We soon got used to the work. When it became apparent to the men in
charge that the boys could do better than forty-five miles a day the
stretches were lengthened. The pay of the rider was from $100 to $125 a
month. It was announced that the further a man rode the better would be
his pay. That put speed and endurance into all of us.
Stern necessity often compelled us to lengthen our day's work even
beyond our desires. In the hostile Indian country, riders were
frequently shot. In such an event the man whose relief had been killed
had to ride on to the next station, doing two men's ride. Road-agents
were another menace, and often they proved as deadly as the Indians.
In stretching my own route I found myself getting further and further
west. Finally I was riding well into the foothills of the Rockies.
Still further west my route was pushed. Soon I rode from Red Buttes to
Sweetwater, a distance of seventy-six miles. Road-agents and Indians
infested this country. I never was quite sure when I started out when I
should reach my destination, or whether I should never reach it at all.
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.
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