The first trip of the Pony Express was made in ten days - an average of two hundred miles a day. But we soon began stretching our riders and making better time.

With the help of a friend I got father into a wagon, when the crowd had gone. I held his head in my lap during the ride home. I believed he was mortally wounded. He had been stabbed down through the kidneys, leaving an ugly wound.

The Indians kept increasing in numbers until it was estimated that we were fighting from 800 to 1,000 of them.

I could never resist the call of the trail.

I began to think that my time had come, as the saying is.

After crossing the Smoky Hill River, I felt comparatively safe as this was the last stream I had to cross.

Major North has had for years complete power over these Indians and can do more with them than any man living.