Davy was so stiff and sore that for several days he moved around very little; but he learned that the news which he had brought in was being rushed westward at a tremendous rate. Billy Cody had ridden the last ten miles of his own run in thirty minutes; and by special rider from Julesburg the tidings “Lincoln’s elected!” had been taken into Denver only two days and twenty-one hours out of St. Joseph—665 miles.

When Davy was on his way back to Laramie he heard, at Horseshoe Station, that the news had been carried through to California in eight days—two days less than schedule! That was riding! And although he never again was on Pony Express, he felt that to the end of his life he would be proud of having ridden it once and of having performed well.

The people at Fort Laramie appreciated what Davy had done, and if he had not been a sensible boy the praise that he got would have turned his head. Captain Brown it was who summoned him over to the Brown quarters one evening and asked flatly:

“Dave, how would you like to go to West Point and be educated for a soldier?”

Dave gulped, in surprise, and blushed red. Such an education had been beyond his dreams.

“You have the right stuff in you, boy,” continued the captain, eyeing him. “You’ve made a good start, but you can’t continue knocking around this way. The frontier won’t last forever. When the telegraph comes through, connecting the West with the East, the Pony Express will have to quit; and there’ll soon be a railroad, and then the stage coach business will have to quit. If we have war (and things look like it), I’ll be ordered out; so will the other officers and men here, and what will happen to you is a problem. See? If you want to go to West Point you ought to begin preparing, so as to be ready when you’re old enough to enter. It’s no easy matter to take the course at the Academy; but it’s the finest education in the world, even if you don’t stay in the army. I don’t want you to go there with the idea of being a fighting man. Army officers are the last persons of all to wish for fighting. The army has a great work to do outside of war. We’re supposed to civilize the country and keep it peaceful. At West Point your body is built up, and what you learn, you learn thoroughly. You come out fit to meet every kind of emergency. What do you say? If you say ‘yes,’ then I’ll make application for you to the President direct and ask him to appoint you ‘at large,’ as he has a right to do, just as if you were my own son.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered Davy, red. “I’d like to go.”

“Good!” exclaimed the captain, shaking with him. “I’ll make arrangements so that if I’m ordered out you’ll be in the right hands.”

Events seemed to occur fast. By Pony Express dispatches and the tissue newspapers it was learned that South Carolina had withdrawn from the Union and that the other Southern States were following suit. Abraham Lincoln in his inauguration address besought peace but stood firmly for a United States. His address was carried from Saint Joseph to Sacramento, 1966 miles, in seven days and seventeen hours—a new record. But when arrived the word that on April 12 the South Carolina troops had bombarded Fort Sumter, then everybody knew that the war had begun.

Another important thing, also, occurred. Before spring a stranger who created considerable talk came through by stage bound west. He was Mr. Edward Creighton—a pleasant gentleman with an Irish face; and was on his way to Salt Lake looking over the country with a view to putting in a telegraph line through to Salt Lake City. A California company was to build from California east to Salt Lake and it was rumored that the Government offered a payment of $40,000 a year to the company that reached Salt Lake the first. This meant, of course, a line clear across from the Missouri to the Pacific coast.

In the hurly-burly of troops preparing to leave for the front in the East, Davy had the idea that he, too, should go as a drummer boy, maybe. The sight of Billy Cody hurrying through was hard to bear.

Billy appeared unexpectedly on the stage from Horseshoe Station, where he had been an “extra” rider under direct orders of Superintendent Jack Slade himself.

“Hello, Billy!”

“Hello, Dave.”

“Where are you going now, Billy?”

“Back home. I haven’t been home for a year, and my mother wants to see me. She’s poorly again. I guess I’d better be where things are boiling, too. This war won’t last more than six months, they say; but Kansas is liable to be a hot place with so many Southerners just across the border in Missouri. I ought to be on hand in case of trouble around home.”

That was just like Billy—to be on hand! Dave had more than half a mind to accompany him to Leavenworth, and Captain Brown, about to leave himself, had about decided that Leavenworth would be the best place, when the matter was solved by the appearance of the Reverend Mr. Baxter, who arrived on the next stage from the west.

“Gee whillikins!” exclaimed Dave, overjoyed, rushing to meet him. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, merely coming through on my way from Salt Lake back to Denver,” laughed Mr. Baxter. “I’m messenger on the stage between Julesburg and Denver, but I’ve been off on a little vacation with a survey party for a new stage road. I heard you were here. You’re celebrated since you made that splendid ride, Davy.”

Davy blushed again. He hated to blush, but he had to.

“What are you doing these days?” demanded Mr. Baxter.

As soon as he heard of Davy’s plans and present fix, he insisted that Davy travel down to Denver with him and stay there.

“Room with me, Dave?” he proffered generously. “I need a bunky. You can get work easy enough—I know the very place where they can use a boy who can write and figure—and I’ll tutor you. It will do me good to brush up a little in mathematics and all that.”

Captain Brown agreed, and the matter was promptly settled. Away went Dave, and the next day Captain Brown himself left for Fort Leavenworth, and then—where? His going would have made Laramie rather empty for Dave.

Denver had grown amazingly. There was now no “Auraria”; all was Denver City—and what had been known as “Western Kansas” and the “Territory of Jefferson,” was the Territory of Colorado. On both sides of Cherry Creek many new buildings, two and three stories, some of the buildings being brick, had gone up; potatoes and other produce were being raised, and the streets, busier than ever, were thronged with merchants and other real citizens, as well as with miners and bull whackers.

Mr. Baxter took Davy over to see the lots that they had bought for the sack of flour two years before. Then, the lots had been out on the very edge of town; now they were right in the business district. The Jones family had not cared for them; had sold them for a mere song and had pushed on to “get rich quick” mining. The Joneses had gone back to the States, poor; but the lost lots were being held by the present owners at $1000 apiece.

Mr. Baxter made good his promise, and Dave found a niche (which appeared to have been made especially for a red-headed boy, with spunk, who could read and write as well as take care of himself on the trail) in the Elephant Corral. This was a large store building and yard for the convenience of merchants and overland traffic. It dealt in flour and feed and other staples consigned to it, and was headquarters for bull outfits arriving and leaving.

The war excitement continued. Colorado, like Kansas and Nebraska, sent out its volunteers in response to the calls of President Lincoln. Mr. Baxter tried hard to be accepted as a chaplain, but the examining surgeons refused him, he confided to Davy, because he had a “bum lung.”

“So, Davy boy,” he said, “you and I will have to fight the battle of peace, and win our honors there, at present.”

They heard that Captain Brown had been made a general, and Billy Cody and Wild Bill, too, were serving on the Union side as scouts and despatch bearers in Kansas and Missouri. As for Davy, he pegged along, rooming and boarding with Mr. Baxter, doing his work at the Elephant Corral and studying evenings.

Meanwhile, the staging and freighting across the plains and to Salt Lake continued, when not interrupted by the Indians. The Butterfield “Southern Overland,” through Texas and New Mexico and Arizona to California, which had been carrying the Government mail for two years, had to be discontinued on account of the war and the Apache Indians; and the contract was given to the “Central” route, operated by Russell, Majors & Waddell. This meant $400,000 a year from the Government, and it looked as though the Central Overland, California & Pike’s Peak need no longer be called the “Clean Out of Cash & Poor Pay”; but soon the word came that the whole line had been bought in by a big creditor, Ben Holladay.

Great things were expected of Ben Holladay. Dave had seen him once or twice—a large, heavy man, with square, resolute face; clean-shaven cheeks, and gray beard. He was a veteran freighter and trader on the plains, and had been in business in Salt Lake, California, St. Louis and New York, and was a hustler. He hastened to increase the service of his stage line. No expense or trouble was too much for him. The line was known now as “Ben Holladay’s Line,” and “The Overland Stage.” The old route north from Julesburg and around by Fort Laramie was changed to a shorter route (the route which Mr. Baxter had helped survey for Russell, Majors & Waddell at the time when he picked up Dave at Laramie), which from Latham, sixty miles north of Denver, veering northwest crossed the mountains at Bridger’s Pass for Salt Lake. At Salt Lake the celebrated Pioneer Stage Line continued with passengers and mail and express for Placerville, California.

The very fall after Dave arrived in Denver Mr. Creighton finished his telegraph line into Salt Lake City, and won the $40,000 a year prize offered by the Government. The California company met him there; the first message was flashed through from coast to coast (“The Pacific to the Atlantic sends greeting,” it said; “and may both oceans be dry before a foot of all the land that lies between shall belong to any other than a united country”); and, as Captain Brown had predicted, the Pony Express must stop. The Holladay stages carried the mails.

Every morning at eight o’clock sharp they left Atchison below St. Joseph on the Missouri River; at Latham the Salt Lake coaches proceeded on to Salt Lake and the Denver coaches turned south to Denver—and usually got in with such regularity that Denver people set their watches by them! There never had been such a stage coach magnate as Ben Holladay. His six- and nine-passenger Concord coaches were the best that could be built—and on the main line alone he used 100. His horses were the best that could be bought—and of these and of mules he had, on the main line, 3000. His drivers were paid the best salaries—$125 and $150 a month. And for carrying the mails he received from the Government $650,000 a year. When, several times a year, he went over his whole lines he travelled like a whirlwind and caused a tremendous commotion.

But speedily the regular operation of the Holladay Overland Express was badly interrupted, for the Indians began to ravage up and down. All the way from central Kansas to the mountains they destroyed stations and attacked stages. The stages ran two at a time, for company, and were protected by squads of soldiers; but even then they did not always get through, and Denver was cut off from the outside world for weeks at a time. Whenever Mr. Baxter started out as messenger Dave was afraid that he would not come back alive; but somehow he managed to make the trip, although he was apt to return in a coach riddled with arrows and bullets.

The summer of 1864, when Davy was almost seventeen and old enough to enter the Military Academy, was the worst season of all for Indian raids. Stations and ranches for hundreds of miles at a stretch were pillaged, and the stages ceased altogether between the mountains and the Missouri. Then, in the fall, there came a lull—of which Dave was heartily glad, for he had been ordered to report at Fort Leavenworth for examination. His appointment had come, signed by Abraham Lincoln.

“I’ll see you through to Atchison, Dave,” said Mr. Baxter; “and to Leavenworth, too. The return trip will be my last run.”

“Why so, Ben?” asked Davy, astonished.

“Because I’m going to change to a more permanent business while I can. The railways are coming. The Central Pacific’s building a little every year east out of California, and as soon as the war’s over the Union Pacific will start from its end, at the Missouri. When the two roads meet, with trains running across the continent, this staging business will be knocked flat, and we messengers will be stranded. I’ve got my health now; I’m as good a man as anybody, and when I get back from Atchison I’ll go into something different. I’ve several offers pending. See?”

That sounded like sense; but Dave was pleased that Mr. Baxter had not quit before this trip, for he had counted on going out in Ben’s coach.

The fare from Denver to the Missouri River was up to $175, but Davy had saved this, and more. The stages left from the Planters’ Hotel. The first stage out, after the long interruption, created much excitement. At least fifty passengers clamored for places, but there was room for only nine in the body—and even they were crowded by mail sacks. Dave sat on the driver’s box with Ben and the driver, who was Bob Hodge.

Everybody on the line knew Bob Hodge; he was one of the “king whips,” and very popular. The Holladay stage drivers out of the principal stations dressed the best that they could, for they were persons of consequence. Polished boots, broadcloth trousers tucked in, soft silk shirts with diamond stud, rakish hat and kid gloves were none too good for them. Bob wore a suit of buckskin—with its decorations of beads and fringes, the finest suit in Denver. As he stepped from the hotel he elegantly drew on a pair of new yellow kid gloves. He nodded to Ben and Dave, and tucked a brass horn, which was his pride, in the seat. On this horn he was accustomed to perform when he wanted amusement and when he approached stations. His other pride was his whip—of ebony handle inlaid with silver. All the Holladay stage drivers owned their whips and would not lend them.

Bob climbed aboard, Ben and Dave followed. Two hostlers held the six-horse team by the bits; another handed up the lines to Bob—who condescended to receive them.

“Think she’ll get through, Bob?” queried several voices, referring to the coach.

“Oh, I reckon. She’s been through several times before,” drawled Bob.

And by the looks of “her,” she evidently had been through something. It had been a beautiful coach, in the beginning, painted a glossy bright green, trimmed with gilt; but now it was scarred by storm and Indians. The very boot curtain behind Dave’s feet was punctured in two places by arrows, and there were other holes through the coach sides.

Bob glanced at his gold watch. He grasped lines and whip, nodded at the hostlers (they sprang from the leaders’ bits), released the heavy brake with a bang; to the crack of his whip forward leaped the six gray horses, whose harness was adorned with ivory rings. The watching crowd gave a cheer, and, driving with one hand, Bob played what he called “Into the Wilderness.”

Bob’s run was only to Latham, sixty miles down the Platte. Here he descended, in lordly fashion, from his seat—and out of the coach must issue the passengers, much to their disgust. The mails from the west had been piling up for six weeks, and were of more importance than people. Forty-one sacks were stored aboard by the station agent, until the coach was heaped to the roof, and the big boot was overflowing. The coach now carried a ton of mail—and Ben, Davy and the driver.

Express messengers rode an entire division, such as between Atchison and Denver, between Denver and Salt Lake, and between Salt Lake and Placerville of California. So Ben continued on, with Dave as his guest. The new driver was “Long Slim”—another odd character. “Long Slim” was six feet three inches tall, and so thin that he claimed when he stood sideways he wouldn’t cast a shadow. He was much different from dandy Bob Hodge; for he wore cowhide boots, a blue army overcoat, and a buffalo fur cap.

Long Slim drove to Bijou Station, and here another driver took charge. Stage drivers drove forty or fifty miles, or from “home” station to “home” station. In between, about every ten miles, were the “swing” stations, where the teams were changed. Meals were served at the home stations.

The change of drivers was interesting, and really made little difference to Dave, for none of them talked much; and as the coach rolled further eastward into the Indian country the talk was less and less. At the swing stations the teams were always standing, harnessed and waiting. The driver grandly tossed down the lines and yawned; the old team was whisked out in a jiffy, the new team trotted into place without being told, the station men handed up the lines to the box, and away went the stage again.

At the home stations the driver—“Long Slim,” or “Deacon,” or “Dad,” or “Mizzou,” or whatever he was called, followed his lines to the ground, said (if he chose): “All quiet so far, Hank,” and strolled into the station. If he mentioned a drink of water, half the station force rushed to get it for him. He was a king, was the driver on the Overland Stage!

At Bijou Station, six soldiers of the Colorado cavalry picked up the stage and escorted it, riding three on a side, for about 100 miles. At least they were there when Davy peeked out of the boot under the driver’s seat, where he slept, curled in a ball, very comfortably, while the coach rocked and swayed through the night.

The Seventh Iowa Cavalry next took the stage, galloping and trotting beside it down the trail along the Platte River.

The stage stations and the ranches looked as if they had been having a tough time. Most of the ranch buildings were in ruins and abandoned; many of the stage stations had been burned, and the station men were living in dug-outs, some of which were merely holes in the ground, roofed over with a pile of dirt loop-holed for rifles. Meals at the home stations were $1.50, cooked by the station agents’ brave wives or by the men themselves. Some of the meals were very poor, too—and some astonishingly good.

All went well with the stage until between Cottonwood and Fort Kearney the driver, who was known as “Waupsie,” pointed to the south with his whip.

“There they are,” he said quietly; and instantly flung out his lash.

The silken snapper cracked like a pistol shot, and out launched the team. Down from a low row of sandy buttes half a mile to the south and ahead were speeding a bevy of dark dots. Davy’s heart skipped a beat. The dots were making for the trail, as if to cut off the coach. They were Indians, sure.

“What’ll we do, Waupsie?” asked Ben, coolly. “Beat ’em in?”

“We’ll do the best we can. Six miles to go is all,” answered Waupsie, in grim manner. And he yelled to the cavalrymen: “You’ll have to ride faster than that, boys.”

The corporal in charge of the squad had spoken gruffly. Three before, three behind, the soldiers were rising and falling in their stirrups and urging on their horses. The grade was slightly down hill, and it was evident that the cavalry horses were no match for the stage team—six splendid blacks, grain fed and long-legged. Soon the coach gradually drew even with the leading soldiers and began to pass them in spite of their efforts.

“Can’t wait,” yelled Waupsie, “Goodby. Fact is,” he remarked, half to himself, “I can’t hold ’em. Drat their skins!”

The whoops of the Indians were plainly heard; the breeze was from the south, and as if smelling the red enemy the stage horses were wild with fear. Braced, Waupsie sawed on the lines; his foot pressed the brake hard, but he might as well have saved his strength.

Waupsie had no time or opportunity to use a gun; his business was to drive. Ben cocked his shot-gun lying across his knees.

“Get in the boot, Dave,” he bade.

Davy started to slide under, but stopped ashamed. In a rush the Indians, whooping and frantically brandishing bows and lances, charged the trail, cutting in behind, and racing on both sides before. The cavalry squad were now far in the rear.

With a thud an arrow landed full in the coach side; another quivered in the flank of the off wheel horse—and he leaped prodigiously.

“Steady! Steady, boys!” besought Waupsie.

The arrows were hissing and thudding. The painted Indians looked like demons. Ben flung up his gun, took hasty aim, and at the report the nearest Indian on the left (a particularly determined fellow) swerved away, reeling in his saddle pad. Red spots could be seen on his side where the buck-shot had struck. At the rear the cavalrymen were shooting vainly, and suddenly Waupsie gave an exclamation.

“Take these lines, quick!” he said. “Confound it!”

An arrow had pinned his right arm to his side. He jerked at it and could not budge it, and Ben grabbed the lines.

“You take my gun, Dave,” he ordered. “Don’t shoot unless you have to; and then shoot the ponies. Fight ’em off.”

Dave promptly seized the gun from Ben’s lap, and at once he saw the reason in the last order. The Indians were racing on either side; whenever he raised the gun to aim every Indian on that side ducked to the opposite flank of his horse, and left only a moccasin sole in sight. That was a small mark at which to aim from a jolting coach. Dave aimed and aimed again; whenever he paused, up bobbed the Indians; when he pointed the gun at them, down they ducked; and all the time they were shooting from underneath their ponies’ necks or from the saddle.

“That’s right. Fight ’em off, Davy. It’s as good as emptying your gun,” panted Ben, hanging hard to the lines. Waupsie was plying the whip—now and then to drop it and level his revolver.

“Fight ’em off, Davy!”

A sharp shock almost paralyzed Dave’s right arm, and through shoulder and arm surged a red-hot pain. He nearly dropped the gun. He glanced at his shoulder and saw a flush of crimson dyeing his shirt. But no arrow was sticking there as he had feared. It was only a gash. All right.

“Hurt, Dave?” queried Ben.

“No, not much,” said Davy, firmly.

“We’ll make it,” uttered Waupsie. “Got to. Fight ’em off, boys!”

The sandy plain flowed past; another horse had been wounded and the coach was fairly bristling with shafts. But the gallant team never slackened their furious pace, and suddenly with a final chorus of whoops and a last volley, the Indians turned and raced away; for yonder, around the turn, appeared the home station.

“Humph!” muttered Waupsie. “Those Injuns are just on a lark. Now I’ll get quit of this arrow.”

The cavalry squad did not arrive until after the coach had left; another squad escorted it to Fort Kearney, and by the time Atchison was reached, two days afterward, Dave’s shoulder was beginning to heal.

“It doesn’t hurt much, really, Ben,” he insisted; but he was proud of his wound. The scar he carries to-day and other scars besides.

From Atchison he and Ben went down to Leavenworth. On the street at Leavenworth a hand clapped him on his shoulder (fortunately his well shoulder), and looking up he looked into the face of Billy Cody.