(from Gladys Shaw Erskine, Broncho Charlie—
A Saga of the Saddle)
BETWEEN APRIL 1860 and November 1861, the Pony Express carried letters from St. Joseph on the Missouri to San Francisco. Using 190 relay stations spaced twenty-five to thirty-seven miles apart, it passed through Kansas, by Fort Kearny, Nebraska, along the Platte, to Fort Laramie, Wyoming, past the Buttes, over the mountains, then Fort Bridger, Wyoming, Salt Lake City, Carson City, Nevada, Placerville, California, Sacramento, and finally San Francisco.
Only the fleetest and hardiest Indian-bred and army-hardened ponies were used. The rider kept his pony on the full run—nineteen miles an hour—switching horses at “swing” stations. When he reached a “home” station—whatever the hour of day or night—another messenger, already mounted and waiting, took the little mail pouch, struck spurs into his steed, and with a whoop and holler was off like the wind. Away they sped, rider and horse rising over grassy slopes, up to the snow, and down to the sand. Two thousand miles in eight days!
Nature threw blizzards, dust storms, and floods in the path of the Pony Express rider. Indians attacked and killed the keepers of the outposts. In May 1860, Paiute warriors razed seven relay stations, killed sixteen employees, and drove off 150 horses. The Indians frequently harassed the riders. “Pony Bob” Haslam finished his 120-mile run with an arm riddled with bullets and a jawbone shattered by an arrow.
The average rider was twenty years old and weighed 125 pounds. He was selected competitively for his strength, stamina, and sense of responsibility. Each man signed a pledge of loyalty to the company, promising sobriety, clean speech, and gentlemanly conduct “so help me, God.” He was then given a Bible.
Billy Tate carried the Pony Express mail between Camp Ruby and Carson City, Nevada, armed only with a knife, a revolver, and an extra cylinder of bullets. He must have been a natural rider, a crack shot, and mature in his judgment to be hired at age fourteen. In this passage from Broncho Charlie—A Saga of the Saddle, by Gladys Shaw Erskine, a friend and fellow Pony Express rider recounts Billy’s last ride.
BILLY WAS RIDIN’ IN with the mail from Camp Ruby to Carson City…that’s a tough route. It’s through valleys, and dry plains, and then, all of a sudden, you’re into the tablelands and the mountains, and lots of places where there was rim rock, where your pony couldn’t get a foothold.
Well, Billy was comin’ along there at a right good pace, sort of hummin’ to himself, quiet-like, under his breath. Suddenly, an arrow whizzed past his ear, and then another. Billy took one look and saw that he was in for it sure. There was about thirteen Indians after him, on the run…all yellin’ like Billy-be-damned. Billy thought quick. He knew that if he kept on the regular route they’d get him sure…for that was across an open valley. So he turned his horse and headed up into the tablelands and the rim rock…he thought he could slip in and out of the gullies up there, and get away from the Indians.
Well, up he went, his horse’s feet clatterin’ and slippin’ and the Indians after him and the arrows a-hissin’. Then his horse stumbled, and Billy saw that he was wounded in the shoulder …then another arrow struck the gallant pony in the flank…and on they went. They came to the gully, where Billy had thought he could get through…and his heart must have just about stood still, when he saw that it was a dead end gully …that it was a trap…and there he was, with his horse, the Pony Express pouch, his Bible, and his six shooter. So Billy, cool as you please, slid off his horse, and made a stand there…and shot it out with the Indians…Bannocks and Utes they was. And, by gad, he got seven of ’em before they got him. But the odds was too great…and they killed Billy Tate there, in the rim rock caves, defendin’ the mail he carried. Fourteen-year-old Billy Tate, with his yellow hair soft as a child’s, and his laughing blue eyes in a round childish face…but he died the death of a brave man.
And here’s a queer thing. The Indians never touched his body. They didn’t scalp him, and they left the horse, and even the pouch of the Pony Express with him there. Later, agents from the station traced where his horse had turned off the trail, with all the others in chase, and they guessed what had happened. Then they saw the blood on the trail, and then they came to the tablelands and the gully with only one opening…and there they found Billy, still clutchin’ his gun, and his Bible beside him…and in the pass, seven dead Indians.
Some time later a Bannock told me all about it. He said: “Me no fight in tablelands. Me hear. Braves no could touch scalp of boy with hair like sun, and eyes like water. He brave. He go happy hunting ground with his horse. He be big brave there.”