After remaining at Smith’s Creek about nine hours, I started to retrace my journey with the return express.  When I arrived at Cold Springs, to my horror I found that the station had been attacked by Indians, the keeper killed, and all the horses taken away.  I decided in a moment what course to pursue—­I would go on.  I watered my horse, having ridden him thirty miles on time, he was pretty tired, and started for Sand Springs, thirty-seven miles away.  It was growing dark, and my road lay through heavy sage-brush, high enough in some places to conceal a horse.  I kept a bright lookout, and closely watched every motion of my poor pony’s ears, which is a signal for danger in an Indian country.  I was prepared for a fight, but the stillness of the night and the howling of the wolves and coyotes made cold chills run through me at times; but I reached Sand Springs in safety and reported what had happened.  Before leaving, I advised the station-keeper to come with me to the Sink of the Carson, for I was sure the Indians would be upon him the next day.  He took my advice, and so probably saved his life, for the following morning Smith’s Creek was attacked.  The whites, however, were well protected in the shelter of a stone house, from which they fought the savages for four days.  At the end of that time they were relieved by the appearance of about fifty volunteers from Cold Springs.  These men reported that they had buried John Williams, the brave keeper of that station, but not before he had been nearly devoured by the wolves.

When I arrived at the Sink of the Carson, I found the station-men badly frightened, for they had seen some fifty warriors, decked out in their war-paint and reconnoitring.  There were fifteen white men here, well armed and ready for a fight.  The station was built of adobe, and was large enough for the men and ten or fifteen horses, with a fine spring of water within a few feet of it.  I rested here an hour, and after dark started for Buckland’s, where I arrived without a mishap and only three and a half hours behind schedule time.  I found Mr. Marley at Buckland’s, and when I related to him the story of the Cold Springs tragedy and my success, he raised his previous offer of fifty dollars for my ride to one hundred.  I was rather tired, but the excitement of the trip had braced me up to withstand the fatigue of the journey.  After a rest of one and a half hours, I proceeded over my own route from Buckland’s to Friday’s Station, crossing the Sierra Nevada.  I had travelled three hundred and eighty miles within a few hours of schedule time, and was surrounded by perils on every hand.

After the Pony Express was discontinued Pony Bob was employed by Wells, Fargo, & Company as an express rider in the prosecution of their transportation business.  His route was between Virginia City, Nevada, and Friday’s Station and return, about one hundred miles, every twenty-four hours; schedule time, ten