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.