CHAPTER III
WESTWARD BOUND
THE “Southern Overland Mail” was the first transcontinental stage line in this country, and probably the longest continuous run ever operated in the world. It lacked 241 miles of an even three thousand. The terminal points were St. Louis and San Francisco. From each of these cities a coach started at the same hour, the first setting out on September 15, 1858. In order to avoid the stupendous snows in the Rocky Mountains, the course was made far to the southward, by way of El Paso, Yuma and Los Angeles. At first the schedule time was twenty-five days, soon shortened by two days. The quickest run ever made was twenty-one days.
This enterprise required more than a hundred Concord coaches, 1,000 horses, 500 mules, 150 drivers and 600 other employes. It led through flaming deserts for nearly half the way, where the deadly sandstorm, the torturing thirst and the sleepless enmity of Indians were a constant menace to the traveler. The vast scheme was that of John Butterfield, who did more than any other man in his peculiar conquest of the West.
For upward of two years and a half this line was in operation. Then came the Civil War, which compelled the course to shift farther north, and combat the Arctic cold and snows. The new route was from St. Joe to Placerville, the start being made from each of those points on July 1, 1861. The opening of the Pony Express was really intended to force this change of route, so as to make it lead through Denver and Salt Lake City. Ben Holladay had a stage route running tri-weekly to Denver and weekly to Salt Lake. He secured the mail contract from the Missouri River to Salt Lake, while the old southern route folks covered the run between Salt Lake City and Sacramento.
As regards the freighting business, the figures are beyond comprehension. The regular size of one of the freighting trains was twenty-five “prairie schooners,” each with from six to twelve yoke of oxen. The immense Conestoga or Pittsburg or Pennsylvania wagons were often six feet deep and seventeen feet long, flaring out from the bottom to the round covered top. They cost from a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars apiece; the mules, which had to be of the best, ranged from $500 to $1,000 a pair. Thus a ten-mule team was sometimes worth $7,000 per wagon, without including provisions, salaries and minor items. At one time, the single firm of Russell, Majors & Waddell had in service 6,250 of these huge wagons, and 75,000 oxen, more than were operating in all the rest of the United States.
Since our interest henceforward lies with the Pony Express, a few more preliminary words must be given to that unique enterprise. It has been said that the shortest time trip the Butterfield route was twenty-one days between San Francisco and New York. The Pony Express immediately cut this time in half, an achievement which ranks among the greatest of the last century. [1]
In order to meet the demand upon the originators of the system it was necessary to have nearly five hundred horses specially fitted for the work. Along the long, dangerous route, one hundred and ninety stations were established, and eighty sober, skilful, daring riders were hired. They had to be of light weight, since every pound counted. At certain stretches, where the danger was not great from Indians, the riders carried only their revolvers and knives, in order to save the weight of a rifle. The mail pouches, as has been stated, were not permitted to weigh more than twenty pounds. The most famous of the Pony Express riders was William F. Cody, or “Buffalo Bill.” This remarkable man was found when weighed at a certain time to tip the scales at a hundred and sixty pounds. This, according to regulations, debarred him from service as a rider, but because of his fine qualities, an exception was made in his case.
Each rider had to cover a third of a hundred miles on the average. He used three ponies in doing so, but conditions often arose in which horse and rider had greatly to exceed this amount of work.
In the month of May, 1860, a caravan of emigrants was slowly making its way through what was then the Territory of Nebraska. It was following the southern bank of the Platte River, and was still more than a hundred miles from Julesburg, just over the border in Colorado. The train was smaller than most of those which crossed the plains during those years when the lure of gold still drew men and their families from every quarter of the globe. The outfit consisted of six Conestoga wagons, each with six span of oxen, no mules, eight horses and twelve men, two-thirds of them with wives and from one to five children. In addition to the men, two youths, not quite grown, rode with them. One was Alden Payne and the other his African servant, Jethro Mix.
The head of the party, which was bound to California, was Abner Fleming—a middle-aged man, with a wife, but no children. He was an old acquaintance of Hugh Payne, the father of Alden, and willingly took the two youths under his charge while making the long journey. They were strong, willing to work, of cheerful minds, fine horsemen, and, as I have said, each knew how to use a rifle.
During the months of waiting, after the departure of Mr. Payne, wife and daughter, for the Pacific coast, our young friends had plenty of time in which to prepare for the undertaking. Of course, they saw to it that they had plenty of ammunition. Their rifles were muzzle-loaders, with percussion caps, but they used the conical bullet, and Alden had learned long before to shoot from the saddle with his horse on a run. Jethro Mix did well while standing, but he insisted that it was too “blamed bothersome” to hit anything when his horse was trotting or galloping.
The extra clothing and few necessary articles were placed in the wagon of Mr. Fleming, and, as was the custom, each vehicle carried quite a lot of provisions, though the owners counted on shooting a good deal of game on the way—an expectation that was not disappointed.
Among the men making up the company was only one in whom we feel special interest. He was a massive fellow, six feet in height, of vast frame and prodigious strength. His heavy beard was grizzled, but under his shaggy brows the little gray eyes seemed at times to sparkle with fire. He wore a sombrero, with a fringed hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins, and rode a powerful, bony Indian horse, larger than any animal in the train. The beast was not only tough and strong, but capable of good speed and great endurance.
None of the acquaintances of this singular person had ever heard him called by any other name than “Shagbark.” It was known that he was a native of the Ozark region, and had spent years with the American Fur Company, as trapper and hunter. From some cause he quarreled with those above him, and left their employ three or four years before we find him acting as guide for the emigrant train of Abner Fleming.
Shagbark had trapped many winters far up among the wild solitudes of the Rockies, and was so familiar with the overland route that none could be better qualified than he to lead a party over the plains. It may seem odd that though he had spent so much time in the West, and was there during the height of the gold excitement, he never passed beyond Salt Lake City. Many of his old friends urged him to join them in a trip to the diggings, but the stubborn old fellow shook his head. He preferred to fight Indians and cold and hunger for the sake of a few peltries, whose sale brought enough to support him in idleness between trapping seasons.
Shagbark was a peculiar character. He was fond of smoking a brier wood pipe, and often rode for hours without speaking a word to anyone, or giving the slightest attention when addressed. Mr. Fleming had hired him as a guide to Salt Lake, where it would be necessary to engage some one to take his place. When the trapper was asked to name his charge he growled:
“One hundred dollars a month in gold and found.”
“Very well; I am willing to pay you each month in advance.”
“I want it when it’s airned; ye’d be a fool to pay it afore.”
Nothing more was said on the subject. Shagbark crumpled up some dry fragments from a plug of tobacco, in the palm of his hand, punched them into the bowl of his pipe, switched a match along the side of his buckskins, applied the tiny flame, and rode to the head of the company without another word.
He always carried a long-barrelled rifle across his saddle in front, with a formidable Colt’s revolver at his hip. A keen hunting knife was an indispensable part of his equipment. Beyond telling Fleming and his companions that they were sure to have plenty of trouble before reaching Salt Lake, he made no further reference to the matter. He generally kept some distance in advance of the company and maintained a sharp watch of the country on all sides.
Shagbark was a man of moods. The second night after crossing the Missouri, when the wagons had been placed in a circle, the animals allowed to browse on the luxuriant grass, so well guarded that they could not wander afield, he came back and sat down among the group that were eating from the food spread on a blanket. He was so talkative that all were astonished. He laughed, chuckled, and went so far as to relate some of his strange experiences in the wild regions of the Northwest. He took special notice of Alden Payne. Sitting beside him, cross-legged on the ground, he asked the youth his name, where he was from and how he came to be with the party heading for the other side of the continent.
“I rather like yer looks, younker,” added the grim old trapper; “I hope ye’ll git through right side up and scoop more gold than yer hoss can carry.”
“I haven’t any idea of that,” replied Alden, proud that he should have caught the pleased attention of this veteran of the plains.
The conversation went on with no particular point to it, and before it was late, the guard was set for the night, while the others turned in to sleep. Shagbark explained that they were not yet far enough out on the plains to be in much danger, though he had had more than one scrap with the redskins still farther to the east. But he insisted that a strict watch should be set each night. The training was needed in view of what was sure to come later on.
Having had so pleasant a chat with Shagbark, Alden naturally expected pleasant attention from him. He waited till the man had lighted his pipe and ridden a hundred yards ahead, when the youth twitched the rein of Firebug and galloped up beside him.
“Good morning, Shagbark; it looks as if we shall have another fine day.”
The guide puffed his pipe without answering or so much as glancing at the young man. Alden said a few more things, but he might as well have addressed a boulder, for all the notice they received from the guide. Mortified and resentful, the lad checked his mare and held her until joined by Jethro and the others.
“He’s the queerest man I ever saw,” he said to the African; “I can’t get a word out of him.”
“Ob course not; I found dat out de fust day, when I axed him how old he was, what war de name oh his fader and mother, wheder he was married or engaged and who he war gwine to wote fur as President, and some more sich trifles.”
“I don’t wonder that he paid no attention to you. I shall let him alone after this.”
Three nights later, however, Shagbark was overtaken again by one of his genial moods, and won the good opinion of all by his jollity. He chatted with Alden as if they had always been the closest of friends, but the youth was alert. The next morning found the guide as glum as ever. He took his place well beyond the train, with the blue whiffs drifting first over one shoulder and then over the other, and Alden did not intrude.
Thus matters stood on the afternoon of a bright day, when the company was slowly making its way westward along the Platte River. The oxen plodded on, easily dragging the heavy loads, for traveling was much better than it would be found farther on. The country was level, and every morning seemed to bring a deepening of color and an increase of verdure. So long as this lasted the animals would not have to forage or draw upon the moderate supply of hay and grain that had been brought from the States.
Few of the men kept their saddles throughout the day. It was too tiresome for horses and riders. The latter sometimes walked for hours, or climbed into the lumbering wagons and rode behind the oxen. The children, of whom there were more than a score of different ages, delighted to play hide and seek, chasing one another over the prairie and then tumbling into the rear of the vehicles, where their merry shouts were smothered by the canvas covers which hid them from sight.
Alden and Jethro had tramped for two hours and were again in the saddle, their horses on a walk. Alden was surprised when, as they gathered up the reins, his companion heaved a profound sigh. He did not speak, and a few minutes later repeated the inspiration. Glancing across, the perplexed youth asked:
“What’s the matter with you, Jeth?”
“I wish I could tell,” he answered, with a more prodigious intake than before.
“What’s to hinder you?” said the other, not a little amused.
“I’m carryin’ an orful secret.”
“Seems to weigh you down a good deal; do you wish to tell me?”
“Dat’s what I oughter do, but I hain’t got de courage, Al; it’s been on my mind two, free times, and I started in to let you know, but I’se afeard.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Ob you.”
It was hard for Alden to restrain his laughter. He had not the remotest idea of what was in the mind of Jethro, and it must be confessed felt little curiosity to know. Understanding the fellow as he did, he could not believe that the “secret” which was bearing so heavily upon him, was of any account.
“I’ll promise not to punish you, no matter what it is.”
“But you doan’ know what it am.”
“Of course; that’s why I’m inviting you to tell me.”
“But when I do tell, den what?”
“Haven’t I promised that no matter what it is, I shan’t punish you, provided you make a clean breast of it.”
“You wouldn’t say dat if you knowed.”
“Have you killed anybody, Jethro?” asked Alden in the most solemn voice he could assume.
“Bress your heart, no! what put dat sarcumflexous idee in your head?”
“Have you been stealing anything?”
“Neber stole even a watermillion in all my life.”
“Because, when you were round, the owners watched their property too closely to give you a chance.”
Jethro’s eyes seemed to bulge more than ever. He said in a husky undertone:
“Al, it am wuss dan dem two tings togeder.”
“Ah, I know, then, what it is.”
“WHAT?”
“You have been smoking cigarettes; you look pale round the gills.”
“Pshaw! what’s de matter wid you?” muttered Jethro disgustedly; “you talk as if you didn’t hah no sense.”
“I am trying to suit my words to you. See here, Jeth, I am tired of all this; if you wish to tell me anything, I have assured you there is nothing to fear in the way of consequences from me. If that doesn’t satisfy you, keep the matter to yourself.”
“If dat’s de way you talks. I’ll hab to wait a while; daresn’t unburden my mind now; mebbe I’ll let you know to-night.”
“I don’t care enough to ask it.”
And yet, strange as it may seem, Jethro Mix did carry a secret, which, had he made it known to his friend, would have had a marked effect upon his subsequent life.
- ↑ In 1859, Ben Holladay had sixteen large steamers running between San Francisco and Panama, Oregon, China and Japan, operated 5,000 miles of daily stage coaches, with 500 coaches and express wagons, 500 freight wagons, 5,000 horses and mules with oxen beyond counting. His harness alone cost $55,000 and his feed bill $1,000,000 annually. The government paid him a million dollars each year in mail contracts. He was greatly crippled in 1864-66 by the Indians, who burned many of his stations and killed scores of employees. In the latter part of 1866, Holladay sold out all his interests to Wells Fargo & Co.