But even under this expense it seemed as though the passenger fare of $125 to Denver and $200 to Salt Lake (meals extra at a dollar and a dollar and a half), and the heavy rates on express ought to bring the company a profit. Davy, trying to figure out the matter, hoped so. Of course, it was not his business, but a fellow likes to have his friends successful; and Dave looked upon Mr. Majors, and Mr. Russell, and Mr. Waddell as very good friends of his.
He took a trip, once in a while, on the stage east with Wild Bill, or west with “Gentleman Bob,” on quartermaster’s affairs, to some of the stations. There always was room on the driver’s box, and generally Wild Bill or “Gentleman Bob” was glad to have him up there along with the messenger.
“Gentleman Bob” proved to be as remarkable a character as Wild Bill Hickok. When approaching stations Wild Bill signalled with a tremendous piercing: “Ah-whoop-pee!” and arrived on the run. Gentleman Bob whistled shrilly. The teams for either of them had to be changed in less than four minutes, or there was trouble. The Overland stage waited for naught.
Wild Bill passed the news on to Gentleman Bob, and Gentleman Bob it was who passed it to Davy, as one fresh, windy morning in this the spring of 1860, Dave gladly clambered up to the driver’s box to ride through to the end of the run at Horseshoe.
“Let ’er go!” yelped Bob, kicking the brake free; and to mighty lunge and smart crack of lash the coach jumped forward, whirling away from the station for another westward spurt.
“This, oh this is the life for me,
Driving the C. O. C. & P. P.”
warbled Gentleman Bob, flicking the off lead mule with the whip cracker. No bull whacker in any Russell, Majors & Waddell outfit could sling a whip more deftly than “Gentleman Bob,” a “king of the road.” “Do you know what that means, nowadays, Red—‘C. O. C. & P. P.’?”
“What, Bob?”