Part 1

The Pony Express Rider

By Earl C. McCain

A rangy sorrel, dead tired from the long, hundred-mile trip from the Mormon settlements along the Great Salt Lake, lifted his ears sharply as he stumbled down from the rim of the desert and caught the smell of water. In a little depression among the blistering rocks and sand-dunes nestled a group of buildings; small, yet marking Ross’s Post, the most important place on the Pony Express route between Salt Lake and Placerville.

The rider, quick to catch the awakened interest of his horse, straightened in the saddle. Slight though it was, the movement showed the buoyancy of youth; natural enough, since Dixie Rollins was only five days past twenty-one. Ross’s Post was his destination and his dark eyes brightened as the horse quickened its step.

The trading post, two stories in height and housing a bar along one side, was the most important building in the settlement. It was flanked by several small shacks, sparingly built of boards.

Across the street from the trading post stood a small, squat building, with a big corral at one side. This was the Pony Express change station, and it was in front of it that Dixie halted the sorrel and slid to the ground.

Inside the office a tall, thin-faced man sat at a rough table, glancing over some papers as he talked to another man whose clothes stamped him as the station keeper. It was to the man at the table that Dixie directed his question:

“You’re Jim Slade, the superintendent?”

Slade nodded, meanwhile searching Dixie’s face with his keen, appraising glance. Slade was known as a real power in the Pony Express, with the ability to ride as hard and shoot as straight as any man under his direction. He possessed an uncanny ability at judging men; something that made Dixie a bit nervous as he went on:

“I rode down to try and get on as a Pony Express rider.”

“Can you handle a horse and gun?” Slade asked sharply, letting his gaze wander to the new Colt that swung at Dixie’s side.

“As for the first part of your question, I’m from Kentucky,” Dixie answered smiling. “With a gun, I’m only fair.”

Slade hesitated an instant, then said: “You’re pretty young to be tackling work as dangerous as the Pony Express.”

“I know, but I’d like a chance to make good at it. I have a brother, Clint Rollins, riding for you, and I’d like to show him that I can hold a man’s job.”

A change of expression flitted across Slade’s keen face.

“So you’re Clint Rollins’s brother. It seems to me I’ve heard something about you.”

“Good or bad news?” Dixie inquired, forcing his eyes to meet Slade’s across the table.

“Not the best,” Slade made reply, “but we’ll pass that. In the Pony Express, we don’t care so much about what a man has done as what he’ll be in the future. When we hire a man he starts with a clean page, and it’s up to him to write his own record on it by the way he conducts himself.”

Dixie merely waited, and Slade, after a moment, went on:

“I guess I can use you, Rollins, because we’re short a man between here and Salt Lake. I’ll start you on the Red Pillar run, which is one of the easiest we have. You relieve the eastbound rider here each afternoon, ride twelve miles north to the last station you passed coming down, lay over there at night and come back with the westbound mail in the morning. It’s what we call a ‘turn around,’ because you have to ride both ways each day, but you only make twenty-four miles. Most of the riders on the straight runs have to do forty or fifty miles a day.”

Slade turned slightly toward the station keeper and continued:

“Potter here will have a horse ready for you when the mail gets in from the White Rock station tomorrow afternoon. That will give you a chance to rest tonight and to visit with Clint, who ought to be coming in from the south pretty soon now. If you’re anything like your brother, you won’t have any trouble making good. Clint is one of the best riders we have, and a man all the way through.”

“Thank you, Mr. Slade,” Dixie said, meaning it both for the tribute of praise to his brother and the job Slade had given him.

From the station, he led his horse into the Pony Express corral after he had told Potter that he wanted to use the animal part of the time on his run, then walked across the street to the post. He had bought a cigar at the bar and was just lighting it when a shout from across the street drew his attention. Several men who were loitering in the room moved toward the door and Dixie followed.

Up from the south, where the desert sloped away toward the horizon, came a fast-moving rider, trailed by the dust clouds kicked up by his horse’s hoofs. In front of the change station Potter had tightened the cinch on a long-legged bay and a wiry-looking little man swung to the saddle and trotted out to meet the other man.

As the incoming rider came closer and closer the man on the bay swung his horse back toward the station and broke into a gallop. By the time the horses were running neck and neck Dixie could recognize Clint, who raised himself in one stirrup, lifted the mochilla, or leather saddle-cover containing the mail-pouch, and passed it to the other man.

A moment and the bay was racing past the station, with never a halting of the mail-bag in the change of riders. Dixie had seen Pony Express riders before, but never one of those whirlwind changes, and it thrilled him to think that tomorrow he would be riding from Ross’s Post on that same duty. He turned as Clint’s horse, already slowing, neared the station.

With an ease that came from long experience Clint slid gracefully from the saddle in front of the corral gate and turned his horse over to Potter. His face and clothing were covered with fine, white dust. He was slapping this from his trousers with his wide-brimmed hat when Dixie, touching his arm, said:

“Hello, old timer!”

Clint turned quickly, evidently surprised by the familiarity of the voice. He was no heavier than when Dixie had last seen him, seven years previous, but somehow, he looked different. His face was leaner and stronger, with a certain hardness that had not been there before.

He took Dixie’s outstretched hand, but it seemed as if there was a lack of warmth in his voice as he asked:

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“I’m going to work for the Pony Express. Mr. Slade has already given me a job riding between here and Red Pillar.”

There was a touch of pride in Dixie’s voice as he made the announcement, but not in Clint’s reception of it. Clint spent a moment in thought, then ignored Dixie’s remark as he said:

“I thought you were in California?”

“I was, until a few months ago.”

There followed an awkward pause, broken by Dixie asking:

“What’s troubling you, anyway, Clint? I know there’s something wrong from the way you act.”

“There is,” Clint said evenly, and his blue eyes, hard as steel, met Dixie’s. “I’ve heard you were mixed up in a mine robbery out in Sacramento and had to skip out to save your hide. I think you’ve got lots of nerve, trailing me here and asking Slade for a job, when you’ve got that kind of a reputation.”

The fighting blood of the South came leaping to Dixie’s head at Clint’s words, but he checked the angry reply that came to his mind. Clint was his brother—an older brother, who, in former years, had always led him—and besides, there was something in what Clint had said.

But Clint’s assumption that he was guilty before he had had a chance to explain rankled him, and he showed it in his reply.

“I’m not saying that I haven’t done some things I wish I hadn’t, Clint, but fortunately for me, Slade’s a little more generous than you are. I did tell him I was your brother, because I was a little proud of what he said about you. But after all, I got the chance I asked for, and I’m going to show him and you, too, that I can make good.”

Clint said nothing to that, and Dixie, knowing that he probably wouldn’t, turned sharply and walked back to the trading post. He knew that Clint would have to lay over in Ross’s Post, and he had intended to share his brother’s room. But Clint’s attitude had made that impossible, so he walked into the office of the trading post.

A tall, gray-haired man came forward and Dixie stated his business, explaining that he was to begin work as a Pony Express rider the next day. The tall man was old Dick Ross, founder of the post and friend to white man and Indian there for twenty years. When Dixie gave his name, Ross inquired:

“Any kin to Clint Rollins? He stays here every other night.”

“I’m his brother, but I’d like a separate room if you have it.”

Ross nodded and turned to a doorway at the side of the office. He spoke to some one in the adjoining room, and a girl came to the door. Her eyes, black and sparkling, seemed to find something of interest in Dixie as Ross said:

“This is my daughter, Mildred, Mr. Rollins. She looks after the boarding end of the business while I handle the trading post and the bar.” Then to her: “Mr. Rollins is Clint’s brother, and he’s going to stay with us tonight.”

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Rollins,” the girl stated, emphasizing it with a smile that brought out all the beauty of her pretty little face. “I know your brother quite well, and I hope we shall become as good friends as Clint and I have always been.”

“I’m your friend already,” Dixie replied, and though he smiled as he said it, he knew that he had never made a truer statement.

The girl was small, with the lithe grace of an Indian in her movements. Her manner of meeting him showed courage and sincerity, and back of his instant liking for her was the age-old appeal of youth to youth.

A call from the bar took Ross away from them and Dixie spent a few minutes chatting with the girl. She told him they had supper at six, then directed him to his room and disappeared toward the rear of the building.

As he climbed the stairs he heard the sound of a horse stopping in front of the bar, but he reached his window too late to see the rider.

There was a home-made rocker in the room and Dixie pulled this over to the window, lighting a cigarette as he sat thinking of the meeting with Clint. He felt a keen resentment at his brother’s treatment, but he knew that he might have expected this if Clint had heard of the trouble he had been in at Sacramento.

Brothers though they were, there was a vast difference in the two men. Clint had always been stern and strong—a man at eighteen with rigid ideas of right and wrong. Their mother had come from Virginia, and from her Dixie had inherited his brown eyes and his tolerance and sympathy for others. He believed that any man, like a picture, deserved the best light, and it cut him that Clint, instead of showing him sympathy, had treated him like an outlaw.

An hour or so had slipped by when the girl called Dixie from the foot of the stairway and he went down to the dining room. Supper was being served on one long table, and he found Clint, Slade, Ross and several other men seated. Dixie took the chair opposite Clint, but while both joined in the general conversation, neither directly addressed the other.

There was one pleasant feature of the meal for Dixie. The girl waited on the table and engaged in conversation with every one present. But to Dixie it seemed that she showed him a bit of favoritism. Twice he glanced up to find her dark eyes studying him, and each time he was rewarded with a smile.

When supper was finished, Dixie, like all the other men except Clint and Slade, strolled into the barroom. He was standing at the bar, talking to Ross, who had relieved the bartender, when he heard his name called. He turned to face Jack Settes, a man he had known in California and the one person he had dreaded to meet.

Settes had the reputation of being one of the deadliest gunmen in the West, with a gun-trick that had cost many an unsuspecting man his life. The butts of two big guns protruded from his belt.

He was a big man physically, with a commanding personality to match his giant frame, and by the merest inclination of his head he motioned Dixie aside.

“I reckon you’re a mite surprised to see me here, but I had business with you,” Settes began, when they were some distance from the bar. “I heard in Salt Lake that you had headed this way to join the Pony Express, so I rode down to see you.”

“What for?” Dixie asked, wondering if Settes’s appearance in Ross’s post was the signal for another battle with his past.

Settes, usually deliberate, took his time about replying. When he spoke again, his voice had been lowered almost to a whisper.

“It’s about that affair at Sacramento. I reckon you knew that Tom Lakeman died after the robbery?”

Dixie nodded, and Settes, after glancing around went on:

“Lakeman thought you had a hand in the robbery and told the Vigilantes, so you were wise in making your get-away when you did. But when the sheriff learned that Old Age Hardy, a teamster, had quarreled with Lakeman that day and found Hardy hanging around the mine after the robbery, he arrested Hardy for the shooting.

“Of course, you and I know that Hardy never shot Lakeman, and that he didn’t have anything to do with the robbery. But the sheriff at Sacramento was anxious to show that his office could maintain law and order without the help of the Vigilantes, so he bent all his efforts to convicting Hardy. He succeeded, and Hardy is to be hung at Sacramento on the twenty-fifth of this month, which lets you and me out, so far as the murder is concerned.”

“You know I had nothing to do with it, anyway,” Dixie stated.

“I know it, yes; but a lot of people think you did, and that’s what I wanted to see you about. After the robbery the men who were with me at that time scattered, and Pete Crosby and Ed Dickson drifted to St. Louis. They got caught trying to rob a store there and Pete was shot through the stomach. Before he cashed in he got tender-hearted about Old Age being hung for something he didn’t do, so he made a statement to the St. Louis officers.

“Dickson wrote me at Salt Lake, saying that Crosby’s statement, all properly witnessed by the St. Louis officials, is being rushed to Sacramento over the Pony Express to save Hardy’s life. It left there on the second, so it ought to be here on the tenth. You’ll be working as a Pony Express rider. I want you to grab that letter when it comes through and turn it over to me.”

“But what will happen to Hardy if I do?”

“He’ll most likely hang, but that’s the best thing that can happen for you and me,” Settes answered calmly. “You see, Crosby always figgered that you were hooked up with me in that robbery, because he had seen us together several times. His letter probably mentions us both, so it’s a matter of protecting yourself as well as me that you get that letter.”

Dixie was debating his answer to Settes, but he was saved a decision at the moment. The door leading from the office had opened and Clint stood at the end of the bar, quietly watching Settes and his brother.

For the first time since his arrival in Ross’s Post, Dixie felt ill at ease under Clint’s scrutiny. He evaded the issue with Settes by promising to see him later and walked across to where Clint stood.

“Who is that fellow?” Clint wanted to know, indicating Settes.

“A man I knew in California. Why?” Clint’s dominating manner nettled Dixie, and his own attitude became half-belligerent.

“He looks like a bandit to me,” Clint replied, “and you’d better be careful who you’re seen with if you want to hold a job in the Pony Express. What does he want around here, anyway?”

“Perhaps you’d better ask him,” Dixie answered angrily. “Only, I’d better tell you that he has the reputation of being the best revolver shot in California.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. It’s _your_ reputation I’m worrying about. The reason I came back here was to offer to share my room with you tonight.”

“I don’t want to share your room, since you insist on looking upon me as an outlaw,” Dixie snapped, and deciding that was a good thing to let Clint think about, he strode from the barroom.

Back in his own quarters Dixie felt a little sorry for the clash with Clint. Had he been less tolerant, he might have blamed Clint indirectly for his trouble.

At twenty, Clint had quarreled with their father and left home to seek his fortune in the west. His letters were pages of romance to Dixie, then hardly more than a boy, and when Clint, a few years later, had written for Dixie to join him in California, the younger brother had eagerly accepted.

The long trip by slow-moving wagon train had taken months, and by the time Dixie had arrived in Sacramento, Fortune had called Clint elsewhere. Thrown upon his own resources in a strange land, and too proud to let his parents know of his predicament, Dixie had fallen into the company of Settes, who had befriended him.

Dixie had finally got employment in a prosperous mine as a bookkeeper, when Settes, presuming on their friendship, had tried to get him to participate in a robbery of the place. Dixie had refused, but hesitated to report the intended robbery to his employers because of knowing Settes.

The mine safe held a fair fortune in gold that was awaiting shipment, and Dixie, thinking that he might be able to avert any robbery, had gone back to the office that night to make certain the safe was locked. He had been talking to Tom Lakeman, the night watchman, when Settes and several companions made their appearance, and in the fight that followed, fatally wounded Lakeman.

The fact that none of the outlaws had fired at Dixie had led Lakeman to believe that Dixie had been a party to the robbery, and he had expressed this opinion to a member of the Vigilantes. Hearing that these stern but often misguided advocates of law and order were searching for him, Dixie had made a hurried escape.

Since then, he had traveled from place to place, realizing that he was under a cloud that warranted suspicion, yet afraid to return and try to establish his innocence. He had known nothing of Hardy’s arrest and conviction until his meeting with Settes, and that had come almost at the moment when he had been given a man’s chance by Jim Slade.

Dixie was still thinking of the case when he fell asleep that night, and by the time he went down for breakfast, Clint had ridden away with the westbound mail. Because he had slept so late, Dixie found no one else in the dining room except Mildred Ross, and he enjoyed quite a talk with her as he ate.

After that, he spent awhile with Ross and Potter, killing time until noon. In the early afternoon, Slade called him to the office and gave him a few final instructions about his work and the route to follow.

It was nearly four o’clock when Dixie, watching from the door of the change station, noticed a moving speck on the desert. A few minutes more and it took the form of a horse and rider; the Pony Express rider from White Rock. Mounted on a trim little roan and with a Spencer carbine in his saddle-holster, Dixie rode out as he had seen the other man do the day before.

The little roan, trained in the work, swung around of her own accord as the other horse drew near. The other rider was small and lean, with a face tanned by sun and wind until it resembled old leather. He grinned as he passed over the mochilla and said:

“New man, eh? Well, luck to you, Buddy, but you’ve sure picked out a hard way to make a living.”

“I’ve had it that way before,” Dixie called back, placing the mochilla on his saddle.

As the fleet little roan raced past the station, Dixie noticed Jim Slade watching him, and he also caught a glimpse of Mildred at the door of the trading post. It thrilled him to think that the man who had trusted him and a girl who had already found a place in his heart were watching him as he started on his first run as a Pony Express rider, both expecting him to make good.

Dixie knew that Slade had favored him by starting him on the Red Pillar run. The mail pouches, starting each day at Sacramento and St. Joseph, Missouri, met at regular intervals throughout the two thousand mile route. Here and there the meeting of the mails at points where stations were far apart made it necessary to insert a “turn around” run; short, but necessary to keep the mail moving.

Slade had said there was little danger on the Red Pillar run, but Dixie knew that didn’t apply to other runs. South of Ross’s Post, the Piutes were on the warpath, and half a dozen Pony Express riders had paid for their bravery with their lives.

To the north, peace held over the land of the Mormons, but beyond that, along the Sweetwater and the Platte, the riders were in constant danger, and Dixie felt a warm admiration for his brother riders as he settled down to a steady gallop, with only the thud of the pony’s hoofs and the creak of saddle-leather to interrupt the silence.

The Red Pillar route for the most part was good, well-marked by the hoofs of the Pony Express horses as it stretched northward over blistering white sand and through desolate rocks and giant cactus. Dixie made good time, and he had been in the saddle only a little more than an hour when he came in sight of the Red Pillar station, so named because it stood at the base of a towering red cliff.

Dixie turned the mochilla over to his relief rider, who sped away on a sixty-mile night ride, then slowed up in front of the little station.

There was only one man at Red Pillar; a cheerful little Frenchman by the name of Le Ranier. He helped Dixie put away his horse, then returned to his work of cooking supper on the little box stove that stood at one end of the cabin.