There have been several coach robberies in Port-Neuf Cañon and the vicinity since the one here recorded, but none in which life was taken. Indeed, attacks upon the downward bound coach became so frequent that for several years before the completion of the railroad the stage company provided for each treasure coach a guard, whose business it was to defend both treasure and passengers by all means in his power. Among the men selected for this duty they made choice of two who had figured conspicuously in the early Vigilante history of Montana, John X. Beidler and John Fetherstun.
The only stage station in this cañon was known by the very appropriate name of “Robbers’ Roost,” and I never passed the place without a feeling of mingled sadness and horror at the recollection of the tragedy which has given it such a bloody notoriety. Forty-six times have I passed through this cañon on trips from Montana to the States and returning. It has been with me a life-long custom to take my seat with the driver, and occasionally when riding through the cañon, clad in a buffalo overcoat, with headgear to correspond, I have experienced an instinctive feeling of discomfort at the thought that I might be mistaken for a guard, who is always deemed the legitimate prey of the road agent, and shot down by some avenging Nemesis of the band. The robbers, however, seldom demand the money or other personal effects of the driver or messenger, as these, being of small value, poorly compensate for the risk incurred in robbing the treasure-box and the passengers.
Among the various devices I had thought of adopting to escape robbery in case of attack, I finally concluded to act the part of a messenger, with whose methods long observation had made me familiar. The objection to this was that the robbers frequented incog. the stations on the route of their contemplated depredations, and knew the personnel of all or nearly all the messengers. No mercy therefore would be shown to any one who was detected in the attempt to personate one of them. The risk was too great to be incurred except by one who courted adventure, or where the safety of a large amount was involved. An opportunity finally came.
My duties as bank examiner required a visit to Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the latter part of June, 1878. Having completed my examinations, the cashier of the Second National Bank requested me on my return to convey to Denver a considerable sum of gold and currency.
The coach robberies had been so numerous for nearly a year on this route, that Messrs. Barlow and Sanderson, the proprietors of the stage line and the express company, had refused to transport treasure over it, and all packages of merchandise were sent in charge of trusty messengers. I reluctantly assented, they taking the risk of the safe conduct of the money,—the other risk, to me at least the greater of the two, my own safety, I had to take myself. I was the only passenger. No one else coveted a ride over the dismal route. The money was securely locked in my valise which was packed among the mail-bags inside the coach. On arriving at Las Vegas a change of drivers took place. Charley Fernandez, a half-blood Mexican whose acquaintance I had made years before while on the same trip, took the reins, and we continued on our way in excellent spirits. He was known by the sobriquet “Mexican Charley.” He was an excellent whip, and noted for his coolness in danger, and kindness to his horses. At Eureka, Mr. Stewart, the stage company’s blacksmith, who had been shoeing the horses along the route, got into the coach. Fatigued with overwork, he rearranged the mail-bags and spread his blankets, and, without my knowledge, removed my valise containing the money to the front boot of the coach. The first half of the night had worn away. Charley had told me a great number of thrilling incidents about the stage travel, and the trouble with road agents along the road. The subject, though interesting, was not at the time and under the circumstances particularly inspiring, especially as we were now passing through the infested portion of the route. I had contrived to fall into a doze, and in that creepy mood so common to people whose condition is half-way between slumber and wakefulness, had so con-jumbled road agents and stage coaches, that but for a fortunate jolt now and then, I should probably have fallen into the unhappy consciousness that I was really a victim to robbery and disaster. We were passing at a moderate pace a cluster of isolated hills, known in that region as “Wagon Mound Buttes.” The horses had just begun with slackened gait to ascend a grade, when Charley roused me from my revery by a quick, short, half-breathless ejaculation, “What’s that in the road ahead of us?” Every sense I possessed was roused in an instant. The trust I had undertaken gave me infinite concern, and I confess to an alarm bordering upon fear. If I had left that money behind, I thought, I should have little trouble in taking care of myself. Peering into the darkness at that moment partially dispelled by the rising moon, I discovered, about fifty yards in front, two objects just disappearing among the bushes by the roadside.
“I guess,” said Charley, reassuringly, “it’s nothing but burros.”
“Quite likely, Charley,” I replied. “We have seen them at intervals all the way.”
“That’s what it is, you may depend,” rejoined Charley. “I’ve often mistook ’em before for the blasted road agents. But I was a leetle skeered at fust, warn’t you?”
“Considerably, Charley. I don’t want to meet them this time, at any rate.”
“No danger, I guess,” said Charley, as he touched his leaders with the whip to urge them up the grade.