Events moved rapidly now after the Pony Express had been announced. Three new horses were stabled at the stage station; two were wiry ponies, the other was a mettlesome horse of such extra good points that Gentleman Bob pronounced him a Kentucky thoroughbred. The station force of men were increased by Pony Express employees, and a rider himself arrived who had been engaged to take the run from Laramie west to the next “home” station, Red Buttes, ninety-eight miles. His name was “Irish Tom,” and he did not weigh more than one hundred pounds; but every pound of him seemed to be good hard muscle.
Irish Tom had come in from the west. He said that he had been one of sixty riders hired at Carson City, Nevada, by Bolivar Roberts, who was the superintendent of the Western Division of the Pony Express. According to Irish Tom every man had to prove up that he was experienced on the plains and in the mountains, and could ride. Altogether, there were eighty riders waiting, stationed all the way across the continent from St. Joseph on the Missouri to Sacramento in California; there were over 400 picked horses, which would gallop at top speed up hill and down, through sand and mud, snow and water and sun, for at least ten miles at a stretch.
The start from both ends of the route, from St. Joseph and from Sacramento, was to be made (as advertised) on April 3. Of course there was no way of knowing at Laramie, for instance, whether the start had been made; the Pony Express would bring its own news, for the railroad and the telegraph were the only things that could beat it, and these seemed a long way in the future. As for the Overland Stage, the Pony Express was scheduled to travel two miles to the stage’s one!
April 3rd passed; so did April 4th and 5th. It was figured at the post and stage station that on a schedule of ten miles an hour, including stops, the 600 miles to Laramie would bring the first rider through early on April 6th. The west-bound rider would reach Laramie before the east-bound rider, because the distance from the Missouri River was the shorter distance.
Davy was among those who turned out at daybreak to watch for the first rider. He hustled down to the stage station. The air was frosty, ice had formed over night, and the sunrise was only a pink glow in the east, beyond the expanse of rolling, sage-brush plain. A group of stage and pony express employees and of people from the post had gathered, wrapped in their buffalo-robe coats and army coats, shivering in the chill air, but waiting. By evidence of this group the rider had not come; but the fresh horse was standing saddled and bridled (he was the Kentucky thoroughbred), and Irish Tom was also standing, ready, beside it. Irish Tom wore a close-fitting leather jacket and tight buckskin trousers, and boots and spurs and a slouch hat tied down over his ears with a scarf. At his belt were two revolvers and a knife; and slung to his back was a Spencer carbine, which could fire eight shots.
All eyes were directed down the trail.
“He’s due,” spoke the station agent. And—
“There he comes!” shouted somebody. “There he comes!”
“There he comes! Hurray! There he comes!”