Some thirty or forty years ago, a mail-coach ran in the northern part of the state of New York, through the famous "Chateaugay woods." The forest was many miles in extent, and common fame and many legends gave it the reputation of a noted place for freebooters and highwaymen.
One morning the stage driver on this route had occasion to examine his pistols, and found, instead of the usual charge, that they were loaded with wheat bran! A daring villain had, through an accomplice, thus disarmed the driver, preparatory to waylaying him. He drew the charges, cleaned the weapons, and carefully loaded them with powder and ball.
That afternoon he mounted his stage for his drive through the Chateaugay woods. There was not a passenger in his vehicle. Whistling as he went, he "cracked up" his leaders, and drove into the forest. Just about the centre of the woods a man sprang out from behind a tree, and seized the horses by the bit.
"I say, driver," said the footpad, with consummate coolness. "I want to take a look at that mail."
"Yes, you do, no doubt, want to overhaul my mails," replies the driver; "but I can't be so free, unless you show me your commission. I'm driver here, and I never give up my mails except to one regularly authorized."
"O, you don't, eh? well, here's my authority," showing the butt of a large pistol partly concealed in his bosom. "Now dismount and bear a hand, my fine fellow, for you see I've got the documents about me."
"Yes, and so've I," says the driver, instantly leveling his own trusty weapon at the highwayman.
"O! you won't hurt nobody, I guess; I've seen boys playing soger before now."
"Just drop those reins," says the keeper of Uncle Sam's mail bags, "or take the consequences."
"O! now your'e joking, my fine lad! but come, look alive, for I'm in a hurry, it's nearly night."