentleman Bob. “Well, I wonder what’ll happen now. But that boy’s sure riding,” and he gazed reflectively after Irish Tom.

XXII

CARRYING 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 sign _yet_.

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 what _had_ happened, 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’ve _got_ to.”

“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! Let _me_.” 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, preparing to lift Tom into the coach. Davy faced ahead and settled to his work.

“Ride, boy; ride!”

Well, he _could_ ride! 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 the way 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.