Yes, I was a Pony Express rider in 1860, and went out with Bolivar Roberts, and I tell you it was no picnic.  No amount of money could tempt me to repeat my experience of those days.  To begin with, we had to build willow roads, corduroy fashion, across many places along the Carson River, carrying bundles of willows two and three hundred yards in our arms, while the mosquitoes were so thick that it was difficult to tell whether the man was white or black, so thickly were they piled on his neck, face, and arms.

Arriving at the Sink of the Carson River, we began the erection of a fort to protect us from the Indians.  As there were no rocks or logs in that vicinity, it was built of adobes, made from the mud on the shores of the lake.  To mix this and get it to the proper consistency to mould into adobes, we tramped all day in our bare feet.  This we did for a week or more, and the mud being strongly impregnated with alkali carbonate of soda, you can imagine the condition of our feet.  They were much swollen and resembled hams.  We next built a fort at Sand Springs, twenty miles from Carson Lake, and another at Cold Springs, thirty-seven miles east of Sand Springs.  At the latter station I was assigned to duty as assistant station-keeper, under Jim McNaughton.

The war against the Pi-Ute Indians was then at its height, and as we were in the middle of their country, it became necessary for us to keep a standing guard night and day.  The Indians were often skulking around, but none of them ever came near enough for us to get a shot at him, till one dark night when I was on guard, I noticed one of our horses prick up his ears and stare.  I looked in the direction indicated and saw an Indian’s head projecting above the wall.  My instructions were to shoot if I saw an Indian within rifle-range, as that would wake the boys quicker than anything else; so I fired and missed my man.

Later on we saw the Indian camp-fires on the mountain, and in the morning many tracks.  They evidently intended to stampede our horses, and if necessary kill us.  The next day one of our riders, a Mexican, rode into camp with a bullet-hole through him from the left to the right side, having been shot by Indians while coming down Edwards Creek, in the Quaking Aspen Bottom.  He was tenderly cared for but died before surgical aid could reach him.

As I was the lightest man at the station, I was ordered to take the Mexican’s place on the route.  My weight was then one hundred pounds, while I now weigh one hundred and thirty.  Two days after taking the route, on my return trip, I had to ride through the forest of quaking aspen where the Mexican had been shot.  A trail had been cut through these little trees, just wide enough to allow horse and rider to pass.  As the road was crooked and the branches came together from either side, just above my head when mounted, it was impossible for me to