“Think she’ll get through, Bob?” queried several voices, referring to the coach.
“Oh, I reckon. She’s been through several times before,” drawled Bob.
And by the looks of “her,” she evidently had been through something. It had been a beautiful coach, in the beginning, painted a glossy bright green, trimmed with gilt; but now it was scarred by storm and Indians. The very boot curtain behind Dave’s feet was punctured in two places by arrows, and there were other holes through the coach sides.
Bob glanced at his gold watch. He grasped lines and whip, nodded at the hostlers (they sprang from the leaders’ bits), released the heavy brake with a bang; to the crack of his whip forward leaped the six gray horses, whose harness was adorned with ivory rings. The watching crowd gave a cheer, and, driving with one hand, Bob played what he called “Into the Wilderness.”
Bob’s run was only to Latham, sixty miles down the Platte. Here he descended, in lordly fashion, from his seat—and out of the coach must issue the passengers, much to their disgust. The mails from the west had been piling up for six weeks, and were of more importance than people. Forty-one sacks were stored aboard by the station agent, until the coach was heaped to the roof, and the big boot was overflowing. The coach now carried a ton of mail—and Ben, Davy and the driver.
Express messengers rode an entire division, such as between Atchison and Denver, between Denver and Salt Lake, and between Salt Lake and Placerville of California. So Ben continued on, with Dave as his guest. The new driver was “Long Slim”—another odd character. “Long Slim” was six feet three inches tall, and so thin that he claimed when he stood sideways he wouldn’t cast a shadow. He was much different from dandy Bob Hodge; for he wore cowhide boots, a blue army overcoat, and a buffalo fur cap.
Long Slim drove to Bijou Station, and here another driver took charge. Stage drivers drove forty or fifty miles, or from “home” station to “home” station. In between, about every ten miles, were the “swing” stations, where the teams were changed. Meals were served at the home stations.
The change of drivers was interesting, and really made little difference to Dave, for none of them talked much; and as the coach rolled further eastward into the Indian country the talk was less and less. At the swing stations the teams were always standing, harnessed and waiting. The driver grandly tossed down the lines and yawned; the old team was whisked out in a jiffy, the new team trotted into place without being told, the station men handed up the lines to the box, and away went the stage again.
At the home stations the driver—“Long Slim,” or “Deacon,” or “Dad,” or “Mizzou,” or whatever he was called, followed his lines to the ground, said (if he chose): “All quiet so far, Hank,” and strolled into the station. If he mentioned a drink of water, half the station force rushed to get it for him. He was a king, was the driver on the Overland Stage!