There were only four men at each station, and the Indians, who were then hostile, roamed over the country in bands of from thirty to a hundred.

What I consider my most narrow escape from death was being shot at by a lot of fool emigrants, who, when I took them to task about it on my return trip, excused themselves by saying, “We thought you was an Indian.”

Another of the daring riders of the Pony Express was Robert Haslam.[27]
He says: 
        About eight months after the Pony Express was established,
        the Pi-Ute war commenced in Nevada.  Virginia City, then the
        principal point of interest, and hourly expecting an attack
        from the hostile Indians, was only in its infancy.  A stone
        hotel on C street was in course of construction, and had
        reached an elevation of two stories.  This was hastily
        transformed into a fort for the protection of the women and
        children.  From the city the signal-fires of the Indians could
        be seen on every mountain peak, and all available men and
        horses were pressed into service to repel the impending
        assault of the savages.

When I reached Reed’s Station, on the Carson River, I found no change of horses, as all those at the station had been seized by the whites to take part in the approaching battle.  I fed the animal that I rode, and started for the next station, called Buckland’s, afterward known as Fort Churchill, fifteen miles farther down the river.  It was to have been the termination of my journey (as I had changed my old route to this one, in which I had had many narrow escapes, and been twice wounded by the Indians), and I had already ridden seventy-five miles; but, to my great astonishment, the other rider refused to go on.  The superintendent, W. C. Marley, was at the station, but all his persuasion could not prevail on the rider, Johnson Richardson, to take the road.  Turning then to me, Marley said:—­

        “Bob, I will give you fifty dollars if you make this ride.”

        I replied, “I will go at once.”

Within ten minutes, when I had adjusted my Spencer rifle, which was a seven-shooter and my Colt’s revolver, with two cylinders ready for use in case of emergency, I started.  From the station onward it was a lonely and dangerous ride of thirty-five miles, without a change, to the Sink of the Carson.  I arrived there all right, however, and pushed on to Sand Springs, through an alkali bottom and sand-hills, thirty miles farther, without a drop of water all along the route.  At Sand Springs I changed horses and continued on to Cold Springs, a distance of thirty-seven miles.  Another change and a ride of thirty more miles brought me to Smith’s Creek.  Here I was relieved by J. G. Kelley.  I had ridden one hundred and eighty-five miles, stopping only to eat and change horses.