The brown whiskers parted and the lips eased into a smile. “Another question, Peter. How do you regard the red man?”
“The Sioux are my friends, sir. Other tribes are not my enemies.”
“Good again. I say: respect breeds respect. If the white man would look upon the Indian as the true native American, and himself an interloper, he would soon realize that there is room enough for all in this great country.”
Mr. Majors had more to say. “Now to give you a chance to change your mind . . .” He spread the fingers of his left hand and ticked off more dangers with the forefinger of his right. “I must warn you that in spite of swollen rivers, blizzards, dust storms, burning heat, buffalo stampedes, the mail must go through. On schedule. Do you understand that, Peter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet,” the man took a breath, “you must travel without injury to your horse.”
Now Peter was sure he would not change his mind. Never had he felt so sure of anything. Here was a man who cared about his horses, as well as the mail.
Alexander Majors rose to his full-maned height. “I can see a herd of questions milling about in your mind. Ask whatever is bothering you.”
Peter’s question came lightning quick. “How is my horse?”
“Your horse?”
“San Domingo. He was given to me by an Indian chief.”
The man did not hide his puzzlement.
“He used to be mine, sir. Now I’m riding your Bald Galloway.”
Majors studied his new applicant as if for the first time. “Why, of course! You must be the son of Jethro Lundy of Rawhide Creek. Your blond braids threw me off completely. I declare, how strange is the long arm of coincidence. . . . Domingo is in fine fettle. He allows my three daughters to ride him triple for hours at a time.” He put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “A boy who gave up his own riding horse is entitled to more questions. Speak up.”
“Sir! Your Thoroughbred is tied to the hitching post right outside. If I gave him back, could I . . . that is, would you trade him for San Domingo?”
In the quiet that followed, Mr. Majors measured his words slowly, thoughtfully. “One day, when you are a father yourself, you will realize why I cannot take Domingo away from my daughters who have grown to love him so dearly. Only a grave national crisis could make me wrest that little stallion from their hearts.”
“But my father . . .”
Mr. Majors saw the hurt and interrupted. “Your father thought he was giving you the better horse. Money-wise he was, but not bridle-wise.” He took Peter’s hand and shook it heartily. “Your father must indeed be proud of you at this moment.
“Now then,” he said, bringing the interview to a close, “take this pledge out to the central area and study it carefully. If, in all honesty, you wish to sign it, then present it to Bolivar, who has an office down the line. He will give you a route and order out a saddle and pistol for you.”
He tucked the pledge into one of the Bibles, and on the flyleaf of the book inscribed with a flourish:
To Peter Lundy
from
Alexander Majors.
“I might add,” he said, placing the book in Peter’s hands, “that your little stallion’s name San Domingo pleased me almost as much as the animal himself. The meaning, ‘Holy Sunday,’ touched me deeply, for I am old-fashioned enough to believe in keeping the Sabbath holy.”
“Take Your Druthers”
THE OPEN square within the fort boiled with noise. Trappers, hunters, gold seekers, emigrants—all were hungry for supplies and talk. Some were bartering pelts, some offering fine tables and chests too cumbersome for the onward journey. Peter glanced about for a quiet place. Several Pawnees squatted on the floor in a row, soberly absorbing the scene. Peter crouched near them. He had to think. What if there was something he didn’t believe in? Would he sign anyway? Then he read the pledge straight through. It was like drinking a dipper of icy well water without stopping for breath:
While I am in the employ of Alexander Majors, I agree not to use profane language, not to get drunk, not to gamble, not to treat animals cruelly, and not to do anything else that is incompatible with the conduct of a gentleman. If I violate any of the above conditions, I agree to accept my discharge without any pay for my services.
Peter searched his pockets for a pencil. He looked to the Indians, who shook their heads. But this document was too important to be signed with charcoal or lead; it called for strong black ink and a sharp pen. His glance darted along the closed doors lining one wall until, spang in the middle, he caught a familiar name. BOLIVAR it said in big block letters.
Quickly Peter was up and running, stumbling over moccasins and boots. In an instant he had knocked and was inside a proper office with a desk, and a lamp with the chimney polished bright, and maps tacked neatly on the walls.
Three young men brushed past him on their way out, two looking pleased, one with eyes downcast. Bolivar was calling to the sad one, “Come back, son, when you are older.”
Then Peter stood straight and tall in front of the desk. “Mr. Bolivar!” His mind spoke, but no more words would come.
“Great heart and bottom!” Bolivar laughed. “The Lundy lad, as I live and breathe.”
Peter heaved an audible sigh.
“And how did you fare with Alexander Majors?” Bolivar asked, knowing already from his looks.
Peter wiped his moist face. “Fine!” he said, starting to add, “Even if he did take San Domingo away,” but the thought was sheared off by the bustling activity of Bolivar, opening up another map that crackled as it unrolled, and talking as he set paperweights in the shape of iron horseshoes on all four corners.
“That man Majors . . . he’s the best,” Bolivar was saying. “No Sunday work for his riders, but pay anyway. And not afeared of the Devil himself. Keeps a promise, too, like he made it to God in person.”
Peter knew of a promise unasked; he wished he could go back and ask it.
“Yes, sir,” Bolivar was saying. “Back in ’57, when he freighted goods for the Army, he told some big-star generals in Washington that he’d offer his head as a football to kick down Pennsylvania Avenue if he didn’t supply the Army with every pound needed for its subsistence.”
Peter nodded, beyond words.
“And now he’s offered his head a second time for the swift completion of the Pony Express.” All in the same breath, Bolivar asked, “You signing up?”
Peter stared at a mug filled with goose-quill pens as if his eyes were magnets to pull one out. Before he could say “Bolivar,” the man was into the mug, selecting a pen, dipping into the ink, and offering it across the desk. He motioned Peter to a chair, but he was too late.
Peter, still standing, was signing his name, using his Bible for a desk.
“Guess the Bible makes it extra legal.” Bolivar smiled, accepting the paper, powdering the ink dry, and using a pen-wiper to clean the pen. Then, very methodically, he untied a pleated paper envelope and riffled through identical squares of paper. Peter could read his lips saying, “H, I, J, K, L.” In among the L’s went Peter’s pledge.
“Now come around to my side of the desk,” he said, “and look at this map.” He moved the weights slightly so no part of the map would be hidden.
Peter pored over the squiggles of rivers, and the peaks of mountains, and the place-names very solemnly. In a way it was like looking into a mirror and recognizing your own face—blue eyes, yellow braids, and all. Only here it was the lay of the land which he knew so well—the wavy black lines of Rawhide Creek and the big Laramie skirting the Black Hills. A heavy dotted line ran like basting stitches along the North Platte and across to the Sweetwater.
All at once Peter recognized something else familiar. The writing! The o’s left open at the top like a hummer-bird’s nest, the t’s crossed with an upward slash like a unicorn’s horn.
“Mr. Bolivar! This looks like Brisley’s . . . like Mr. Brislawn’s handwriting.”
&nb
sp; “It is!” Bolivar’s brows lifted in surprise. “No one can make a better map than a surveyor. Do you know that old Irish leprechaun?”
“Why, he’s my best friend.” Suddenly the little man seemed very near, as if he stood in the room, rocking on his heels and chuckling under his big hat.
“Well, he made the map, all right. Of these two routes, Peter, you can have your druthers.” Bolivar’s forefinger pointed to the dot on Rawhide Creek marked J. Lundy’s T. Post. Then his finger traveled east to Scott’s Bluff and back west again along the Platte River to Fort Laramie. “On this route,” he said, “you could easily live at home.”
He paused, waiting for some remark from Peter. When none came he went on. “Or,” he said, “you could start farther west at Deer Creek Station, going on through a wilderness of sage to the Little Muddy, and on to the North Platte Station, and over the rolling prairie to the Red Buttes hard by Willow Springs, and on to Horse Creek and Independence Rock, winding up at Devil’s Gate. Take your druthers, Pete. I guess it all depends on whether you want to headquarter with your family or away from ’em.”
“Away, sir, please.”
Bolivar showed astonishment. “Away?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
“With a station keeper, perhaps?”
“That would be fine, Mr. Bolivar. You see, sir, I just found out that my mother is not my mother, and I got to get used to the idea.”
Mr. Bolivar didn’t see; it didn’t make sense to him. Stepmother or real mother, this Peter Lundy was a lucky lad. But he had no time to get into family matters. “Our ranks are about filled now. You can go right on to Deer Creek; that is, if your good-byes are said.”
“They’re said.”
“Good! You’ll be headquartering with Maxim Muggeridge, the station keeper at Deer Creek. Maxim’s not his real name; Alexander Majors gave him that handle because the man can’t talk without giving out a maxim. You’ll soon find out.”
“Bol . . .” Peter hesitated, then had to ask. “What’s a maxim? Is it something to eat? To read?”
Bolivar chuckled. “It’s a pithy saying or a proverb so obvious,” he said, “that it hardly bears saying aloud. But Max’ll run a fine relay station, and take good care of you and the two or three mustangs in his charge.”
He opened a traylike drawer in his desk, revealing several identical pistols. He withdrew one and presented it to Peter. “Keep it always at the ready, son. You may well have need for it.”
“I do have one, sir. My mother’s. See? It’s never been discharged.”
“Won’t hurt to have two,” Bolivar said, examining it with interest. “An experienced horseman can ride without hands. Now, go see the quartermaster, who’ll issue your hat and boots.” He stood up, shaking Peter’s hand warmly. Then impulsively he took hold of Peter’s braids and playfully made a noose of them.
“May you keep your hair on your head all the days of your life.”
Deer Creek to Devil’s Gate
THE MONTH is April. The day Friday, the sixth. Sixty hours ago the first Pony Express rider going west left St. Joseph, Missouri. Now, two and a half days and nine riders later, Peter, at Deer Creek Station, stands ready to take over. He is peering into the distance, trying to pull out of the rolling prairie a horse and rider.
All his last-minute preparations are done, “nice and precise,” according to Maxim Muggeridge. Boots waxed against April snow or rain. Neckerchief tied in a square knot. Buckskin tunic belted in. Both revolvers loaded. Bowie knife in boot.
In his mind, Peter flies up the valley of the Platte, skirts the south bank to the North Fork, swims the river to the north bank, strikes southwest to the Sweetwater, past Independence Rock, through Devil’s Gate, up the Sweetwater to South Pass, and over the Continental Divide to Sacramento. He’s in California, and not even out of breath!
He laughed into the stillness. A sharp pleasure came over him. He longed to do cartwheels or walk upside down on his hands, but that would be unfitting an expressman. To make the time pass, he rehearsed each creek and hollow of his route, each sandhill and butte. He rode into every relay station: from Deer Creek right through to South Pass and down the west side of the Sierra range—not that he would ever travel such a long route, but it thrilled him just to say the names, and be ready in case . . .
And still no fleck of movement over the swells to the east. Only a finger-streak of light, scouting ahead for the sun. A door slammed behind him, and Station Keeper Maxim Muggeridge, a spare, limping, peppery man with a thatch of red hair, stomped out to join Peter.
“Now, feller,” he said, clapping him on the back, “a watched pot don’t boil and a watched-for rider don’t top outa nowhere. But jest turn yer back, and all-of-a-here he’ll be!”
It was an easy thing for Maxim to say, Peter thought, but he felt a growing concern. Maybe he ought to ride east to see if there was trouble. Maybe the pony boy lay sprawled and scalped, and his horse stolen, and the mail spilled everywhere and smeared with blood.
The station keeper noticed the worry in Peter’s face. He rummaged in his mind for something to help pass the time. “You ain’t asked how I come by the name Maxim,” he said.
Knowing full well, but not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings, Peter asked without enthusiasm, “How did you?”
“Wa-al, ’twas Mr. Majors pinned it on me, and I be danged if I know why! My birth name’s Mallaig Muggeridge. But a short handle, like Maxim or Max, is best remembered. Ho! Ho! Hah! Hah! By any name I smell as sweet.”
“Uh-huh.”
The gray streak of light was catching fire from the sun. “Once we sight yer partner,” Maxim said, making a visor of his hands and studying the empty prairie, “he’ll still be several mile away. I’ll go saddle up, anyhow. By the way,” he added, “either of them other two broncs in the stable’d carry ye faster and further than that Bald Galloway. Oh, well, Majors wants his horse to carry the first mail. Only natural for . . .”
He seemed ready to spout another maxim, but Peter interrupted. “I better bridle him; Galloway’s head-shy with strangers.”
“Humph! The horse ain’t livin’ that I can’t hold. Besides, I aim to save my riders for their work. Each cobbler to his last, I allus say.” Off he went, hitching his trousers and hobbling toward the stable.
Left alone, Peter tried Maxim’s advice. He turned away from the east and faced around at the log-built station. Curls of smoke spiraled from the chimney, blowing white against the red buttes rising bare in the distance. Watching the smoke brought home close. This early in the day the washtub would be boiling and Ma singing in time with the scrub board, and her yellow hair curling from the steam. He suddenly remembered that she wasn’t really his mother. Maybe he’d wipe the thought clean away, like you’d brush off a cobweb caught across your face.
From the stable, Max’s voice bawled in irritation: “Boy! Get this snorty, spooky, son-of-a-red-devil . . .”
Peter ran to help, feeling the strange thumping of his pistols as he ran. Galloway—still unbridled—alternated between pawing the earth and rearing up, dancing on his hind legs, lifting Max up and setting him down like a puppet on a string. Approaching from the side, Peter spoke to the horse as one gentleman to another. “Fine day, ain’t it, friend? Fine day for eatin’ up the miles ’tween here and Devil’s Gate, eh?”
He took the bridle from Max and moved the reins from Galloway’s shoulder up closer to his head, just behind the ears. He held the loose ends snug under the horse’s throat. Galloway could no longer toss his head. He waited for his chance, but it never came. The battle lost, he settled down, awaiting the familiar routine. With the bit in his left palm and under Galloway’s chin, Peter’s thumb and forefingers opened the mouth at the bars while his right hand now pulled up the bridle, helping to guide the bit into place, resting it easily on the bars.
Max Muggeridge eyed each movement. “Wa-al, I be a popeyed bullfrog!” he exploded, too stunned for a maxim.
The faraway
drumming of hoofbeats ended all talk. Peter let Galloway curvet out of the stall, and together they ran out to the open place where the mail would be relayed. He walked Galloway in a widening circle, around and around, trying to quiet him, trying to preserve his energy. All at once they both froze. Galloway bugled a high-pitched welcome to the oncoming horse. But there was no answering whinny as Jim Baxter rode in at a gallop, his mount wet-ringed with lather.
In less than sixty seconds Max whipped the mochila of mail from Jim’s saddle, swung it across Galloway’s, thrust the saddle horn and the cantle securely through the slots. Peter Lundy, the tenth rider of the first Pony Express, was up and away!
The moment had come! Nothing had changed in his world, yet all had changed. He, Peter Lundy, was an unbreakable fiber in a tie-rope that could hold the whole country together, ocean to ocean. He felt awed by the enormity of his task. Galloway, too, seemed to feel the pull of greatness. Lengthening out, he streamed himself into the wind, pounding the plain as if he, too, had a map in his head.
For the first time Peter wondered: why the name “plain”? Hollows and hills pocked and pimpled the land, with here and there fringes of willow to show the river meandering.
To right and left the sea of grass stretched away until the mountains, with their pinpoints of cedar and pine, put an end to it. “Winter’s over,” Peter thought. A good sign. A good world. “A good day to be alive, eh, Galloway?”
As one creature they twisted and turned with the Platte. They clambered through ravines and over the straightaways, flushing creatures big and small. Ground sparrows and horned larks kited skyward. Prairie dogs, sunning themselves on their housetops, dived into their dens. Antelope bounded into distance.
On through a waste of sage—ten miles of wildness—to the Little Muddy, where a blue grulla mare pawed the earth, waiting to replace Galloway. And now the ford of the North Platte, shallow for April. And the mare splashing swiftly across the half mile of it, fearful for quicksand, and scrambling up the banks as if the Devil and not Time were her goad.
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