Hoofbeats of Danger Page 9
“She was hit with an Injun arrow that morning!” Ambrose burst out, raising his head. “This fool of a boy told me about it.”
Billy forced his teeth to stop chattering long enough to say, “Those Indians didn’t shoot arrows at me—I was just telling a tale.”
Annie looked up at Nate Slocum’s hard blue eyes and thought she saw a glimmer of belief there. Drawing courage, she hurried on to tell him everything she knew—about the missing belladonna, Ambrose’s murky past, and the strands of green wool she’d found on the wall of Magpie’s stall. “And in a wet spot on the floor, we found this boot print.” She held up the McGuffey’s Reader, opened to the flyleaf with Davy’s inky sketch.
Slocum’s brow lowered. “Ambrose, let me see your boot,” he demanded. Before the guard could jerk away, Slocum reached under the buffalo robe and trapped his ankle. He pulled out the man’s boot and exposed its sole to view.
Everyone crowded around to compare Ambrose’s boot to the sketch. The sole was crossed with the same zigzags as Davy had drawn.
Slocum rubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve betrayed me, Ambrose—me and every other man who rides for the Overland Express.”
Ambrose flung his head up defiantly. “I hate the Overland. I hate you all. I’m glad that horse went crazy, and I’m glad she kicked Dawson in the head. I’d do it over again in a minute.”
“Hold him, fellas,” Slocum instructed the men on either side of Ambrose. As they pinned Ambrose’s arms, Slocum took a pair of handcuffs from the guard’s belt. “Never thought I’d have to use these on you,” the driver said as he snapped the cuffs on Ambrose’s thick wrists.
Goldilocks tapped Annie’s shoulder as Slocum started to lead Ambrose back toward the ford. “Is the poor horse he poisoned all right?”
Annie threw him an anguished look. “I—I don’t know yet.”
Ambrose, still writhing in Slocum’s grip, raised his eyes, cruel as a snake’s. “There ain’t no cure for a belladonna overdose, you know,” he sneered. Annie felt her body go rigid with fury.
Nate Slocum gave Ambrose a warning jerk on the arm. “There is one cure—time,” he corrected him. “If that horse lives twenty-four hours after getting the poison, she has a good chance of making it.”
Annie swallowed hard. “I’ve got to get back to Red Buttes, then, and see if she’s all right.” She hesitated, looking at Billy, still shivering under the buffalo robe. “When do you figure you can ride back, Billy?”
“He shouldn’t be riding, after what he’s been through,” Nate Slocum decided. “He’ll need rest, and hot soup. We’ll take him with us in the coach to the next home station and see he’s fixed up. Do you want to come with us?”
Annie shook her head. “Thank you kindly, but my pa’s not out of danger yet—I’ve got to get back to him. And like I said, the poisoned mare might need some tending to.”
“Well, the Overland Express owes you a great debt of thanks,” Mr. Slocum said. “I should have known better than to listen to Ambrose’s complaints about your pa.”
Annie brightened. “Then you won’t report him to headquarters after all?”
“Report him? Oh, I’ll report him all right,” Nate Slocum said gravely. Then she spied a small twinkle in his stern blue eyes. “He’ll be reported for being an honest, dutiful stationmaster—and for raising a fine, loyal daughter.”
Annie blushed right up to the roots of her pale hair.
“Can you ride back to Red Buttes on your own?” Slocum went on. “A slip of a girl like you?”
Annie drew herself up tall. “I made it here, didn’t I? And I kept up with the fastest rider in the whole Pony Express. Getting home should be easy as pie, Mr. Slocum.”
The firelight flickered that night on the walls of the station house. Annie sat curled in the chair by the hearth, a book spread open on her knees. Her head kept falling forward on her chest as she drowsed off.
“Annie!” Davy called in a warning voice.
Annie’s head jerked up.
“You did it again. You fell asleep.” Davy threw her a warning look. “You promised me you’d stay awake to keep me company. I don’t want to go to sleep yet … not in there.” He gestured uneasily toward the sleeping quarters where their father still lay.
“I’m sorry, Davy. I’m just so worn out.”
“It ain’t every day you ride at breakneck speed to Platte Bridge and back,” Mrs. Dawson said gently from the doorway. “It’s no surprise you’re tired, Annie.”
Annie jumped to her feet. “You look tired, too, Ma,” she said. “Watching over a sickbed is a worrisome job. Let me take your place for a while. You rest and get something to eat.”
“I believe I will, Annie,” Ma said. She reached back to tuck a few loose strands of hair into the knot on her neck. “I could use a bowl of that good stew Davy warmed up for us.”
Davy smiled, his face flushed with pride.
Annie slipped into the dimly lit bedroom. She took a wet cloth from the tin basin beside the big bed and gently bathed her father’s temples. Then she settled into the rocking chair near his pillow. Her father’s face looked strange—like a pale, waxy mask.
Rocking, Annie felt herself drift off to sleep again. Her eyelids fluttered. For a confused moment, she imagined seeing her father’s eyes open. She started awake and looked over at the man in the bed.
His eyes were open!
Joyfully Annie sprang to her father’s side. “Ma? Ma! Come here!” she called over her shoulder.
With an anxious step, her mother came to the doorway. She uttered a soft, astonished cry when she saw her husband looking at her.
Pa licked his lips and struggled to sit up. “What time is it—why am I here? Ain’t there chores to do?”
“Jeremiah and Annie have done all the chores,” Ma said, laying a hand on his cheek. “Magpie kicked you in the skull. You’ve been unconscious all day. Does your head hurt?”
Pa winced. “Like a house afire. I’m powerful thirsty—”
Annie quickly poured a mug of water for him from the pitcher by his bedside. He took it and sipped thankfully.
“The stagecoach left already?” he went on, confused. “Slocum got off all right?”
“He did,” Ma said. “And—well, Annie, why don’t you tell him?”
Annie bent over her father. “We found out what affected Magpie, Pa. The stagecoach guard—Ambrose—snuck in and poisoned her with belladonna he stole from our remedy cabinet. He made that cut on her flank, too, to make it look like the Indians had shot her with a poisoned arrow. I reckon he hoped to stir up trouble between the Overland Express and the Indians.”
Mr. Dawson looked puzzled. “Do I hear you right? Ambrose was sabotaging the Pony Express?”
Ma leaned forward. “Annie figured it all out after the coach had left. She rode all the way to Platte Bridge to capture him, too.”
“With Billy,” Annie added. “Billy hauled Ambrose out of the rapids and everything.”
Pa smiled weakly. “You’ll have to tell me the whole story tomorrow. I can’t take it all in now.”
Annie clasped her hands. There was one more thing she felt he’d want to know. “But the best part, Pa, is that Mr. Slocum ain’t going to report you after all. In fact, he said he’d praise you to the bosses in St. Joe.”
Her father shut his eyes in relief. “You did good, Annie. You and Billy.” He took her hand in his big, callused palm and held it gently.
“And Redbird,” Annie added loyally.
Ma nodded. “Right from the start, Redbird felt certain that Magpie’d been poisoned. She made sure that pony never had the chance to lie down and let the poison settle.”
Pa finished another sip of water. “Sounds like just the right thing. Did it work?”
Annie’s heart fell. She and Ma traded worried glances. “Well, we ain’t sure yet,” Mrs. Dawson admitted. “It looked bad this afternoon, like maybe colic was setting in. Redbird went up the ridge to watch over Magpie. But she’s been
there a good long while,” Ma added hopefully. “I got to figure that’s good news. If Magpie can just stay alive long enough for the poison to work out—”
Just then, a thrilling whinny sounded from the yard outside. Annie leaped to her feet. She’d know that whinny anywhere. “Magpie!” she cried.
She ran to the station door and threw it open. There was Redbird, leading Magpie in a circle around the station yard. The mare moved stiffly, still favoring her sore flank. But when she tossed her head, Annie could tell that her old spirit was back.
“She’s well, Annie!” Redbird called out gleefully. “The effects of the poison have finally worn off. She’s calm and strong again.”
Annie ran out and threw her arms around Magpie’s black-and-white neck. The pony rubbed her muzzle against the girl’s shoulder with a soft whicker of pleasure.
“You saved her life, Redbird,” Annie declared.
Redbird, grinning, shook her head. “I just kept walking her, that’s all. You’re the one who really saved her life.”
1860
GOING BACK IN TIME
LOOKING BACK: 1860
When Johnny Fry, the first Pony Express rider, galloped off from St. Joseph, Missouri, on April 3, 1860, crowds cheered wildly. The Pony Express promised to carry mail from Missouri to California in just ten days—more than twice as fast as any other mail service! No wonder Annie Dawson felt thrilled to be part of such a vital enterprise.
In 1860, half a million people lived west of the Rocky Mountains, many of them brought by the California Gold Rush in 1849. But they were isolated from the eastern half of the country. To reach the West Coast, settlers traveled six months by covered wagon along the Oregon Trail, a rutted track that crossed the lonely prairies and cut through the Rockies. Mail took three weeks to reach California by steamship. John Butterfield’s stagecoach company—the one Chet Ambrose once worked for—carried mail along a south-western route, but even the fastest Butterfield coaches took 23 days and nights to rumble from Missouri to California.
Then William H. Russell, president of the Central Overland & Pike’s Peak Express Company, had a brainstorm: Why not use a relay chain of fast horseback riders to carry the mail west from St. Joseph, Missouri—the place where the East’s train tracks and telegraph lines ended? From there, it was 1,840 miles to Sacramento, California, where mail could be loaded onto steamships for delivery to San Francisco. Russell set up 190 Pony Express stations between St. Joe and Sacramento, roughly ten miles apart. Most were relay stations—usually no more than lonely shacks—where riders switched horses. Every 75 miles or so were larger “home” stations where fresh riders waited to carry mail on the next leg. Home stations were often trading posts, forts, or long-established lodgings along the Oregon Trail. Red Buttes was a real Pony Express home station, located beside the North Platte River in the vast Nebraska Territory. (On today’s maps, it would be just west of Casper, Wyoming.)
Nearly 500 horses were bought for the Pony Express. Long-legged racehorses were used for the prairies, sturdy mustangs like Magpie and Surefoot for the mountains. No expense was spared to obtain the finest horses possible. They carried extra-light western saddles and a specially designed saddle cover, the mochila, which could be slung rapidly on and off. It had four mail pouches, one at each corner, fastened with tiny padlocks. The saddle, bridle, and mochila together weighed no more than 13 pounds; the mail itself weighed 15 pounds or so.
And in the saddle was a Pony Express rider, usually weighing less than 125 pounds. The company hired 80 young men for this job, at excellent wages of about $25 a week. That was more than a stationmaster made. Few of the riders were older than 20; many were orphans. Dressed in light, sturdy buckskin clothing, hats pulled low against dust and sun, they galloped from one home station to the next, changing horses five or six times in between. Speed was so important that riders changed horses in less than two minutes.
Pony Express riders carried only a knife and a pair of revolvers for weapons; even a rifle would have added too much weight. If attacked, riders were instructed to rely on their speedy horses to escape danger, rather than stay and fight. This proved a shrewd strategy, for only one rider ever died during a run. Considering the wild, deserted territories they rode through, this was indeed an amazing record.
Although Annie Dawson is fictional, her friend Billy Cody was a real Pony Express rider. Only 15 years old, he rode the route between Red Buttes and Three Crossings to the west. Cody was famous for his pluck; wagon train passengers recalled him gaily shouting out the news he carried as he thundered past them. He once finished his regular 76-mile run only to find that the next rider had been killed by Indians; he rode another 85-mile leg immediately, then made the return trip, traveling 322 miles nonstop on 21 different horses.
Sending a letter by Pony Express was expensive: $5 per half ounce at first, later reduced to $1. That would equal about $30 today. Customers wrote on thin tissue paper to keep letters as lightweight as possible.
Western newspapers relied on the Pony Express to bring the freshest news from the East. In the months before the Civil War, the Pony Express played a crucial role carrying national news to the West Coast. Word of Abraham Lincoln’s election in October 1860 was sped to San Francisco in just eight days, and the text of his inauguration speech in March 1861 arrived even faster, reassuring California’s political leaders and businessmen to stick with the Union. When war broke out in April 1861, the news reached California in only eight days.
Still, the Pony Express did not survive for long. Telegraph lines were finally linked across North America in October 1861, and the Pony Express shut down less than a month later.
Despite its short life—only 18 months—the Pony Express is vividly remembered, thanks to one man: William F. Cody, Annie’s friend Billy. After a colorful career as an Indian scout and buffalo hunters’ guide, he went into show business as Buffalo Bill Cody, owner and creator of the popular Wild West Show that toured America and Europe in the 1890s. True to his youthful memories, Buffalo Bill’s show included a rip-roaring reenactment of a Pony Express run, with a buckskin-clad rider arriving in a cloud of dust, flinging his mochila swiftly from one trusty mount to the next, then thundering away again. Bill Cody’s Wild West Show ensured that the drama of the Pony Express would live on.
About the Author
A former editor at Scholastic and author of Nancy Drew mysteries, Holly Hughes now writes fiction, travel guides, and food and music reviews from her home in New York City. Visit her at www.hollyahughes.net.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text Copyright © 2007, 2009 by Holly Hughes
Map Illustration by Paul Bachem
Line Art by Greg Dearth
Cover design by Amanda DeRosa
ISBN: 978-1-4976-4654-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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