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.