One day I galloped into the station at Three Crossings to find that my
relief had been killed in a drunken row the night before. There was no
one to take his place. His route was eighty-five miles across country
to the west. I had no time to think it over. Selecting a good pony out
of the stables I was soon on my way.

I arrived at Rocky Ridge, the end of the new route, on schedule time,
and turning back came on to Red Buttes, my starting-place. The round
trip was 320 miles, and I made it in twenty-one hours and forty
minutes.

Excitement was plentiful during my two years' service as a Pony Express
rider. One day as I was leaving Horse Creek, a party of fifteen Indians
jammed me in a sand ravine eight miles west of the station. They fired
at me repeatedly, but my luck held, and I went unscathed. My mount was
a California roan pony, the fastest in the stables. I dug the spurs
into his sides, and, lying flat on his back, I kept straight on for
Sweetwater Bridge eleven miles distant. A turn back to Horse Creek
might have brought me more speedily to shelter, but I did not dare risk
it.

The Indians came on behind, riding with all the speed they could put
into their horses, but my pony drew rapidly ahead. I had a lead of two
miles when I reached the station. There I found I could get no new
pony. The stock-tender had been killed by the Indians during the night.
All his ponies had been stolen and driven off. I kept on, therefore, to
Plonts Station, twelve miles further along, riding the same pony--a
ride of twenty-four miles on one mount. At Plonts I told the people
what had happened at Sweetwater Bridge. Then, with a fresh horse, I
finished my route without further adventure.