Alden the Pony Express rider

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

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.