Buffalo Bill and the Overland Trail / Being the story of how boy and man worked hard and played hard to blaze the white trail, by wagon train, stage coach and pony express, across the great plains and the mountains beyond, that the American republic might expand and flourish

by Edwin L. Sabin

The pony ran without a break and needed no urging. He was trained to his work—a stanch, swift, apparently tireless animal. The wind smote Davy in the face, bringing water to his eyes; the sandy, beaten trail flowed backward beneath them like a dun torrent, the sage and rocks reeled dizzily past on either hand, and amidst the rhythmic beat of hoofs the pony’s breaths rose to snorty grunts.

Now another emigrant train for Salt Lake City and the Mormon colony dotted the trail before. Past them thudded Dave, and as he raced down the line he yelled shrilly:

“Lincoln’s elected! Lincoln’s elected!”

“By how much?”

“New York gives him fifty thousand!”

Dave was not certain what this conveyed, exactly, but it had sounded important from Irish Tom.

Some of the train cheered, some growled, but he speedily left both cheers and growls behind him.

The first of the stations appeared ahead—a blot of darker drab beside the trail. This was one of the way stations—the stations where horses were changed in less than two minutes. Two minutes was the limit, but frequently the change was made in fifteen seconds.

Dave’s pony seemed to know where he was and what was at hand. He snorted, and at pick of spur let himself out a little longer in his stride and doubled and stretched a little faster.

The station swiftly enlarged. A poor place it was, Dave remembered: a low log cabin, sod roofed, with rude log stable close behind it, and a pole corral. The station man would be about as rude in appearance: unshaven, well weathered, dressed in slouch hat, rough flannel shirt, red or blue, belted trousers and heavy boots. There he lived, by the roadside, 700 miles into the Indian country, alone amidst the unpeopled, rolling sagy hills through which flowed the North Platte River and extended, unending, the ribbon-like road. Dave could see him standing in front of the buildings, holding the relay horse and peering down the trail for its rider. The stations were required by the company to have the fresh horse saddled and bridled and ready half an hour before the express was due.