Using Information Technology 11th Edition Williams Test Bank
Using Information Technology 11th Edition Williams Test Bank
Using Information Technology 11th Edition Williams Test Bank
Using Information Technology 11th Edition Williams Test Bank
1. Using Information Technology 11th Edition
Williams Test Bank download pdf
https://testbankfan.com/product/using-information-technology-11th-
edition-williams-test-bank/
Visit testbankfan.com to explore and download the complete
collection of test banks or solution manuals!
2. We believe these products will be a great fit for you. Click
the link to download now, or visit testbankfan.com
to discover even more!
Using Information Technology 10th Edition Williams Test
Bank
https://testbankfan.com/product/using-information-technology-10th-
edition-williams-test-bank/
Using Information Technology 10th Edition Williams
Solutions Manual
https://testbankfan.com/product/using-information-technology-10th-
edition-williams-solutions-manual/
Information Technology for Management 11th Edition Turban
Test Bank
https://testbankfan.com/product/information-technology-for-
management-11th-edition-turban-test-bank/
Crafting and Executing Strategy Concepts and Cases 22nd
Edition Thompson Solutions Manual
https://testbankfan.com/product/crafting-and-executing-strategy-
concepts-and-cases-22nd-edition-thompson-solutions-manual/
3. Introductory Chemistry Atoms First 5th Edition Russo Test
Bank
https://testbankfan.com/product/introductory-chemistry-atoms-
first-5th-edition-russo-test-bank/
Calculus of a Single Variable 10th Edition Larson Test
Bank
https://testbankfan.com/product/calculus-of-a-single-variable-10th-
edition-larson-test-bank/
Child Family School Community Socialization and Support
9th Edition Berns Test Bank
https://testbankfan.com/product/child-family-school-community-
socialization-and-support-9th-edition-berns-test-bank/
Illustrated Course Guide Microsoft Office 365 and Access
2016 Introductory 1st Edition Friedrichsen Test Bank
https://testbankfan.com/product/illustrated-course-guide-microsoft-
office-365-and-access-2016-introductory-1st-edition-friedrichsen-test-
bank/
International Macroeconomics 4th Edition Feenstra
Solutions Manual
https://testbankfan.com/product/international-macroeconomics-4th-
edition-feenstra-solutions-manual/
36. “I told you they were to be let alone and I mean it. Stick that in your
pipe and smoke it.”
Yank said nothing. His eye, where Joel’s fist had thudded, was
swollen shut, but out of the other he glared steadily; and while he
did not move a muscle (he knew better than to move with that
revolver muzzle trained upon him), if a look could have killed, then
Joel would have dropped in his tracks.
Joel slowly backed away, keeping his Colt’s ready.
“Remember,” he warned. “Don’t try that again.” And finally, having
backed far enough, beyond the fringe of men who had gathered, he
hastened after his wagon. Davy’s heart could beat again.
“Joel was right in this,” proclaimed a teamster. “You may be
assistant wagon boss but even the boss himself has no business
whipping another man’s bulls.” And as the men resought their
wagons heads wagged and voices murmured in agreement
therewith.
As for Yank, he was growing red again; he cautiously wiped his
injured eye, his hand twitched upon the butt of his revolver, and
picking up his hat he stumbled forward as if in a dream. The way he
acted was more dangerous, it seemed to Davy, than if he had
stormed and threatened. And Davy was afraid for Joel.
The train passed through the sandy hollow without further
mishap; and when they climbed out and pulled on over the next rise
they met the buffalo hunters returning. The mules’ saddles were red
with meat, and the three riders were well pleased with their hunt.
The sun was low over the trail before, making golden the dust of
travel.
“We’ll camp here, boys,” called Charley, cheerfully, “and do what
butchering we need on those buffalo carcasses. Swing out, Joel.
Whew, man! You must have had to lay on the lash a bit heavy, didn’t
you?” For the haunches of the lead team were bloody welted. More
37. than that, the cracker seemed to have taken a piece of hide out the
size of a quarter!
“No,” said Joel, briefly. “I didn’t.”
“Well,” continued Charley, “let’s corral where we are. Yank, you—
what’s the matter with your eye, man?”
“I fell down,” answered Yank, steadily. And at the laugh which
went up he reddened deeply again, and again his hand twitched.
38. XVII
DAVY “THE BULL WHACKER”
Charley scanned him quizzically for a moment.
“You must have fallen mighty hard,” he remarked. “Who hit you,
Yank?”
“That lead teamster o’ yours,” growled Yank, with a string of
oaths. “I’ll get him for that. No man can strike me and stay long on
this earth. The dirty hound!” And he abused Joel horridly.
Joel heard the loud words, and suddenly leaving his team where it
stood, came walking fast.
“None of that!” he called. “You keep a quiet tongue in your head.
You can see what he did to my bulls, Charley. He laid my whip on
them. I allow no man to cut my bulls. I never cut them myself. They
were doing as well as they could.”
Charley quickly stepped between the two—for the hand of each
was poised for the dart to revolver butt.
“That’s enough,” he bade. “There’s to be no fighting in this train
and no swearing. You both know that. Give me your guns. Pass ’em
over.”
“All right, Charley,” answered Joel. “Here are mine if you say so. I
don’t need a gun to deal with that fellow.” And unbuckling his belt
he tossed it aside.
“Now it’s up to you, Yank,” addressed Charley.
Yank flushed.
39. “My guns are my own, an’ I’m goin’ to wear ’em as long as I
please,” he blurted.
“No, you aren’t, Yank,” retorted Charley, coolly. Looking him in the
eye, he walked straight to him. “You needn’t give them to me; I’ll
take them. See?”
He was a little man, was Charley, but he had a great heart and the
nerve to back it up. Reaching, while Yank stood uncertain and
cowed, he jerked both revolvers from the holsters; then he stepped
back to put his foot on Joel’s belt.
“That’s enough,” he said. “I want this matter to end right here. If
you laid whip on another man’s bulls when there wasn’t any need of
it I reckon you got about what you deserved. We’re not bull skinners
in this train. But I’ll have no fighting in the outfit. You fellows can
settle your differences after you leave. Go on and finish your
corralling, Joel. Yank, you saddle a fresh mule from the cavvy and
ride out and help Kentuck and Andy butcher those buffalo. Your
mule’s plumb worn out. Hear me?”
Yank glared at him for a moment, but Charley returned eye for
eye. Presently Yank whirled on his heel, and snatching the bridle of
his mule strode off, muttering, to the cavvy. Joel went back to his
team. Charley shook the cylinders out of the four revolvers, dropped
them into his pockets, and stowed the useless weapons in one of the
wagons. The train proceeded about the business of the hour, and
Davy, whose heart had been beating high, helped.
“The ride out yonder will help to cool his blood a bit,” commented
one of the teamsters, referring to Yank—who, leading Andy and
Kentuck, was galloping furiously away. As for Joel, he was acting as
if the recent trouble was ancient history—except that when he
examined the wounds on his two beloved oxen he shook his head.
The teams had been unhitched from the wagons and were being
led aside to water and pasture, when a sudden shout arose.
“Look at Yank! Look at him, will you! Where’s he going?”
40. Everybody stared. Leaving Andy and Kentuck behind, Yank,
without slackening pace, was galloping on and on through the area
where the buffalo herd had been and where the carcasses were
lying. Andy and Kentuck yelled at him, but he paid no heed. And
from the wagon train welled another chorus of cries.
“He’s taking French leave! He’s deserting!”
“Let him go, boys,” quoth Charley, coloring, but making no move.
“I’ll send him his guns sometime; but he’s forfeited his pay. If he
wants to have things that way, good enough. We’re better off
without him.”
The men grunted, satisfied; nobody liked the unruly, foul-mouthed
Yank. Soon he disappeared over a rise and he was not seen again by
Davy for a year.
The camp that evening seemed much pleasanter without the
presence of Yank. With him absent and with plenty of buffalo meat
on hand, the men laughed and joked to even an unusual extent. It
was a carefree camp.
“Here are your guns, Joel,” said Charley, returning them. “Guess I
can trust you with them now. Well, we’re a short train, with two men
shy. I’d rather lose Yank than Sailor Bill; but they’re both gone.
Kentuck, you’re promoted to assistant wagon boss; and I’ll have to
turn your team over to Dave, here. They’re well broken and I reckon
he can drive them. How about it, Dave?”
Davy was somewhat flustered. He to be a bull whacker? Hurrah!
“I’ll try,” he stammered.
“Sure you will; and you’ll make good. Fact is, those bulls drive
themselves. But you can learn a heap, anyway. All right. You take
Kentuck’s outfit in the morning and go ahead. The boys will help you
if you get in trouble. I can’t spare Joel; he’s too good a man in the
lead, and we need him there.”
That night Davy could scarcely go to sleep. He was excited. He
wondered if he really could “make good” as a bull whacker. He had
41. practised with the whip and could “throw” it pretty well, although it
was a long lash for a boy. But he had found out that to wield a bull
whip and “pop” it required a certain knack rather than mere
strength; and, besides, the bull teams behind kept up with the
wagons before as a matter of habit. Of course, corralling and yoking
were the chief difficulties. But he had watched closely what the men
did every day, and he thought that he knew how, at least. At any
rate, he was bound to try. To handle twelve oxen seemed to him a
bigger job than being a messenger.
It was a proud Dave who, early in the morning, after breakfast, at
the cry “Catch up, men! Catch up!” shouldered his yoke and the two
bows, and sturdily trotted for the corral. He knew how to begin. The
proper method was to lay the heavy yoke across one shoulder with
the bows hanging from your arm. One pin was carried in your
mouth, the other in your hand. The ends of the bows passed up
through the yoke, so that only one end needed a pin thrust through
above the yoke to hold it; the other end stayed of itself.
Davy felt that the men were watching him out of the corners of
their eyes. He heard somebody say, aside, bantering: “Look out,
boys, or that kid will beat us!” Of course he could not do that! Not
yet. But Charley called to him from the forward gap, where
somebody must stand to keep the cattle in: “The wheel team first,
Dave. You know them, do you? A pair of big roans.”
Davy nodded. He remembered them; he had marked them well by
a good scrutiny when the herd was being driven in from pasture.
“All right,” said Charley. “You’ll find them together. The whole
bunch ought to be together.”
The corral was crowded with oxen and men, and appeared a mass
of confusion; but there was little confusion, for by this time the oxen
and the men all knew their business. Davy pushed his way straight
to the two big roans (the largest and stoutest bulls always were
chosen for the wheel team, because they must hold up the heavy
42. pole and also must stand up to the weight of the wagon down hill),
and in approved fashion laid the yoke across the neck of one.
“Be sure you yoke ’em like they’re used to travellin’, lad,” warned a
kind teamster. “The near and the off bull, or you’ll have trouble.”
Davy nodded again. He had noted this also. The “near” bull meant
the bull that was yoked to stand on the left; the “off” bull was the
right-hand one. The near bull of this team had a short horn, he
remembered. He slipped the bow under the near bull’s neck, and
standing on the outside, or left, inserted the ends of the bow up
through the yoke and slipped the pin in to hold it. Then he hustled
around to the opposite side of the “off” bull, who was standing close
to his mate, shoved him about (“Get ’round there, you!” ordered
Davy, gruffly), and reaching for the yoke lifted it across, adjusted the
bow (from the outside), slipped in the pin from his mouth—and
there he had his wheel pair yoked together!
Now proud indeed, he led his yoke out through the other bulls to
his wagon. They took position on either side of the pole, although
they seemed a little puzzled by the change in manager. Now it only
remained to lift the pole and put the end through the ring riveted to
extend below the middle of the yoke.
“Lead team next,” said Davy, wisely, to himself, leaving his wheel
team and hurrying to shoulder another yoke and its bows and re-
enter the wagon corral.
Every man was supposed to know his twelve bulls as a father
knows his children. Davy’s lead team were spotted fellows, with long
black horns. He went straight to them where they stood, waiting;
yoked them masterfully and led them, too, out to the wagon. He put
them in position, and with the four other yokes built his whole team
—starting from the rear. The train was ready and watching, but not
impatient. The men gave him time.
From the middle of each yoke the massive log chain by which they
pulled ran between them back to the yoke of the pair behind—save
that the wheel team pulled by the tongue and had no chain. Davy
43. worked hard to hook the chains. A man stepped forward to help
him; but Charley called promptly:
“Let him alone, boys. He’s doing well. He’ll get the hang of it.
Every man to his own team, you know.”
And Davy was glad.
“All set,” he announced shrilly, for his team were hooked at last.
“All set,” repeated Charley. “Line out, boys.”
To brisk shout from Joel and crack of his whip the lead team
straightened their chains and the wagon moved ahead. One after
another the other wagons followed; and Davy’s team fell into place
almost before he had “popped” his whip and had joined in the cries:
“Haw, Buck! Hep! Hep with you!”
The train retook the trail, Davy trudging like any other bull
whacker on the left side of his wheel yoke, his whip over his
shoulder, his hat shoved back from his perspiring forehead. He
doubted if even Billy Cody could have done better; and he wished
that Billy might see him.
Ever the trail unfolded on and on, sometimes skirting the shallow
Platte, sometimes diverging a little to seek easier route. It traversed
a country very unattractive, broken by the clayey buttes and by deep
washes, and running off into wide, sandy plateaus and bottoms, rife
with jack-rabbits, coyotes, prairie-dogs, antelope, and occasional
buffalo. The rattlesnakes were a great nuisance; the men killed them
with the whip lashes by neatly cutting off their heads as they coiled
or sometimes shot them. And almost every morning somebody
complained of a snake creeping into his warm blanket.
The processions of emigrants continued as thick as ever, bound for
“Pike’s Peak,” for Salt Lake, California and Oregon. Each day the
stage for Denver and the stage for Leavenworth passed, dusty and
hurrying; and now was given a glimpse, once in two weeks, of the
Hockaday & Liggett stages, which travelled twice a month between
St. Joseph, above Leavenworth, and Salt Lake City. Occasionally
44. Indians—Cheyennes, Arapahoes, Pawnees and Sioux—came into the
camps begging for “soog” and “cof” and “tobac.”
Davy enjoyed every mile and he did splendidly. He enjoyed even
the never-varying diet of “sowbelly” (salt pork), baked beans, hot
bread, and sugarless, milkless coffee, eked out by buffalo meat and
antelope meat when they could get it. Some of the men tried prairie-
dogs—which weren’t so bad as they sound, tasting and looking like
chicken or rabbit. The main difficulty was to get them after they had
been shot, for they almost always managed to tumble into their
holes. Then, when anybody put a hand in to drag them out, it was
met by the angry whirr of a rattle-snake. A rattle-snake and a little
owl seemed to live in each hole along with the prairie-dog family!
There were storms, coming up with startling suddenness. One
storm, at Cottonwood Springs a hundred miles west of Kearney,
Davy never forgot. It was a hail storm. First a mighty cloud of deep
purple shot through with violet lightning, swelled over the trail in the
west. Emigrants scuttled to secure their wagons, and at Charley’s
sharp commands so did the bull train.
“It looks like a twister, boys,” shouted Charley, riding back along
the train. “Better corral. I’m afraid for these bulls.”
So the train corralled in a jiffy; and, unyoked, the bulls were
driven inside. The tongues were hung in the draw ropes of the
wagon covers and the wheels were chained, wagon to wagon.
Slickers were jerked out from the wagons and donned; and the men
prepared to crawl under the wagon boxes if necessary.
With angry mutter and swollen shape the purple cloud came on at
a tremendous pace. The spin-drift of it caught the plain far ahead,
and one after another the trains of the emigrants were swallowed in
the blackness. When the first gust struck the bull train the touch was
icy cold.
“Hail, boys! Hail!” shouted Charley. “Watch the bulls!”
Now sounded a clatter like rain on a sheet-iron roof; and across
the landscape of sand and clay, and a cottonwood grove at the
45. mouth of the creek, swept a line of white. The men dived for cover
like prairie-dogs whisking into their holes.
Yes, it was hail! Such hail! Driven by a gale the stones, some as
large as hickorynuts, and all as large as filberts, lashed the huddled
train; whanged against canvas and wagon-box and with dull thuds
bounded from the bulls’ backs. Some of the animals shifted uneasily,
for the stones stung. The others stood groaning and grunting with
discomfort, shaking their heads when a particularly vicious missile
landed on an ear. Under the wagons the men were secure; but Dave
felt sorry for the poor bulls who turned and sought in vain.
As quickly as it had come the storm passed, leaving the ground
white with the hail. Almost before the men had crawled out from
underneath their wagons the sun was shining.
The hail had not damaged the bull train to any extent. There were
dents in the tough wood where the heavy stones had struck, and
several of the wagon sheets, forming the hoods, had been
punctured in weak spots; but thanks to Charley’s promptness in
corralling, the animals had not stampeded. However, some of the
emigrants had not fared so well, because they had not known what
to do. After the bull train was yoked up again and was travelling on,
it passed two emigrant outfits stalled by the trail, trying to recover
their teams which had run away. Many of the flimsy cotton hoods
used by the emigrants were riddled into strips.
The Overland Trail followed up the south side of the Platte, the
same way by which Dave had come down with the Lew Simpson
train a year before, after the fight in the mule fort. Where the North
Platte and the South Platte joined current it continued on up the
South Platte—and now to the north a short distance was the place
where the mule fort had been located so hastily by Billy Cody and
Lew and George Woods.
Soon the main trail for Salt Lake and California forded the South
Platte to cross the narrow point of land for Ash Hollow at the North
Platte and for Laramie and Salt Lake City. But the Denver branch
46. proceeded on into the west by the newer trail to the mountains and
Denver.
This branch of the Overland Trail down to Denver was only six
months old, but already it was a well-worn trail, scored deep by the
stages and by the thousands of emigrants and the constant freight
outfits. The travel eastward, toward the States, was almost as great
now as that westbound, for fall had come and everybody who was
intending to return to the States had started so as to get there
before winter. A winter journey by wagon across these plains was no
fun.
After the parting of the trail, the next station on the route was
Jules’ Ranch. Jules was an old French-Indian trapper and trader,
whose full name (as he claimed) was Jules Beni. His mother was a
Cheyenne Indian, and Jules had built a trading post here, a mile
beyond Lodgepole Creek, for trade with the Cheyennes. Now Jules
had turned his attention to the new business that had opened, and
he was selling flour to the Pike’s Peak “pilgrims” at a dollar a pound.
He had been smart enough to break a new trail that would bring the
travel between the North and the South Platte past his place—for
the regular crossing was east of him. He was smart, was Old Jules,
and now he had just been made stage agent.
“I want all you fellows to keep clear of Old Jules,” cautioned
Charley, as the train approached what some of the men jokingly
called “Julesburg.” “I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t drunk and
he’s a corker for losing his temper and picking fights. Then he wants
to kill somebody. When he’s in liquor he’s plumb crazy. He’s shot two
men and carries their ears in his pocket. I’m not afraid of him, and
neither are you; but to-morrow’s Sunday and we’ll tie up near his
place, and I don’t want trouble.”
“Why don’t you pull right through, Charley?” asked Andy Johnson,
as a spokesman. “We’re agreeable. ‘Dirty Jules’ is no great
attraction.”
47. “Well,” said Charley, “we usually do ease off on Sunday, and it’s
company orders and I don’t propose to change the programme at
this stage of the game.”
48. XVIII
BILLY CODY TURNS UP AGAIN
The Russell, Majors & Waddell bull trains were under instructions
to lie by over Sunday whenever possible. By some people this was
accounted a waste of time. However, Mr. Majors especially insisted
that Sunday should be Sunday wherever it fell, in town or on the
danger trail. One day in seven might well be spent in rest even with
a bull train. It brought the men and cattle through in better shape,
and was a gain that way instead of any loss.
So that evening the wagon train corralled near the Platte River
crossing, where the Salt Lake Trail turned north, about half a mile
east from Jules’ Ranch. The river was a great convenience, for on
Sunday the men usually tried to slick up by bathing and washing
their clothing and tidying generally. Therefore, after breakfast the
brush near the river bank was soon displaying shirts and
handkerchiefs of red and blue, and sundry pairs of socks, spread out
to dry, while their owners sat around and fought mosquitoes and
watched the wagon outfits. Some of these forded the river for Salt
Lake, Oregon or California, but most of them kept on up the Denver
branch.
This was interrupted by a distant hullabaloo—a yelling and
cheering mingled. The air was thin and still and very clear, so that
sound and eyesight carried far through it. The hullabaloo evidently
came from Jules’ Ranch, where at the group of buildings a crowd of
people had gathered. Davy’s shirt was dry, and he reached for it.
“Must be having a celebration over yonder,” drawled Kentuck.
“Reckon I’ll go see.”
49. He donned his red shirt and started. Several others made ready to
go; and Davy, as curious as anybody, decided that he would go, too.
So, wriggling into his clothes, whether they were dry or not, he
followed along up the trail to Jules’ place.
The ranch was a small collection of adobe or sun-baked clay
buildings, and a log shack which was the store. The main excitement
was centred in front of the store. The crowd had formed a circle at a
respectful distance. They were emigrants and a few of the Charley
Martin bull train.
“What’s the row?” queried Kentuck of a man at his elbow.
“’Pears like this fellow Jules is having a leetle time with himself,”
answered the man. “I ’low he’s crazy. He’s got whiskey and flour out
thar on the ground and says he’s mixing mortar. It’s a good place for
the whiskey, but it’s an awful waste of flour.”
Edging through the circle, Davy peered to see. A dirty, darkly
sallow visaged, hairy man, in soiled shirt, and trousers sagging from
their belt, was capering and screeching, and hoeing at a white mass
which might have been real mortar. But the smell of whiskey was
strong in the air, and there stood a barrel of it with the head
knocked in. The white stuff was flour, for, as Davy looked, the
capering hairy man grabbed a sack, tore it open and emptied it on
the pile.
“I show you how I mek one gr-r-rand mortarr,” he proclaimed.
“Flour at one dollar ze pound, whiskey at ten dollars ze quart; zat ze
way ol’ Jules mek gr-r-rand mortarr. Wow! Hooray! If anybody teenk
he mek one better mortarr, I cut off hees ears. Dees my country; I
do as I please.” And he hoed vigorously at his “mortar bed,” and
screeched and capered and threatened and boasted and made a fool
of himself.
Some of the crowd laughed and applauded; but the majority were
disgusted. To Davy it seemed a great pity that any human being
should so lose all control of himself and be less human than an ape.
He speedily tired of this silly exhibition by Jules, the store-keeper,
50. and turned away for fresh air. He and Charley, the wagon boss,
emerged from the crowd together.
“Old Jules is spoiling his own business, I reckon,” observed
Charley. “How any man can watch that in there and ever taste
whiskey again is more than I know. To see him make a fool of
himself is better than signing a pledge.”
The crowd rapidly wearied of this drunken Jules and his antics and
dwindled away. As for Davy, he had decided to take a walk to the
mouth of Lodgepole Creek, up the river a short distance. Lodgepole
Creek emptied in on the opposite side of the Platte, and was named
because the Cheyennes used to gather their lodge poles along it.
The Platte flowed shallow and wide, with many sand bars and
ripples, and many deepish holes where the water eddied rapidly. The
banks were fringed with willows not very high. From a rise in the
trail Dave, trudging stanchly in his heavy dusty boots, beheld an
object, far up the channel, beyond the willow tops, floating down.
It was a large object flat to the water, and as he peered he saw a
flash as from an oar-blade. A boat! No—too large and low for a boat.
It must be a raft with somebody aboard. Davy waited, inquisitive; for
craft floating on the Platte were a curiosity. The upper river was too
shallow, especially at this time of the year.
The raft came on gallantly and swiftly. It carried three persons and
their outfit. The crew were standing up: one of them steering,
behind, and one at either edge, with oars, was helping to fend off
from the bars. It looked like an easy mode of travel, and Davy
prepared to stand out and give the voyagers a cheer.
But just before the raft arrived opposite, going finely, it appeared
to hang on a snag or else strike a sudden eddy; or perhaps it did
both at once; nobody could tell. Under Davy’s astonished eyes it
stopped for a moment in mid-stream; the crew wildly dug with their
oars and fell to their hands and knees; whirling around and around
the platform fairly melted away underneath them, leaving only three
black dots on the surface of the water. These were heads!
51. Waking to the situation, Davy waved and shouted; the swimmers
may have seen him, he thought, because they were making for his
side. The current bore them along, as sometimes they swam and
sometimes they waded; and he kept pace to encourage. As the
foremost neared the bank, Davy rushed down and waded in to meet
him and help him ashore. He wasn’t a very large person—that
drenched figure floundering and splashing for safety; he wasn’t large
at all; and extending a hand, to give him a boost, Davy gasped, only
half believing:
“Why—hello, Billy! Gee whiz! Is that you?”
53. “Hello, Dave,” answered Billy Cody, muddy and dripping, but
calmly shaking Dave’s hand. “I guess it must be. Where are Hi and
Jim?” And he turned quickly to scan the river. “Good. They’re
coming. I knew they could swim. They can swim better than I, so I
reckoned I’d get ashore as soon as I could. What are you doing here
and where are you bound for?”
“I’m bull whacking for Russell, Majors & Waddell from
Leavenworth to Denver,” informed Davy, proudly. “Where are you
bound for?”
“Back to the river.” And by “the river” Davy knew that Billy meant
the Missouri. “We didn’t have any luck in the diggin’s, so we thought
we’d float home down the Platte to the Missouri and down the
Missouri to Leavenworth. Well, we got this far, anyhow.”
“Jiminy crickets!” shouted Hi, now plashing in. “If here isn’t Dave
waiting for us! Did you come all the way from Leavenworth to meet
us, Dave?”
And there was a great shaking of hands.
“I dunno what the dickens happened to us out there,” volunteered
Jim, gazing at the river suspiciously. “One moment we were just
sailing along and next moment we were swimming. No more
sailoring for me; I’d rather walk with a bull team. Here we’ve lost our
whole outfit and we’re going home from the diggin’s ‘busted’ flat.”
“We didn’t have much to lose; that’s one comfort,” said Billy.
“Think how bad we’d be feeling if we’d struck it rich up in the
mountains and every ounce was now at the bottom of the Platte!
Huh! We’ve had our fun, anyhow. Who’s your wagon boss, Dave?”
“Charley Martin.”
“Where are you camped?”
“At the Platte crossing, just below Jules’.”
“All right,” quoth Billy, cheerily. “Come on, boys. I’m going down to
the camp and see what I can get, and Charley’ll grub-stake us
54. home.”
They had clambered up the bank into the dryness, and now they
continued down the trail—Billy and Hi and Jim clumping and
squashing, Davy tramping sturdily in his teamster costume of flannel
shirt and trousers tucked into big boots.
“So you’re a sure-’nough bull whacker, are you?” asked Hi of Davy,
with a grin.
“I was hired just as an ‘extra’ for carrying messages, you know,”
said Davy, to be both honest and modest. “But we ran short of men
so Charley put me at whacking. I can sling a whip some; that is,
pretty good. The bulls are trained, anyway.”
“When did you begin?” asked Billy.
“Back at Plum Creek.”
“If you’ve held your job this far, then, I guess you can hold it as
long as you like. Bully for you, Red.” And at Billy’s generous praise
Davy blushed.
The excitement at Jules’ trading store had quieted and only the
mess of whiskey-sodden flour remained. Billy and Jim paid scant
attention to this, except that they, too, were disgusted when they
heard what old Jules had been up to. They were more intent upon
getting to the wagon train camp. And here Charley Martin and the
whole outfit, in fact, received them with a great ado. Everybody in
the train seemed to know Billy, and almost everybody knew Hi and
Jim.
There was a stranger to Davy in camp. He had arrived in a light
buggy drawn by a strong, spirited team of black horses, and was
chatting with Charley. His name proved to be B. F. Ficklin—“Ben”
Ficklin. He shook hands with Billy, and Billy introduced Dave.
“Mr. Ficklin, this is my friend Dave Scott, youngest bull whacker on
the plains.”
55. “You want to watch out or he’ll catch up with you, Billy,” bantered
Mr. Ficklin.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” answered Billy, carelessly. “But I’ve got a
head start over him. I’m a prairie sailor sure now, and navigation on
the Platte is closed!”
Not only in sailing on the Platte, but in many other feats Dave
never did catch up with Billy Cody.
Mr. Ficklin was the general superintendent of the Russell, Majors &
Waddell freighting and staging business. He bore the news that the
company had taken over the stage outfit of Hockaday & Liggett,
which ran twice a month from St. Joseph on the Missouri to Salt
Lake on the Platte River Overland Route, and were going to combine
the Leavenworth & Pike’s Peak Express with it. He himself was on his
way from Denver, back down the trail to inspect the condition of the
stations from the Platte crossing to the Missouri.
“We’re going to make this stage line a hummer, boys,” he
informed. “Hockaday & Liggett have been running two times a
month on a schedule of twenty-one days to Salt Lake; no stations,
and same team without change for several hundreds of miles at a
stretch. The company are putting in stations every ten and fifteen
miles all along the Overland route from the river to Salt Lake, and
stocking them with provisions and fodder. We’re buying the best
Kentucky mules that we can find and ordering more Concord
coaches; and we’re going to put a coach through every day in the
year, from the Missouri to Salt Lake, on a ten-day schedule, by the
Salt Lake Overland Trail to the crossing here, then north to Laramie
and over the South Pass. A stage will be sent down to Denver, too.”
Mr. Ficklin evidently was an enthusiast. Davy had heard of him—a
hard worker and a booster for the company that he loved.
“What’s ever become of the scheme of yours and that California
senator, Gwin, to put a fast mail service through, horseback, from St.
Louis to San Francisco, by the Overland route, at $500 for each
round trip,” asked Joel of Mr. Ficklin.
56. “Nothing yet. Senator Gwin was right for it after our talk on the
stage from California five years ago, and he introduced a bill in
Congress; but the bill died. The California people are howling,
though, for something better than news three weeks to six weeks
old from the East. And mark my words,” continued Mr. Ficklin,
earnestly, “that’s what will happen next—a pony express from the
Missouri to the coast that will beat the stage.”
“Do you think they’ll stretch a line of relays clear across for two
thousand miles and keep it going day and night passing the mail
along?” demanded Billy, his eyes sparkling at the fancy.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mr. Ficklin, shortly.
“Well, when they do I want to ride one of the runs—one that will
keep me hopping, too,” declared Billy.
57. XIX
DAVY MAKES ANOTHER CHANGE
“Did you see my mother when you were back East, Dave?” asked
Billy.
“Yes.”
“How’s she looking?”
“Not extra good, Billy. She’s not very well, and she said if I came
across you to tell you she’d like to see you as soon as she could.”
“How are the girls?”
“They’re all right.”
“I’m sorry about ma,” mused Billy, soberly. “If she’s poorly I’m
going home as straight as I can travel, you can bet on that.”
“We can give you a job with the bull train, Billy,” proffered Charley
Martin. “We’re short of men.”
But Billy shook his head.
“No, sir. I’m due at the Cody place in Salt Creek Valley.”
“Well, Billy, in that case I’ll pass you through on the next stage, if
there’s room,” volunteered Mr. Ficklin.
“I can hang on somewhere,” asserted Billy. “The pass is the main
thing. Never mind the room.”
While they all were talking a new arrival halted near. It was an
army ambulance—a wagon with black leather top, seats running
around the inside, and four big black army mules as the team. It
was bound west. A soldier in dusty blue uniform was the driver, and
58. a corporal of infantry sat beside him, between his knees a Sharp’s
carbine. From the rear of the ambulance another soldier briskly piled
out. By his shoulder straps and the white stripes down his trouser-
seams he was an officer; by the double bars on his shoulder straps a
captain. He wore a revolver in holster.
He walked over to the group and nodded.
“Hello, Ben.”
“How are you, captain.” And Mr. Ficklin arose to shake hands.
“Gentlemen,” continued Mr. Ficklin, “I want to introduce Captain
Brown.”
“I believe I know the captain,” spoke Charley, also shaking hands.
“Hello, Billy,” addressed the captain, catching sight of him. “What’s
the matter? Been swimming?”
“Yes,” laughed Billy. “The water’s a little cold up in the mountains,
so I took my annual down here.”
“Billy’s been at the diggin’s, captain,” vouchsafed Mr. Ficklin. “He
brought down so much gold in his hide that he couldn’t travel till
he’d washed it out.”
Billy took their joking good-naturedly. That he was going home
“broke” had not discouraged him at all.
“I know one thing, gentlemen,” he declared. “I’m not a miner, but
I had to learn. The plains for me after this. You’ll find me bobbing up
again.”
“Yes, you can’t keep Billy Cody down, that’s a fact,” agreed Mr.
Ficklin. “Where are you bound, captain? Denver?”
“No, sir. Laramie. I’ve just come through from Omaha. I hear you
fellows are putting on a daily stage to Salt Lake to connect there
with the line for San Francisco.”
“Yes, sir. It’ll be running this month, and it’ll be a hummer. I’m on
my way to inspect the stations now.”
59. “This is my friend Dave Scott, captain,” introduced Billy, in his
generous way. “He’s the youngest bull whacker on the trail.”
“He must be a pretty close second to you, then, Billy,” remarked
Captain Brown, extending his hand to Davy, who, as usual, felt
embarrassed. “You started in rather young yourself!” The captain
(who was a tanned, stoutly-built man, with short russet beard and
keen hazel eyes) scanned Davy sharply. He scratched his head. “I
don’t see why I can’t get hold of a boy like you or Billy,” he said. “I
prefer red-headed boys. I was red-headed myself once, before the
Indians scared my hair off.”
“You’re a bit red-headed now, captain,” slyly asserted Charley; for
the captain’s bald pate certainly was well burned by the sun.
“Well, I feel red-headed, too,” retorted the captain. “So would you
if every time you got a clerk he deserted to the gold fields. Lend me
this boy, will you, Martin? He’s in your train, isn’t he? I’ll take him on
up to Laramie with me and give him a good job in the
quartermaster’s department. There’s a place there for somebody just
about his size, boots and all.” And the captain, who evidently had
taken a fancy to the sturdy Dave, smiled at him.
All of a sudden Davy wanted to go. He had heard of Fort Laramie,
that important headquarters post on the North Platte in western
Nebraska (which is to-day Wyoming) near the mountains, and he
wanted to see it. Billy had been there several times with the bull
trains out of Leavenworth, and had told him about it.
“I’d like to oblige you, captain,” answered Charley. “But we’re
short handed this trip, and Davy’s a valuable man. He’s making quite
a bull whacker. Besides, I reckon he’s counting on going to school
this winter in Leavenworth; aren’t you, Davy?”
Davy nodded.
“I thought I’d better,” he said. “That’s one reason I left Denver.”
“He can go to school at Laramie,” asserted the captain quickly.
“We have a school for the post children there, and it’s a good one.”
60. Davy listened eagerly, and it was plain to be seen how he was
inclined. Denver meant only a short stay, for Charley was anxious to
start back again before winter closed in on the plains, and there
might not be any chance to see Mr. Baxter, after all. Laramie
sounded good.
“Oh, shucks!” blurted Jim. “If you want to let Dave out, Charley,
I’d as lief go on to Denver and finish with you.”
“So would I,” added Hi.
“How about it, Dave?” queried Charley. “Is it Denver or
Leavenworth, or Laramie, for you?”
“I’d like to try Laramie first-rate but I don’t want to quit the train
unless you say so,” answered Dave, honestly. “I hired out for the
trip, and Mr. Russell and Mr. Majors expect me to go through.”
“Mr. Majors knows me and so does Billy Russell,” put in the
captain. “I’ll write Majors a letter and give him a receipt for one red-
headed boy, with guarantee of good treatment. I tell you, Martin,
the United States has need for one red-headed boy, name of Dave,
in the quartermaster service at Fort Laramie; and I believe I’ll have
to send a detail out on the trail and seize him by force of arms.” The
captain, of course, was joking, but he also seemed in earnest. “If
he’s employed by Russell, Majors & Waddell that’s recommendation
enough, and I want him all the more.”
Charley laughed.
“Oh, in that case, and if he wants to go, I suppose I’ll have to let
him, and take Jim and Hi on in his place. They two ought to be able
to fill his job. If you say so, Dave, I’ll give you your discharge right
away, and a voucher for your pay to date, and you can see how you
like the army for a change.”
“Go ahead, Red,” bade Billy. “You’ll learn a heap, and I’ll be out
that way myself soon. First thing you know you’ll see me coming
through driving stage or riding that pony express. Whoop-la!”
And of this Davy did not have the slightest doubt.
61. Captain Brown declined an invitation to stay for dinner with the
mess. He was in a hurry. So the exchange of Davy from bull
whacking to Government service was quickly made. Before he was
an hour older he had shaken hands with everybody within reach and
was trundling northward in the black covered ambulance beside
Captain Brown. He knew that in another hour or two Billy himself
would be travelling east, back to Salt Creek Valley and Leavenworth;
and that early in the morning the bull train, with Charley and Joel
and Kentuck and Hi and Jim and all, would be travelling west for the
end of the trail at Denver.
This was just like the busy West in those days; friends were
constantly mingling and parting, each on active business—to meet
again a little later and report what they had been doing in the
progress of the big country.
“You’re too young to follow bull whacking, my boy,” declared the
captain. “It’s a rough life and a hard one. To earn your own way and
know how to hold up your end and take care of yourself is all very
well; but you’d better mix in with it the education of books and
cultured people as much as you can while you go along. Then you’ll
grow up an all-round man instead of a one-sided man. Laramie’s a
long way from the States; but we’ve got a small post school and a
few books, and it’s the home of a lot of cultured men and women.
You’ll learn things there that you’ll never learn roughing it on the
trail.”
And Davy looked forward to life at old Fort Laramie, the famous
army post and freight and emigrant station on the Overland Trail to
Salt Lake, Oregon and California.
The fording of the Platte was made in quick time to foil the
quicksands. The North Platte was now scarce eighteen miles across
the narrow tongue of land separating the two rivers above their
juncture. It was struck at Ash Hollow. Ash Hollow had a grocery
store for emigrant trade. The sign read “BUTTE, REGGS, FLOWER
and MELE.”
62. Captain Brown halted here long enough to buy a few crackers and
some sardines.
“Thought we’d stock up while we can,” he explained to Dave.
“These and what buffalo meat we have will carry us quite a way.
Laramie’s one hundred and sixty miles, and I’m going to push right
through.”
The four stout mules ambled briskly at a good eight miles an hour,
following the trail into the west, up the south bank of the river. The
trail was broad and plain, but it was not so crowded with emigrants
as it had been before the Pike’s Peak portion of it had branched off.
However, there still were emigrants; and there were many bull trains
bound out for Laramie and Fort Bridger and Salt Lake, for this was
the main Overland Trail, dating back fifty years.
The ambulance rolled on without slackening, except for sand or
short rises, until after sunset. Then the captain gave the word to
stop. By this time he knew Dave’s history, and Davy was liking him
immensely. They clambered stiffly out. The driver and corporal
unhitched the mules: and while the corporal made a fire for coffee,
the driver (who was a private) put the mules out to graze.
“We’ll take four hours, Mike,” said the captain to the corporal.
“Then we’ll make another spurt until daylight.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the corporal, saluting.
“You’d do well to crawl in the wagon and sleep, after supper,
Dave,” advised the captain to Davy. “We’ll be travelling the rest of
the night. Can you stand it?”
Davy laughed. A great question, that, to ask of a boy who’d just
been a bull whacker walking across the plains!
Nevertheless, Davy took a nap in the bottom of the ambulance;
and more than a nap. When he awakened, he had been aroused by
the jolting of his bed. A buffalo robe had been thrown over him, the
captain was sitting in a corner snugly wrapped, and by the light of a
half moon the ambulance was again upon its way.
63. In the morning, when they once more halted to rest and feed the
mules, the country was considerably rougher, with hills and fantastic
rocks breaking the sagy, gravelly landscape. The white-topped
wagons of emigrants and the smoke of their camp-fires were in
sight, before and behind; and not far ahead a bull outfit were driving
their bulls into the wagon corral to yoke up for the day’s trail.
Breakfast was coffee and buffalo meat; but Corporal Mike
mounted one of the mules and rode off the trail. When he returned
he had some sage chickens and an antelope. The sides of the
ambulance had been rolled up; and about noon, pointing ahead the
captain remarked to Davy:
“That’s Laramie Peak, beyond the post. We’ve got only about
eighty miles to go and we’ll be in bright and early.”
The landmark of Laramie Peak, of the Black Hills Range of the
Rocky Mountains, remained in sight all day, slowly standing higher.
The sun set behind it. Davy snoozed in the bottom of the
ambulance. The captain had spoken truth, for shortly after sunrise
they sighted the flag streaming over Fort Laramie.
Old Fort Laramie was not so large a post as Fort Leavenworth; it
was not so large as Fort Kearney, even. Davy was a little
disappointed, for “Laramie” was a name in the mouth of almost
every bull whacker in the Russell, Majors & Waddell trains out of
Leavenworth, and the men were constantly going “out to Laramie”
and back. The post stood on a bare plateau beside Laramie Creek
about a mile up from the Platte; some of the buildings were white-
washed adobe, some were logs, and some were of rough-sawed
lumber. Back of the fort were hills, and beyond the hills, to the
southwest, were mountains—Laramie Peak being the sentinel.
It was the important division point on the Overland Trail to Salt
Lake; maintained here in the Sioux Indian country to protect the trail
and to be a distributing point for Government supplies. It was
garrisoned by both cavalry and infantry; on the outskirts were cabins
of Indian traders and trappers and other hangers-on, and there were
64. a couple of stores that sold things to emigrants. Sioux Indians
usually were camping nearby, in time of peace.
Davy changed his rough teamster costume for clothes a little more
suited to a clerk and messenger in the quartermaster’s department,
and was put to work by Captain Brown, the acting quartermaster.
The post proved a busy place, with the quartermaster’s offices the
busiest of all; but the captain and Mrs. Brown saw that Dave was
courteously treated and given a fair show. He went to evening
school, and had books to read; and once in a while was allowed time
for a hunt. In fact, Fort Laramie, away out here, alone, guarding the
middle of the Overland Trail through to Salt Lake, was by no means
a stupid or quiet place.
Of course, the trail was what kept it lively, for every day news
from the States and from the farther west arrived with the emigrants
and the bull trains; and scarcely had Dave been settled into his new
niche, when arrived the first of the new daily stages from the
Missouri. It was preceded by a slender, gentlemanly man named Bob
Scott, dropped off by one of the company wagons which was
establishing the stations. Bob Scott was to drive stage from Fort
Laramie on to Horseshoe, thirty-six miles, and he was here in
readiness. He seemed to be well known on the trail, for many
persons at the post called him “Bob.”
“When do you expect to start on the run, Bob?” asked the captain.
“I think about next Tuesday, captain,” answered Bob, in his quiet,
easy tone. “The first coach leaves to-day, I understand, from St.
Joe.”
“They’ll make it through in six days, will they?”
“Yes, sir. Ten days to Salt Lake is the schedule—an average of one
hundred and twenty miles a day. At Salt Lake the express and
passengers are transferred to the George Chorpening line to
Placerville, California, and from Placerville they’re sent on to
Sacramento and San Francisco. I understand the time from the
Missouri River to San Francisco will be about eighteen days.”
65. “You haven’t heard what’s to be the name of the new company,
have you, Bob?”
“Yes, sir. ‘Central Overland, California & Pike’s Peak Express’ is to
be the name; the ‘C. O. C. & P. P.’”
Stables and express station and a relay of horses had been
established adjacent to the post. The old stage company, Hockaday
& Liggett, had worked on a loose, go-as-you-please system which
was very different from the way that Russell, Majors & Waddell went
at it. Now, with things in readiness along the line, clear to Salt Lake
City, Tuesday dawned on a post eagerly hoping that Bob Scott’s
calculation would prove true.
About eleven o’clock a murmur and hustle in the post announced
that the stage was in sight. It came with a rush and a cheer—its four
mules at a gallop, up the trail, the big coach swaying behind them,
the driver firm on his box. Stain of dust and mud and rain and snow
coated the fresh coach body, for all the way from the Missouri River,
600 miles, had it come, through all kinds of weather, and had been
travelling night and day for six days. At top and bottom of the frame
around the stiffened canvas ran the legend: “Central Overland
California & Pike’s Peak Express Co.”
“Wild Bill” Hickok himself it was who, coolly tossing his lines to the
hostler, waiting to take them and lead the horses to the stable,
drawing off his gloves bade, for the benefit of his passengers:
“Gentlemen, you have forty minutes here for dinner.”
At the same moment the station keeper’s wife began to beat a
sheet-iron gong as dinner signal.
66. XX
FAST TIME TO CALIFORNIA
Dave was heartily glad to see Wild Bill again—and Wild Bill
seemed glad to see Davy.
“I heard you were out in this region,” said Wild Bill, after they had
shaken hands. “Billy Cody told me.”
“When did you see him, Bill?”
“Last time was when I was out to his house about a month ago.
He was planning on a trapping and hunting trip with a man named
Harrington up in the Republican country north of Junction City. But
he’ll be on the trail again in the spring; you mark my word.”
“So you’re driving stage, are you, Bill?”
“Yes; I’m running between Horse Creek and Laramie, forty-two
miles. It’s a great outfit, the C. O. C. & P. P.—the finest coaches and
mules I’ve ever seen, and plenty of stations and feed. Now it’s up to
the drivers to make the schedule.” And Wild Bill sauntered off,
nodding to acquaintances, to wash and eat.
Davy joined the group admiring the coach. It evidently had been
prepared especially for the occasion of the first trip through. It was a
new “Concord,” built by the famous stage-coach manufacturers, the
Abbot-Downing Company, of Concord, New Hampshire. The large
round, deep body was enclosed at the sides by canvas curtains that
could be rolled up; and behind, it was extended to form a large
roomy triangular pocket, or “boot,” for mail and baggage. The
driver’s seat, in front, was almost on the level with the roof; and
beneath it was another pocket, or boot, for express and other
valuables. A pair of big oil lamps sat upon brackets, at either end of
67. the driver’s seat. The coach body was slung upon heavy straps
forming the “throughbrace,” instead of resting upon springs; and
here it securely cradled. It had been painted red and decorated with
gilt.
This coach had space for six passengers, three in a seat facing
three others in an opposite seat. The coach was filled, when it had
arrived, with the six passengers and a lot of mail; Wild Bill on the
box, and beside him a wiry little man, who was Captain Cricket, the
express messenger.
Bob Scott and Wild Bill ate dinner together at the station. The
fresh team of mules had been harnessed into the traces, and were
being held by the heads. Bob looked at his watch, drew on his
gloves, circuited the mules with an eye to their straps and buckles,
laid his overcoat (a fine buffalo coat with high beaver collar) on his
seat, and grasping lines and whip climbed up. Captain Cricket nimbly
followed.
“All ready, gentlemen,” announced Bob, his foot on the brake,
poised to release it. The passengers came hurrying out and into the
coach. Bob gave one glance over his shoulder. Then—“Let ’er go,” he
bade the hostlers.
“Whang!” his brake released; the hostlers leaped aside; out flew
his lash, forward sprang the mules, and away went coach and all, in
a flurry of dust, for the next run, to Horseshoe Creek, thirty-six
miles. Run by run, up the Sweetwater River, over South Pass, down
to the Sandy and the Green Rivers, through Fort Bridger and Echo
Canyon, one hundred and more miles every day, would it speed, by
relays of teams and of drivers, until the last team and last driver
would bring it into Salt Lake.
Wild Bill took a horse and returned to his east station, to drive in
the next westbound stage. Every day a stage came through, and
presently the stages from the west began coming back. The driver
who brought in a stage from one direction took back the stage going
in the opposite direction.
68. The stages through to Salt Lake and to the Missouri brought
considerable new life to Fort Laramie. Papers and letters from New
York and San Francisco arrived so quickly after being mailed that it
was easy to see what a great treat this service was to Salt Lake and
Denver and every little settlement along the whole route.
Mr. Ficklin was general superintendent of the line, and was
constantly riding up and down. No person who passed by was better
liked than Superintendent Ficklin. Mr. Russell was in Washington, but
Mr. Majors appeared, once, stepping from the stage; and he had not
forgotten Davy.
“Your pardner, Billy Cody, almost met his end this winter, my lad,”
he informed. “Did you hear about it?”
“No, sir,” gasped Dave.
“Well, he did. He was up in central Kansas on a trapping trip, and
lost his oxen and broke his leg and had to be left alone in a dug-out
while his companion went one hundred and twenty-five miles, afoot,
to the nearest settlement for a team and supplies. Billy got snowed
in, couldn’t move anyway, a gang of Indians plundered him and
might have murdered him, and when, on the twenty-ninth day—nine
days late—his friend finally arrived and yelled to him, Billy could
scarcely answer. Even then the snow had to be dug away from the
door. But he reached home safely and he’s getting along finely now.
He’s plucky, is Billy—and so was his friend, Harrington.”
“Maybe he won’t want to go out on the plains any more,” faltered
Dave.
“Who? Billy Cody?” And Mr. Majors laughed. “You wait till the grass
begins to get green and the willow buds swell, and you’ll see Billy
Cody right on deck, ready for business.”
Back and forth, between Salt Lake and the Missouri River shuttled
the stages of the Central Overland, California & Pike’s Peak Express.
They seemed to be making money for the company, but rumors said
that the company needed more money; in fact, the company were in
a bad way. The expenses had been tremendous. The big coaches
69. cost $1000 apiece—and there were fifty of them. The harness for
each four-mule team was made in Concord, and it cost about $150.
Then there were 10,000 tons of hay a year, at twenty to thirty
dollars a ton; and 3,000,000 pounds of corn and another 3,000,000
pounds of grain, at several cents a pound; and 2000 mules at
seventy-five dollars each; and the wages of the men—$100 a month
and board for the division agents, $50 and $75 a month for the
drivers, $50 a month for the station agents, and $40 a month for the
hostlers who took care of the mules.
But even under this expense it seemed as though the passenger
fare of $125 to Denver and $200 to Salt Lake (meals extra at a dollar
and a dollar and a half), and the heavy rates on express ought to
bring the company a profit. Davy, trying to figure out the matter,
hoped so. Of course, it was not his business, but a fellow likes to
have his friends successful; and Dave looked upon Mr. Majors, and
Mr. Russell, and Mr. Waddell as very good friends of his.
He took a trip, once in a while, on the stage east with Wild Bill, or
west with “Gentleman Bob,” on quartermaster’s affairs, to some of
the stations. There always was room on the driver’s box, and
generally Wild Bill or “Gentleman Bob” was glad to have him up
there along with the messenger.
“Gentleman Bob” proved to be as remarkable a character as Wild
Bill Hickok. When approaching stations Wild Bill signalled with a
tremendous piercing: “Ah-whoop-pee!” and arrived on the run.
Gentleman Bob whistled shrilly. The teams for either of them had to
be changed in less than four minutes, or there was trouble. The
Overland stage waited for naught.
Wild Bill passed the news on to Gentleman Bob, and Gentleman
Bob it was who passed it to Davy, as one fresh, windy morning in
this the spring of 1860, Dave gladly clambered up to the driver’s box
to ride through to the end of the run at Horseshoe.
“Let ’er go!” yelped Bob, kicking the brake free; and to mighty
lunge and smart crack of lash the coach jumped forward, whirling
70. Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.
More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge
connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.
Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and
personal growth every day!
testbankfan.com