San Domingo: The Medicine Hat Stallion

by Marguerite Henry

  Weeks and months going by, with no reply from Pa, but letters from Ma regular as sunrise. Dice eats with us, but sleeps with Adam. For days after you left he wouldn’t eat at all. He’s fine now. Sometimes her letters broke off short, as if someone had said, “Writing again? To that boy!”

  By night and by day Peter rode, knowing every bend in the Platte and the Sweetwater, memorizing the boldest names carved on Independence Rock. Someday he might even carve his own there.

  Meanwhile, history, relentless, is in the making:

  NOVEMBER 6, 1860

  Abraham Lincoln wins the election to the presidency.

  Peter rejoiced. He thought back to the traveling tinker’s scorn of the homely man with the screaky voice. Here was proof that what a man said was more important than the voice that said it.

  DECEMBER 3, 1860

  President Buchanan’s last message to Congress.

  Before the headline reaches California, pony riders filter the news: “Buchanan’s on both sides! Tells the North that the South has no right to secede. Tells the South the North is to blame by constantly criticizing slavery.”

  DECEMBER 20, 1860

  South Carolina secedes; declares the Union dissolved!

  By February 4, five other states had joined her, set up a separate nation, and elected Jefferson Davis their president. “We hope thus to avoid war,” their leaders said.

  Life, troubled, goes on for the Pony Express. Ride. Dismount. Mount. Ride. Gulp your food. Wash it down. Mount. Ride. And bone tired, sleep. But history never sleeping. History moving faster, sharper.

  In his own handwriting Alexander Majors sent a new pledge for each rider to sign. Peter read the single sentence—I swear true allegiance to the government of the United States in this, her hour of crisis. He signed with earnest zeal.

  JANUARY 29, 1861

  Kansas admitted to the United States. Kansas no longer a territory but a full-fledged state . . . a free state with the people prohibiting slavery.

  MARCH 4, 1861

  Abraham Lincoln inaugurated the 16th President of the United States.

  That very night, while Lincoln slept, a copy of his Inaugural message, wrapped in oiled silk, left St. Joseph by Pony Express. On March 6, at four in the morning, Peter stood ready at Deer Creek Station. At four-ten an exhausted rider slung the sweat-soaked mochila across Peter’s saddle and panted his instructions: “It’s got to be in California in seven days instead of ten.”

  “Easy done!” Max Muggeridge declared as he slotted the mochila in place. “You’re early! Pete’s a fly-weight! And Lucky’s a new arrival, fresh as the morning dew. Lucky in more ways,” he added with a wag and a wink, “’cause he’s the only animal I got left.”

  Ears plastered back, Lucky bounded forward at a wild gallop as though some devil were jabbing a sharp-pronged fork at his buttocks. He traveled so fast that the grass flattened from the wind he stirred. But fast as he was going, Lucky read his rider’s mind and changed his own. If speed was what the boy wanted, he’d kick and buck instead. In midstride he leaped twisting into the air, jolting Peter forward, then kicking out, wrenching him fore and aft.

  “I’ll ride the bucks and twists out of you,” Peter gasped, keeping the bronc’s head up and gluing himself deeper in the saddle. Through buck after buck, Peter stuck on and won the battle. But Lucky had a subtler trick in reserve. He quieted down to a walk, slow enough for a funeral cortege.

  Peter clucked in vain. He urged with thigh, knee, calf, voice, and finally spur. This was the crisis where the safety of rider and horse was secondary to the need for speed. But even with the spur, the big head only nodded and the pace slowed. For the first time, and of all times, Peter had drawn a rebel!

  Frustrated, he jumped off and for a mile he ran the hills up and down, as if to show Lucky how it should be done. Winded at last, he made the horse stand still and, holding the reins taut, he remounted just as a rider topped the next hill with two horses on a string. Peter eyed them longingly, while Lucky shot forward, eager to nose his fellows.

  “Peter Lundy!” the rider shouted. “Bless my heart and bottom.”

  “Bolivar!” Peter sang out in relief. “Is one for me?”

  Bolivar laughed his great laugh. “No, siree! I’m delivering fresh horses, replacing the dead, the stolen, and the wore-out ones. These are for Muggeridge. His corral’s empty.”

  “I know! I know! I got this outlaw from him. He won’t go unless he sights a relative.”

  Bolivar wheeled his string alongside. “He’s got a mean eye, he has. We’ll double back and race you into your relay station.”

  With Bolivar and his horses setting the pace, Lucky followed eagerly. The wind streamed back, carrying Bolivar’s words in staccato snatches. “California’s teetering on the brink. . . . Could go to the South. Or could form a new Pacific Republic.”

  Silence as moments and miles sped by. Then more snatches. “Lincoln’s message has got to get to California . . . lightning fast! He’s counting on the Pony to pull California back into the Union. You’re riding against time, Pete.”

  Bolivar pulled off the rutted trail. “We’re leaving you now. You can see Little Muddy Station and a dandy horse waiting.” He headed east with his string, a secretive smile on his face.

  Even for a mustang, Peter thought, the horse at Little Muddy looked smaller than most. He had hoped for a stouter one; but anything would be better than Lucky.

  As he rode up, two hostlers almost ripped the mochila out from under him. “You’re late!” they said, surprise and accusation in their tone.

  A gust of March wind lifted the mustang’s forelock. Peter smiled in anticipation of a good ride. Here was a Medicine Hat, a new one to the Pony Express. He was bound to be an improvement over the rebel; that is, if he was anything like San . . .

  Peter’s heart began pounding against his ribs. Time was suddenly of no matter. Slowly, cautiously, he made his feet inch forward—one step and another.

  He heard, yet he didn’t hear, the hostlers’ chatter; it was drony as fly buzz. His inner self was arguing very distinctly:

  “There are other Medicine Hats in the world, you know, besides him.”

  “I know that.”

  “Why, Lucia could have had several colts by now. Domingo could have fathered a few, too.”

  “But would they be marked exactly like him?”

  “Why not? They call it prepotency, don’t they?”

  Peter ran his hands down the inside of the pony’s forelegs. They were clean and utterly smooth. No callous patches! None at all!

  When he stood up, the horse sneezed in his face and the spume of it spattered the boy. He threw back his head and laughed to the world. It was Domingo! Alexander Majors had kept his word. The grave national crisis had come!

  How simple was their reunion! Not a word spoken, but everything said in quivering snorts and murmurings; and brown velvet eye talking to blue laughing one.

  In a split second Peter was aboard before the dream could break apart. The two creatures were flying west as gray morning burst open with sunlight, Peter fearing his own heart might do the same.

  War Paint

  FOR THE next fifteen miles San Domingo, the Medicine Hat stallion, had to scorch the plains, making up the time Lucky had lost. “I should be happy enough,” Peter told the swiveling ears, “to be with you for fifteen miles, without asking for forever. But wishing’s easy.” Now they were together again, Peter resolved that somehow they would make up the lost time of being apart.

  For two miles they raced through sunlight and sage without slacking pace. Only two miles more to the bridge over Snow Creek, then eleven to North Platte, the end of Domingo’s run. If it weren’t for the Inaugural message, they could lag along in easy, lazy lopes. Yet, Peter reasoned, burning speed and a record broken might keep Domingo in the Pony Express, and never again in Majors’ corral.

  Halfway to the bridge a mule rabbit bounded onto the trail a hundred yards in the lead. It seem
ed unable to turn off, away from pursuit. Terrified by the nearness of Domingo’s hoofbeats, it held to the trail, skimming the earth, hopping along in kangaroo leaps, hopelessly trapped by its own fear. “Dare we veer off and break stride for a jackass rabbit?” Peter thought. “Lose precious seconds for a dumb critter without sense enough to dart into the tall grass?”

  No need to decide! The trail takes a sharp right turn, up an incline and onto the bridge. With its one-track mind the rabbit keeps arrow-straight ahead, thrashes into the brush and almost tumbles into the creek! Free in spite of itself!

  Peter laughed. This was like old times, chasing rabbits or flap-winging birds.

  On the other side of the bridge a wagon train of Mormons—men and women dragging handcarts—stopped and pulled off the trail, waving Peter a come-on filled with awe and admiration. A fleck of foam from Domingo’s mouth landed on the cheek of a small boy in the group. Peter saw the boy’s hand fly up to cover it, as if he would never again wash the face that had almost touched the Pony Express.

  Seven miles more, up the valley of the Platte. Sun friendly for March. Stream flowing swift. Peter mulled as they sped on. With other horses on other days he would cross over from the south bank to the north by ferry. But today was today. Take the faster way. Who minded cold water and whirlpools and quicksand when time gained could mean a state gained for the Union?

  Ford the river! Save the time! Domingo, willing, rips a path through the brown water, swerving to avoid sink holes, feeling his way over the gravelly bed, swimming when he has to. Then lunging for footing up the black, oozy mire of the far bank. The mochila dry, the message safe, and North Platte Station looming ahead.

  Peter let go the reins and yanked out his watch. Domingo had covered the fifteen miles in forty-eight minutes; he’d made up for Lucky with minutes to spare!

  Cumulus clouds were throwing patterns of light and shadow over the log building as they thundered into the station. They pulled up into a world of silence, broken only by feeble cries, like the yipping of a prairie dog.

  Peering out from behind a greasewood bush, Peewee, the young hostler, stopped whimpering. Crouching, stumbling, he came forward, his face old and ashen. “He’s dead!” the boy wailed, pointing to the dark silence of the station. “ ’Rapahos done it! His ears cut off. His scalp’s gone. And his innards . . .” The boy’s eyes went wide in horror. “Go look, oh, go look for yourself.”

  “You certain he’s dead?” Peter asked.

  The boy bit his lips, nodding.

  “No need to look, then.” Peter’s gaze traveled to the empty corral, to the water buckets overturned.

  “They catched our horses,” Peewee blubbered. “They chased ’em off with theirn. And they was laughing loud and crazy. And I hid in a hole behind the bushes and then . . .”

  “Stop it, Peewee! Climb aboard. We’ll take you on to Red Buttes. You can’t stay here alone.”

  “Oh, no!” the boy cried out. “ ’Rapahos gone that way. I’ll get kilt!” He scurried back to his hideaway, whimpering again, the same feeble, prairie-dog cry.

  Peter threw his pouch of jerky in Peewee’s direction, spun around, and galloped out of the clearing. There was no choice but to go on, Domingo tired or not. He thought about the station keeper, the French Canadian, lying back there dead and mutilated. Killing ought to be enough, but he knew the Indians’ fear of a dead man’s returning to life, strong as before and avenging himself; that is . . . unless his body had been cut to pieces beyond use.

  In the brassy sunlight Peter and Domingo dashed on. In every shape that rose on the plains ahead Peter saw Indians with spears ready, bows drawn. They seemed giants, ten to twelve feet tall, with headdresses wide as eagles’ wings and long as chimney smoke. Their horses, too, stood tall, their heads sawing up and down, raking the clouds. Yet Peter was only a little afraid. He knew he was seeing a mirage, and the superstitious Arapahos avoided the place of mirages.

  To calm himself, he traded talk with Domingo. “Remember Brisley?”

  The pounding hoofs were answer enough.

  “Knew you did. Well, he said a Medicine Hat’s sacred. Neither rifle ball nor arrow can harm his rider. Guess your war bonnet and shield can cast a spell stronger’n Injuns’ charms and spells.”

  As they sped on in the lone emptiness, the mirages grew more beautiful. The cloud-raking ponies were mirrored in lagoons of purest water. Manes tossing, they pranced and plashed, sending up fountains of crystal. But when Peter and Domingo caught up with the scene, the horses had smalled down to little foxes, the giant Indians were clumps of sage, and the lagoons had dried into crusted ponds of salt.

  “Domingo!” Peter shouted. “Do you see mirages, too? You must! Else why, ’way back there, did you pull toward the shimmer of water?”

  Recklessly they traveled onward over the bare, flat plains and the hills up and down. Peter’s mind began picking worries from hearsay. “I’ve heerd . . .” Was it Adam’s voice, or was it Max’s saying, “I’ve heerd of whole bands of water-starved cattle chasing from one mirage to the next ’til they died of exhaustion.”

  He urged Domingo to full speed, explaining, “At Red Buttes there’ll be real water, and rest for you while I go on.” He lapsed into silence as they raced through a long valley to its end, then climbed steep hills and ridges, each one sharper than the last, toward the foothills of the Red Buttes and the bold, jutting knobs beyond.

  “Domingo, the station is there! You’ve done ten miles in thirty-five minutes!”

  Peter listened anxiously to the horse’s breathing. He was blowing, but normally. Relieved for the moment, he let his own muscles relax. He hadn’t hurt Domingo’s heart or wind. “Those girls of Mr. Majors,” he thought, “must’ve exercised him just right.”

  As they turned into the clearing of the station, Taggart, the keeper, came running out, shouting, “Don’t stop! Go on! You’ll save time!”

  Peter ignored him. He jumped down, loosened the saddle. His voice showed sudden anger. “Domingo needs water, needs cooling out. He’s done two routes already.”

  “He’s got to do three. We’ve been raided; our horses are gone. And ye’re carryin’ the Inaugural.”

  “ ’Rapahos?”

  “No! White emigrants run ’em off. They’re scared peagreen of Injuns on the warpath and want faster horses.”

  Peter knew what he had to do. He knew he wasn’t just a boy with a pet pony. His mount was an Express pony.

  Two helpers came running out, carrying water and a fresh saddlepad. “We’d of been ready,” one said, “but we thought you was going right on.”

  “My blame,” Taggart admitted. “Figured any pony could do two stints. Didn’t know yours was spent.”

  “He ain’t spent! He just needs a little water and time for a breather.”

  Domingo drank noisily, objecting when Peter pulled the bucket away, rationing the water, a few sips at a time. Between gulps, Peter washed Domingo’s face with the coolness, and washed up over the red-brown bonnet. Then his legs. “I guess everything depends on you, Domingo.” A few more sips and Peter was cinching up, springing into the saddle, galloping off.

  “Keep yer eyes peeled!” Taggart called after him.

  The trail now struck out from the Platte River over drear, bald, never-ending wilderness. Not a tree for concealment. Only loneness and desolation.

  Peter ran ahead in his mind, putting a name to landmarks: Poison Spider Creek, a dry, broken crack in the earth that once, maybe, held bluegills and chub, and once-watered green grass that was now dry and sticking up from the blistered earth like pinfeathers. He felt Domingo’s muscles slacking, tiring, felt him slow, then suddenly tense in response to buzzards heading for a mound of death. Race the buzzards there, leave them there, picking bones already picked clean.

  Go on and on, up and over and down, clattering over the ruts, over the sandstone ridges. Shortcut the trail, climb Devil’s Backbone up and up to the eagles’ aerie. Stop there for Domingo to blow. Dismount
to ease his back. Give him time. Don’t listen to that other self nagging: “You’re slacking, violating the pledge to your country!”

  Up there on the crest Peter cried, “No! No! No! Domingo’ll go faster for the resting.”

  And his inner voice still prodding: “How’ll he go faster, down those steep crags that break horses’ legs?”

  “I’ll give him his head, that’s how.” He shouted that other self down. “I’ll let him pick his own way.”

  To Domingo he spoke Injun-soft. The stallion sensed danger, and terrible urgency. He snorted the breath from his lungs, sucked in a fresh gulp of air, faced the plunge down Devil’s Backbone. “Climb aboard,” he said, more plainly than if he had talked. “I’m ready.”

  Peter sprang up, his weight now far back. Domingo tensed, crouched on his haunches, began sliding down, hind legs tucked under, forelegs propping, braking, releasing, sliding, zigzagging. Seconds, minutes, sweat-filled. Man and horse indivisible.

  At the bottom, Domingo gave a long, whistling sigh. He shuddered the dust from his body.

  “Only one sprint left,” Peter encouraged. “Only one sprint to Willow Springs, and pure water bubbling down from the Green Mountains, where no Injun nor white man can steal it away.” He spoke soothingly, his head close to the furry ear.

  Ten minutes later, in weary triumph, they rode into the station.

  “You’re way early!” The keeper and his hostlers cheered.

  “We know!” Peter agreed. “Domingo’s done thirty-nine miles in two hours and thirty-three minutes. Please cool him out slow.”

  He lifted the damp foretop and caught his own reflection in the brown eyes. “It’s not good-bye, Domingo,” he promised. He stood for a moment with his cheek against Domingo’s neck. Then with determined heart he mounted a fresh horse and faced west.

  Ambush

  IN SEVEN days and seventeen hours Lincoln’s message reached California, breaking all records of the Pony Express. The people of California—Unionists and Secessionists alike—pored over the words, studying Lincoln’s warning: I give my solemn oath to preserve, protect, and defend the Union. Physically speaking, we cannot build an impassable wall between our states . . . . I hold the Union perpetual.