The people now surge about the old “Pike’s Peak Livery Stables,” just South of Pattee Park.  All are hushed with subdued expectancy.  As the moment of departure approaches, the doors swing open and a spirited horse is led out.  Nearby, closely inspecting the animal’s equipment is a wiry little man scarcely twenty years old.

Time to go!  Everybody back!  A pause of seconds, and a cannon booms in the distance — the starting signal.  The rider leaps to his saddle and starts.  In less than a minute he is at the post office where the letter pouch, square in shape with four padlocked pockets, is awaiting him.  Dismounting only long enough for this pouch to be thrown over his saddle, he again springs to his place and is gone.  A short sprint and he has reached the Missouri River wharf.  A ferry boat under a full head of steam is waiting.  With scarcely checked speed, the horse thunders onto the deck of the craft.  A rumbling of machinery, the jangle of a bell, the sharp toot of a whistle and the boat has swung clear and is headed straight for the opposite shore.  The crowd behind breaks into tumultuous applause.  Some scream themselves hoarse; others are strangely silent; and some — strong men — are moved to tears.

The noise of the cheering multitude grows faint as the Kansas shore draws near.  The engines are reversed; a swish of water, and the, craft grates against the dock.  Scarcely has the gang plank been lowered than horse and rider dash over it and are off at a furious gallop.  Away on the jet black steed goes Johnnie Frey, the first rider, with the mail that must be hurled by flesh and blood over 1,966 miles of desolate space — across the plains, through North-eastern Kansas and into Nebraska, up the valley of the Platte, across the Great Plateau, into the foothills and over the summit of the Rockies, into the arid Great Basin, over the Wahsatch range, into the valley of Great Salt Lake, through the terrible alkali deserts of Nevada, through the parched Sink of the Carson River, over the snowy Sierras, and into the Sacramento Valley — the mail must go without delay.  Neither storms, fatigue, darkness, rugged mountains, burning deserts, nor savage Indians were to hinder this pouch of letters.  The mail must go; and its schedule, incredible as it seemed, must be made.  It was a sublime undertaking, than which few have ever put the fibre of Americans to a severer test.

The managers of the Central Overland, California and Pike’s Peak Express Company had laid their plans well.  Horses and riders for fresh relays, together with station agents and helpers, were ready and waiting at the appointed places, ten or fifteen miles apart over the entire course.  There was no guess-work or delay.