# Alden the Pony Express Rider/Chapter 12

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CHAPTER XII
A NOT UNCOMMON INCIDENT
IT would be interesting to trace the progress of the emigrant train westward for the following weeks, but, there would be a certain monotony in the narration. The routine went on for days with little variation. Making their way through the Laramie range, they went northward along the western slope, over the course of the Laramie River, after spending a night in camp near the old fort where they were hospitably treated by the garrison. Where the Laramie River rushes eastward through the mountain range, they turned in the opposite direction toward the famous South Pass, that wide gateway through the great Rocky Mountains. Beyond that they were to travel southwest and past Fort Bridger to Salt Lake City.
It was the glad summer time, but the travelers suffered little from the heat which is often unbearable in the deserts and valleys. ​Most of the country is so elevated that the climate is delightful throughout the warm months. Despite the season, however, they were caught in more than one terrific snow storm while groping through the foothills, and once a driving rain and sleet seemed to chill men and animals to their bones. But for the big fires that were kindled and kept vigorously going, Alden Payne believed some of them would have perished.
“As fur dis chile,” chattered Jethro, with his thick blanket wrapped about him to his ears; “I shan’t get warm fur sebenteen yeahs.”
“Ye must have patience,” remarked the grim Shagbark; “yer turn will come after ye cross the Big Divide.”
The African failed to catch the point of this significant remark, though it caused smiles on the part of the other listeners.
Shots had been exchanged with prowling Indians fully a score of times. It was extraordinary that although there were many narrow escapes on the part of the white men, not one had been so much as wounded. Shagbark was confident that he picked off one or two dusky prowlers.
One afternoon he was riding alone in front ​of the train, which was then making its laborious way through a series of foothills. He was in one of his moods when he wished to have no companion,—not even his favorite “younker,” Alden Payne. Suddenly from the cliffs on his right rang the sharp report of a rifle. There could be no mistaking the target, for the bowl of his briarwood pipe was shattered and sent flying into space, leaving only a stump of the stem between his lips.
It may be doubted whether any incident in his stormy life had ever thrown the guide into such a rage as this occurrence. He turned his head like a flash and glared at the point from which the shot had come. He detected the faint blue wreath curling upward from behind a huge boulder and was off his horse in a twinkling. His friends saw him dash up the cliff and pass from sight. They did not check the train, but since they were following a well marked trail, were confident he would soon return. When night closed in, however, and they went into camp he was still absent.
The guards were placed with the usual care and every man was on the alert. It was about midnight, when Fleming the leader heard a soft whistle from somewhere among the rocks ​which towered on their left. He recognized the signal and answered. The next minute Shagbark emerged from the gloom, made a few inquiries and waited until the change of the watchers took place. Then he lay down in his blanket and slept until daylight. He had not said a word about what had taken place while he was away, nor did he refer to it afterward. Alden Payne and his friends, however, noticed one peculiar fact: the hunter brought back another pipe with him. It was very different in structure from his former briarwood, being made of a species of clay baked red, and had a long reed for the stem. This he shortened to five or six inches and it served quite well as a substitute for the one destroyed. Alden was tempted to question him as to the means by which he procured it, but he had too much respect for the moods of the man to ask him any questions.
The long journey through the wild mountainous regions was so free from real danger that it gave some of the company an undue sense of security. They advanced with much caution and were well guarded day and night. They believed the red men as they peered out from their hiding places were afraid to ​attack them. Beyond a doubt this was largely true, but Shagbark warned his friends against placing too much reliance on the fact. He reminded them that the “varmints” were as patient in waiting their chance as a pack of wolves on the track of a wounded buffalo or worn out deer.
Among all there was none fonder of hunting than Alden Payne and his servant Jethro Mix. With the consent of the guide, they sometimes went out with him, but oftener ventured afield without his company. The colored youth proved his proficiency by bringing down some animal, generally of a species that served as an addition to the provision supply. In the course of these hunts, the youths secured between them specimens of the coyote, puma, wild cat, wolverine and in one instance a black bear.
Jethro in the last occurrence insisted that their prize was the largest grizzly bear that ever infested the Rockies and the mountainous neighborhood; but, since the specimen could not have weighed more than two hundred pounds, the youth was forced to admit his mistake.
“If ye run agin a grizzly,” said Shagbark, ​when the incident was told him, “ye won’t have no doubt of it. Besides you hain’t reached the region yet where ye’re likely to tumble over them little playthings.”
Alden naturally was anxious to shoot a grizzly and hoped he would do so long before reaching Salt Lake. Jethro’s ambition at times was the same, but he was often in doubt. Shagbark told so many appalling stories of that monarch of the western wilds, that the negro thought it would be just as well in case they met a grizzly not to pick a quarrel with him.
Now and then they caught glimpses of a Pony Express rider. Twice these coursers of the plains passed so near the camp that they exchanged greetings with the emigrants but neither did more than rein his pony down to a walk. The minutes were too precious to indulge in gossip, and after a few unimportant words they were off again and thundered from sight.
On a certain delightful afternoon in summer, Alden and Jethro were several miles from the train, engaged in one of the hunts of which they had become very fond. They had left their friends two or three hours before, ​and although they saw deer and a few buffaloes, in no case could they get near enough for a shot.
“This is the worst luck we have had for over a week,” commented the dissatisfied Alden.
“Dere’s no saying what we’ll git afore we goes back to camp,” replied Jethro; “I has a sort ob feeling dat we’re gwine to run into a flock ob grizzlies.”
“Suppose we do, what is your plan?”
“Jest load and fire as fast as we kin till we’ve tumbled ’em all ober on dere heads, and den scoot fur camp.’
“I think you’ll do the scooting before you bring down a grizzty, but Shagbark told us that we are not in a section where we are likely to meet any of those animals.”
Being well convinced on this point, Jethro could afford to pose.
“It gibs me a big pain to larn dat, ’cause I’se been reckoning on getting one ob de biggest of dem critters in de hull West.”
“It may be Shagbark is mistaken, in spite of what he told us!”
Jethro who was riding beside his master, looked in a scared way at him.
“You doan’ think dat kin be so!”
​“He is an old hunter, but not too old to make a mistake now and then. Sometimes too wild animals leave their habitats and wander far afield.’
This high sounding sentence was framed purposely for the mystification of Jethro, who repeated wonderingly:
“What am a habitat? Do you mean a rousing big grizzly?’
“The habitat of an animal is the region where he makes his home: sometimes a wild beast takes it into his head to stray a good many miles from where he has been brought up and educated. There would be nothing wonderful in our meeting a grizzly bear this minute.”
“Gorrynation! You doan’ say so!” exclaimed Jethro glancing on each side and behind them.
“Won’t you be glad to bag one of the monsters?”
“O yas, I ’spose so, but Mr. Shagbark spoke about another kind ob bear dat he said was almost as bad as de grizzly.”
“What is its name?”
“He called it a nutmeg or clove bear—I disremember which.”
​Alden broke into laughter.
“You mean a cinnamon bear; yes I have heard they are ugly customers to drive into a corner.”
“’Spose dey dribe you into a corner, eh?”
“That would be worse, but we have a gun apiece and know how to use it.”
“Dat am so, but Mr. Shagbark said as how it sometimes took a dozen shots to bring down one ob dem grizzlies.”
“That must be because the aim was poor. One bullet sent right will drop an elephant.”
“Am we likely to see any elufunts?” asked the amazed Jethro.
“Hardly, unless he is an estray from some menagerie, and there isn’t any temptation for menageries to visit unsettled countries,” said the amused Alden.
At the time of this conversation the young men were riding through a pass or cañon, which had a varying width of two or three hundred yards to two or more times that space. During the spring thaw, or when there was a cloudburst, it must have been swept by a tumultuous torrent which carried everything before it. Enormous boulders, scattered here and there, had been rolled from considerable ​distances, while others had been carried still farther down the ravine.
The trail followed the right of the gorge and was broad enough to allow any emigrant train to move freely without stringing out to a dangerous degree. The slope was steadily upward for a fourth of a mile, when it reached a nearly level plateau, and wound in and out among rocks, stunted pines, gnarled cedars, and ravines, interspersed with valleys and comparatively smooth stretches, with now and then a mountain torrent across which the travelers made their way with difficulty.
Alden and Jethro still rode with their ponies side by side, for the space was abundant. The incline compelled them to walk their animals, although such would have been their pace had the ground been level. There was no call to hasten their horses, while it would have involved considerable risk.
As they rode each glanced from side to side. The same thought was in the minds of both. If they were under the eyes of any prowling Indians, the two were at their mercy, for hiding places from which their enemies could fire without the slightest risk to themselves were beyond counting.
​Since the afternoon was drawing to a close and the train was several miles to the rear, Alden was on the point of suggesting that they make their way back to their friends, when both were startled by the noise of a horse’s hoofs behind them. They looked round at the same instant.
“A Pony Express Rider,” said Alden, “and he’s coming our way.”
Such was the fact. Despite the slope, the man’s horse continued on a gallop until he came alongside the couple. Then he reined up and rode with them.
“I can’t well afford to wait,” he explained, “but it won’t do to push my pony too hard. I am glad to have company a little way.”
“And we are glad to have you,” responded Alden.
The man who addressed them looked no older than themselves, but he was more than twenty years of age. His face was smooth shaven, his complexion clear and his eyes bright. His weight could not have been much above a hundred pounds, and a glance revealed his perfect horsemanship. Alden noted the mail pouches strapped one in front of his knees and the other behind him, and each ​secured by a lock. He carried a rifle in his left hand and a revolver showed at his hip. He was a fine specimen of the superb Express Rider, temperate, brave, alert, and with extraordinary powers of endurance.
When Alden had explained the cause of himself and servant being so far in advance of the train, the rider said:
“I passed them two or three miles back. If you will permit me, I advise you to lose no time in returning to them.”
“Why?”
“You are approaching a dangerous region; I have had two scrimmages with Indians within the last month.”
“Gorrynation!” muttered Jethro, eager to turn back without advancing another step.
“I thank you for your advice, hut it is so pleasant to have your company we shall ride a little farther with you.”
“My name is Dick Lightfoot,” announced the genial stranger.
Alden gave his own and that of Jethro and then asked:
“How far have you come?”
“From the last station eight miles back; I have more than twenty miles to go.”
​“Not with that pony?”
“No; it would be too great a strain on him; our stations are some ten miles apart and at each we change horses. I ride ten or a dozen miles more, then change again and keep on to the second station which is the end of my run. There I meet the return rider and another chap takes my place for the next thirty miles.”
“How do you like the life?” asked Alden.
The eyes of the young rider sparkled.
“It suits me down to the ground. It stirs one’s blood to dash over the plains, through the mountain files and across plateaus at headlong speed; we have to make an average of over twelve miles an hour. I’m not doing it now, but when the chance offers, I shall even matters by going at a rate of twenty or twenty-five miles.”
“That is almost railroad time,” replied Alden admiringly.
“It heats the railway trains in many places.”
“But you are always in danger.”
“That’s what adds to the fun; the speed itself gives a man a thrill and the possibility of ambush, a treacherous shot or an open attack sets the blood tingling.”
“And you keep at it all the time?”
​“That has to be done; rain, snow, hail, cold, heat, night, day,— makes no difference. This” added Dick Lightfoot in his cheery voice and with his pleasant smile, “is the rush line across the continent.”
“Do you never lose your way?”
“Impossible; every horse knows his route; this animal that has my name—Dick—knows the path better than I, and that means the whole thirty-odd miles. When it is so dark that I can hardly see his ears, I let the lines lie loose, and he never goes astray; I wouldn’t trade my job for that of President of the United States.”
There could be no mistake as to the young man’s enthusiasm. During the brief conversation his pony, like the others, kept walking briskly. At the top of the incline the rider waved a good bye to his new acquaintances, and the horse of his own accord struck into a gallop which speedily carried him out of sight around a sweeping curve in the trail.
Jethro Mix had taken no part in the chat, for he had no right to do so, but he did not allow a word to escape him.
“I say, Al, now’s a good time to turn back, don’t you think?” he anxiously suggested.
​“We’ll ride a little farther; we have plenty of time to make camp before dark.”
“Dere ain’t no sense in doing dat,” growled Jethro, who dared not leave the side of his comrade and master.
Less than fifteen minutes later the two rode round the bend in the path. Alden passed slightly ahead of his companion, but his pony had taken less than a dozen steps, when he sharply drew the rein with a startled exclamation.
He did not need to add anything by way of explanation. No more than a hundred yards distant the pony of Dick Lightfoot was standing motionless, with his head upraised and staring in alarm at the opposite bluffs. Not ten feet from his hoofs lay his master on the ground face downward. An Indian arrow projecting from his back, the feathered end pointing toward the sky, told its dreadful story.