hes
were rushed to the post office where the express mail was made ready.

The people now surge about the old "Pike's Peak Livery Stables," just
South of Pattee Park. All are hushed with subdued expectancy. As the
moment of departure approaches, the doors swing open and a spirited
horse is led out. Nearby, closely inspecting the animal's equipment is a
wiry little man scarcely twenty years old.

Time to go! Everybody back! A pause of seconds, and a cannon booms in
the distance--the starting signal. The rider leaps to his saddle and
starts. In less than a minute he is at the post office where the letter
pouch, square in shape with four padlocked pockets, is awaiting him.
Dismounting only long enough for this pouch to be thrown over his
saddle, he again springs to his place and is gone. A short sprint and he
has reached the Missouri River wharf. A ferry boat under a full head of
steam is waiting. With scarcely checked speed, the horse thunders onto
the deck of the craft. A rumbling of machinery, the jangle of a bell,
the sharp toot of a whistle and the boat has swung clear and is headed
straight for the opposite shore. The crowd behind breaks into tumultuous
applause. Some scream themselves hoarse; others are strangely silent;
and some--strong men--are moved to tears.

The noise of the cheering multitude grows faint as the Kansas shore
draws near. The engines are reversed; a swish of water, and the craft
grates against the dock. Scarcely has the gang plank been lowered than
horse and rider dash over it and are off at a furious gallop. Away on
the jet black steed goes Johnnie Frey, the first rider, with the mail
that must be hurled by flesh and blood over 1,966 miles of desolate
space--across the plains, through North-eastern Kansas and into
Nebraska, up the valley of the Platte, across the Great Plateau, into
the foothills and over the summit of the Rockies, into the arid Great
Basin, over the Wahsatch range, into the valley of Great Salt Lake,
through the terrible alkali deserts of Nevada, through the parched Sink
of the Carson River, over the snowy Sierras, and into the Sacramento
Valley--the mail must go without delay. Neither storms, fatigue,
darkness, rugged mountains, burning deserts, nor savage Indians were to
hinder this pouch of letters. The mail must go; and its schedule,
incredible as it seemed, must be made. It was a sublime undertaking,
than which few have ever put the fibre of Americans to a severer test.