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Pierced By Arrows

Pierced By Arrows image
Parent Issue
Day
22
Month
May
Year
1903
Copyright
Public Domain
OCR Text

When the pony express was established in 1860 the distance between St. Joseph, Mo., and Sacramento, Cal., was shortened by two and a half months. Prior to that time the mails were carried in a stagecoach, which consumed nearly three months in making the trip.

With the advent of the pony express the time was reduced to eight days. To accomplish this unheard of trip thirty-five men and 250 ponies were necessary. The only halt made was of two minutes' duration. This time was consumed in changing saddles and bags from one tough, sure footed, fleet little animal to another just like him. There were thirty stations along the line, with relays at each station. Each horse was forced on a swift run for ten miles and then replaced by another.

One of these intrepid riders is today a resident of St. Joseph. His name is Charles H. Cliff. Charley Cliff rode the pony express for six months after it had been in operation for a year. Twice each week he made the trip. His route led him to Seneca, Kan. There he waited for the mail back from the west and bore it to St. Joseph. When the river was high or running with ice he left his pony on the west bank and, taking a skiff, rowed across and brought up at the post office with his messages from the still unexplored west.

These pony express riders were a daring lot. The savagery of the elements and the bloodthirstiness of the Indians were to be met and conquered or evaded in a manner that would not lose time on their schedule.

Out upon the far western plains roamed their enemies, the Indians. These red skinned savages were nominally friendly. But the Springfield rifle swinging from the saddlebow and the Colt revolver carried in holster were often brought into rapid play and with deadly effectiveness upon the Indian by the daring riders skimming alone across the plains with messages from the far west.

By means of the pony express the distance between St. Joseph and Sacramento was covered in 232 hours. The usual run for each man was eighty-five miles. At first a horse was used for every twenty miles, but later double the number of animals were put into service. The equipment was a light riding saddle and bridle, with specially made pouches of "mochilas," made of heavy leather, which hung over the saddle much as common saddlebags are hung. There were four pockets, two in front and two behind each leg of the rider. Three of these pouches were locked and opened at specially designated points and under no circumstances at any other. The other was for local mail.

Cliff tells a thrilling story of his experiences. "I never knew what it was to ride at a walk," he said. "My horse was always at his greatest speed. Downhill he was allowed to slacken his pace, but on all other roads he was put through. My route was one of the best in the system, and I thoroughly enjoyed the work. There was no stopping, no hesitancy, no lagging. It was a rush from start to finish, and I generally managed to get through. At one time the snow was six feet deep along my route, and I had great difficulty keeping the trail, while the cold was intense."

After Mr. Cliff's experience as a pony express rider he became a "freighter" across the plains to Denver. He was associated with a hundred or more drivers like himself on these freighter trains, which usually went in parties of from 100 to 175 trains.

It was on one of these trips across the plains that he was attacked by Indians and was wounded three times by Sioux arrows.

The wagon train was wending its sinuous way eastward "empty." It was in two sections. The first comprised 125 wagons and was a quarter of a mile in advance of the second, in which there were twenty-five wagons.

The wagon train was nearing O'Fallon's bluffs in the early morning. It drew up some distance from a spring and stopped to water the stock and prepare breakfast. Cliff, with a companion, left the circle of wagons after some drinking water. They neared the spring and were dipping the bucket in the cool, sparkling water. Suddenly the air became hideous with the sound of a wild medley of war whoops. Glancing up, the two white men beheld a band of seventy-five Indians advancing upon them. They took to their heels and made for the wagons as fast as their legs could carry them. Cliff was nearing shelter after he had cast aside water bucket and every other incumbrance.

Suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his back. The pain almost caused him to drop. But men will do unheard of things when life is at stake, and Cliff kept running. The Indians almost reached him, and he was forced to turn and fight for his life. He drew his Colt revolvers and stood the red men off as he backed toward the wagons, suffering excruciating agony with every step. He finally reached safety, and his companion. In response to Cliff's orders, handed the wounded man his rifle.

Cliff lifted the rifle to his shoulder and, calmly taking deliberate aim at the nearest savage, pulled the trigger. The redskin dropped in his tracks. Again the cool eye sighted along the long rifle barrel. Again an Indian dropped, mortally wounded.

At this juncture one of the foremost red men stopped in his advance and, pulling his bow to its utmost length, fired at the wounded white man. The arrow struck him in the left breast. He did not fall. He continued to pour his withering fire into the advancing horde of yelling savages. Another arrow pierced the arm that was supporting the gun barrel, and the death dealing rifle dropped.

Cliff feared that his days had come to a close. His companions had forsaken him for the larger train. He stood helpless almost but for his six shooter, which he managed to keep going until it was emptied. Then he retreated toward the inclosure.

The Indians continued their advance upon the wagon train. But it was soon stopped.

The men from the larger train, attracted by the scene of excitement and the sound of firing, rushed to the rescue of their belated companion. Their advance was in the nick of time. After some sharp fighting the Indians were soon driven off, and the two trains were drawn closer together and preparations made to receive a second attack, but none came. The Indians bad been defeated, and they mounted their ponies and rode away.

Cliff called to his companion and forced him to cut the arrow from his back. It was a tragic scene. The companion had not the courage to pull It out, as the arrowhead had gone into the flesh and was buried. Cliff told him to cut it out. The man said he could not.

"But you will!" was the stern word of the wounded man. "You will do it or I'll blow your head off!" And, suiting the action to the word, he presented his revolver to the man's head and bade him do as be was told.

The man obeyed, and with Cliff's knife he cut a slit near the arrowhead in Cliff's back and pulled out the arrow.

The arrows in the breast and arm were easily extracted, but Cliff's wounds were bad. He was laid in one of the wagons, and the tedious trip to St. Joseph was begun.

During the three weeks necessary to make the trip Cliff's wounds were healed, and he was able to walk about on his arrival there. The arrows he kept and still has.