Stern necessity often compelled us to lengthen our day’s work even beyond our desires.  In the hostile Indian country, riders were frequently shot.  In such an event the man whose relief had been killed had to ride on to the next station, doing two men’s ride.  Road-agents were another menace, and often they proved as deadly as the Indians.

In stretching my own route I found myself getting further and further west.  Finally I was riding well into the foothills of the Rockies.  Still further west my route was pushed.  Soon I rode from Red Buttes to Sweetwater, a distance of seventy-six miles.  Road-agents and Indians infested this country.  I never was quite sure when I started out when I should reach my destination, or whether I should never reach it at all.

One day I galloped into the station at Three Crossings to find that my relief had been killed in a drunken row the night before.  There was no one to take his place.  His route was eighty-five miles across country to the west.  I had no time to think it over.  Selecting a good pony out of the stables I was soon on my way.

I arrived at Rocky Ridge, the end of the new route, on schedule time, and turning back came on to Red Buttes, my starting-place.  The round trip was 320 miles, and I made it in twenty-one hours and forty minutes.

Excitement was plentiful during my two years’ service as a Pony Express rider.  One day as I was leaving Horse Creek, a party of fifteen Indians jammed me in a sand ravine eight miles west of the station.  They fired at me repeatedly, but my luck held, and I went unscathed.  My mount was a California roan pony, the fastest in the stables.  I dug the spurs into his sides, and, lying flat on his back, I kept straight on for Sweetwater Bridge eleven miles distant.  A turn back to Horse Creek might have brought me more speedily to shelter, but I did not dare risk it.

The Indians came on behind, riding with all the speed they could put into their horses, but my pony drew rapidly ahead.  I had a lead of two miles when I reached the station.  There I found I could get no new pony.  The stock-tender had been killed by the Indians during the night.  All his ponies had been stolen and driven off.  I kept on, therefore, to Plonts Station, twelve miles further along, riding the same pony—­a ride of twenty-four miles on one mount.  At Plonts I told the people what had happened at Sweetwater Bridge.  Then, with a fresh horse, I finished my route without further adventure.

[Illustration:  Pursued by fifteen bloodthirsty Indians, I had A running fight of eleven miles]

CHAPTER II

About the middle of September the Indians became very troublesome on the line of the stage along the Sweetwater, between Split Rock and Three Crossings.  A stage had been robbed and two passengers killed outright.  Lem Flowers, the driver, was badly wounded.  The thievish redskins also drove stock repeatedly from the stations.  They were continually lying in wait for passing stages and Pony Express riders.  It was useless to keep the Express going until these depredations could be stopped.  A lay-off of six weeks was ordered, and our time was our own.