The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 23, 1898, Page 7

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, JA fund of stories and good or ill humor, got sick, for the coach had to go on, .?{yzhy Overland Betind Six Forses it m Ghre :S‘z‘a_ye Coach Graveled HAbout 770 HWiles in 24 Fours---Ghe Pony Cxpress Wlade HAbour 250 Yliles in the Same Oime---Ghe Overland d'xpres.r GCrains .?{ueraye HAbout 600 Yliles a Day. N the days of '49 it took an emi- from five to seven to cross the plains. Nine years later the overland stages by the southern route made the jour- ney in twenty-one days. In 1861 overland stages by way of Salt Lake covered the distance in nineteen to twenty in June of '69 travel b: d gave place to steam. The good old days of overland staging are now only a memory, but that me y is exceedingly vivid with those who ¢ ed the plains behind horses or mu not knowing what their adventures might be en route. Hundreds of mules and horses, men and coaches were required to carry on this vast overland traffic, which stead- {ly increased each year. One man con- trolled the western half of the business and he is known throughout the coun- try as the pioneer holder of reins—Ben Holladay. By stage coach from St. Joseph, Mo., to Sacram , was nearly 1900 miles. T trip could be made In fif- teen days, but the specific time in mall contracts was nineteen days, in order make allowance for winter storms, wow blockades and other causes of v. The strictest discipline and an llent system prevailed with the management of the company. Over each 230 miles of road was placed an agent or superintendent, who 1d absolute authority, the distance er his jurisdiction being called a on. His duty was to buy horses, s and harness and ed man and Supplies he dis ted among age stations according to his esti- nate of what was required. He dug Is at will and erected station build- s at fancy. Hostlers, drivers, black- miths and station-keepers were hired discharged by him. In short, he as a genuine despot, before whom the ge driver, Important though he t elsewhere be, quailed {n humble deference. There were about eight of these grand moguls on the old overland route. Next in rank to this great and glori- ous king of the plains was the conduc-~ “GOING DOWN GRADE IS WHERE WE USED TO MAKE UP TI tor, kis beat being also two hundred d fifty miles. He rod ght and day ed by the driver, tching what rest and sleep he might on that lofty, flying perch. He had entire charge of the mails, passengers, stage coach and express matter until he delivered them over to the next conductor, taking his receipt therefor. While vas not invariably a was a m of Intelligenc 1 ability and firmness, paying the closest attention to his duties. As for cour- age, he was a veritable bulldog for tenacity and determination, and lack- ing these qualifications he buld not have kept crder nor protected human life. There being a dally stage each way, and a conductor on every stage, sixteen or eighteen such officlals were constantly employed. Then in importance came the driver, his beat being long and sleeping time at statlons short, his days and nights full of hard and wearing work. These drivers traveled back and forth each day over the same sectlon of road, In order to become thoroughly familiar with each foot of the way. As the watch changed the new driver was equivalent to a new chapter in a book, each having his peculiarities, his own STAGE ROUTE.” ¥ and instead of climbing down for a good rest after a rough journey he would have to go ahead, perhaps in wind, rain and darkness, doing the sick man's work. It was not an un- common sight to see a driver sound asleep on the box, the mules traveling ME ON THE OLD OVERLAND ARY 23, 189S. along at breakneck speed. ,The con- ductor, however, never reprimanded him, for none knew better than he that it was beyond the endurance of any man to keep awake and double on his track of seventy-five miles—one hun- dred and fifty miles—with six fractious mules to hold in check. Here is how Mark Twain describes his trip across the desert in a stage in the early sixties: The mules, under violent swearing, coaxing and whip such a cruel deliberation. It was so trying to give one’s watch a good long undisturbed spell and then take it out and find that it had been fooling away the time and not trying to get ahead of me. The alkali dust cut through our lips, persecuted our eyes, it ate through the delicate membranes and made our noses bleed and kept them bleeding— and truly and seriously the romance all faded far away and disappeared, and AR N cracking, would make at stated inter- vals a spurt, and dragged the cdach a hundred or maybe 200 yards, stirring up a billowy cloud of dust that rolled back, enveloping the vehicle with dust to the wheel tops or higher, and mak- ing it seem afioat in the fog. Then a rest followed, with the usual sneezing and bit champing. Then another spurt of a hundred yards and another rest at the end of it. All day long we kept this up without water for the mules and without changing the team; at least we kept it up for ten hours, which I take it as a day, and a pretty honest one, in an alkali desert. It was from 4 in the morning until 2 in the afternoon. And it was so hot and so close and our water canteens went dry in the middle of the day, and we got so thirsty. It was so stupid and tire- some and dull. And the tedious hours did lag and drag and Ump along with left the desert trip nothing but a harsh reality—a thirsty, sweltering, longing, hateful, reality. 7. Two miles and a quarter an hour for ten hours—that was what we accom- plished. It was hard to bring the comprehension away down to such a snall’'s pace as that when we had been used to making eight and ten miles an hour. When we reached the station on the farther verge of the desert, we were glad for the first time that the dictionary was along, because we never could have found language to tell how glad we were, in any sort of diction- ary but dn unabridged one with pic- tures in it. But there could not have been found in a whole library of dic- tionaries language sufficient to tell how tired those mules were after their twenty-three-mile pull. To try to give the reader an idea how thirsty they were would be to gild refined gold or paint the lily. A queer frontier town was Overland City, 470 miles from St. Joseph, where the stage was exchanged for a “mud wagon,” in which to cross the Platte, a dangerous stream with quicksands Hable to swallow horses, coach. and passengers at one mouthful. The mails, however, had to go, though the wheels often sank to the hub in transit. Break- downs frequently delayed travel for several hours, during’which one could hunt buffalo if so disposed. Passing Fort Laramie, the Indian country and Black Hills were reached, and here the imagination would read- fly picture a lurking savage behind every hill. Ambushed Indians often sent bullets into the eoach, and the pas- sengers for the most part slept at night with one eye open and arms ready for instant use. Pressing on to the Rocky Mountains, South Pass, the extreme summit with its splendid outlook, was attained; then came Salt Lake City and nearly seventy miles of alkall de- sert, Rocky Canyon and the Great American Desert—forty miles of bot- tomless sand and a long, thirsty pull— and Carson City. From Carson to the Slerras, ' climhing the Gelger grade, skirting Lake Tahoe, thence to Hang- town or Placerville and Sacramento, and the great overland stage journey ‘was at an end. THE PONY EXPRESS WENT LIKE A FLASH N a little while all interest was taken up in stretching our necks and watching for the “pony rider’ —the fleet messenger who sped across the continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters 1900 AR A miles in eight days! Think of that for perishable horse and human flesh and blood to do! The pony rider was usually a little bit of a man, brimful of epirit and en- durance. No matter what time of the day or night his watch came on and no matter whether it was winter or summer, raining, snowing, hailing, or sleeting, or whether his “beat” was a level straight road or a crazy trail over mountain crags and precipices, or whether it led through peaceful re- glons, or regions that swarmed with hostile In®ans, he must be always ready to leap into the saddle and be oft like the wind. There was no idling time for a pony rider on duty. He rode. fifty miles without stopping, by day- light, moonlight, starlight or through the blackness of darkness—just as it happened. He rode a splendid horse that was born for a racer and fed and lodged like a gentleman; kept him at his utmost speed for ten miles and then, as he came crashing up to the station where stood two men holding fast a fresh, impatient steed, the transfer of rider and mailbag was made in the twinkling of an eye, and away flew the eager pair and were out of sight be- fore the spectator could get hardly the ghost of a look. & The stage coach traveled about one hundred to one hundred and twenty- five miles a day (twenty-four hours), the pony rider about two hundred and fifty. There were about eighty pony riders in the saddle all the time night and day, stretching in a long scatter- ing procession from Missouri to Cali- fornia, forty flying eastward and forty toward the west, and among them, making four hundred gallant horses earn a stirring livelihood and see a deal of scenery every single day in the year. We have had a consuming de- sire, from the beginning, to see a pony rider, but, somehow or other, all that passed us and all that met us managed to streak by in the night, and so we heard only a whizz and a hail, and the swift phantom of the desert was gone before we could get our heads out of the windows. But now we were expect- ing one along every moment, and would see him in broad daylight. Presently the driver exclaims: ‘‘Here he comes!” Every neck is stretched further and every eye is strained wider. Away across the endless dead level of the prairie a black speck appears against the sky and it is plain that it moves. Well, T should think so! In a second or two it becomes a horse and rider rising and falling, rising and falllng— sweeping toward us nearer and nearer —growing more and more distinct, more and more sharply defined—nearer and still nearer, and the flutter of the hoofs comes faintly to the ear—another instant a whoop and hurrah from our upper deck, a wave of the rider's hand, but no reply, and a man and horse burst past our excited faces, and go winging away like a belated frag: ment of a storm! So sudden it is all and so like a flash of unreal fancy that but for the flake of white foam left quivering and per- ishing on a malil sack after the vision had flashed by and disappeared, we might have doubted whether we had seen any actual horse and man at all, may be.—From Mark Twain's “Rough- ing It.”