Penny

by Whitney Sanderson

  One day, Jesse raced breathless into the livery stable to find Buckeye Jack, who was mucking out the double row of narrow stalls. I stood tethered nearby, still wearing my harness while I rested between jobs.

  “I saw this advertisement on the board outside the post office,” he said, waving a crumpled piece of paper in his hands. “Look, it says they’re hiring riders for a new mail service called the Pony Express. They promise to deliver the mail from St. Joseph, Missouri, to San Francisco, California, in just ten days!”

  Buckeye Jack was already shaking his head. “You’re not yet fourteen, and the place for you is the schoolhouse.” He paused to mop the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his sun-faded plaid shirt.

  “You know I ain’t been to school since we lost the ranch,” Jesse shot back. “If I gotta work like a man, why shouldn’t I earn like one? The Pony Express pays a hundred dollars a month!” His eyes glittered with excitement.

  Buckeye Jack paused with a shovelful of dirty straw poised over the wheelbarrow. “That much?” he said.

  Jesse nodded eagerly. “I could send my wages back to you, and we could save up for a place of our own again. Nothing as grand as the ranch, but anything would be better than bunking with the bedbugs and Mrs. McTavish.”

  “That’s a fact,” Buckeye Jack said slowly. “I guess if I was your age, I wouldn’t let such an adventure pass me by. All right, if you’re bound and determined, you have my blessing. On one condition—take Penny with you. I reckon she’s the one critter on this earth who can keep you out of trouble.”

  * * *

  —

  The next morning, the sound of my hoofbeats rang out on the granite slopes as Jesse and I headed into the mountains again. This time, we traveled alone. A red-tailed hawk drifted in lazy circles above the treetops, then suddenly dove to snatch a scurrying mouse in its talons.

  After a few days’ journey, we reached a log cabin and a roughhewn corral filled with half a dozen horses. A man in a bright blue shirt was saddling a chestnut gelding with a white blaze shaped like a bolt of lightning down the center of his face. The horse scraped the dirt with his hoof impatiently. When the man tightened the cinch around his belly, he turned to nip at the man’s sleeve.

  The man only chuckled as he pushed the horse’s snapping muzzle away. “Save the fire in your belly for the run, Kismet,” he said. A set of keys jingled on a ring attached to one side of his belt. A pistol rested in a holster on the other. He straightened up as Jesse drew me to a halt near the corral.

  “Is this Split Rock Station?” Jesse asked.

  “Last time I checked,” said the man. “Name’s Sam Robinson. I’m the station manager.”

  “I hear you need riders for the Pony Express,” said Jesse, dismounting and leading me over.

  Sam looked Jesse up and down. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” said Jesse, lifting his chin.

  Sam smiled wryly. “You’re a mite puny for sixteen. But your age doesn’t matter to me, so long as you got your mama’s permission to be here.”

  “My parents are dead,” said Jesse.

  Sam put a bridle on Kismet, buckling the straps deftly as the gelding tossed his head. “We prefer orphans,” he said. “A fella can get into a lot of trouble out on the trail. But no matter what, the mail must go through.”

  “Sounds like you take the job pretty serious,” said Jesse.

  Sam led the prancing Kismet out of the corral. “I was born as a slave in South Carolina,” he said. “I found my way north and got my first job as a free man working for Mr. Russell, Mr. Majors, and Mr. Waddell. They’re the men that started this service. One reason for the Pony Express is to make money, and the other’s to keep California connected with news from the Union states back East.”

  “I want to ride for the Express,” said Jesse, his voice ringing out in the still mountain air. “I ain’t afraid of anything in these mountains, and Penny here is as game a horse as you’ll find.”

  “If you’re willing to risk your neck for us, you’re welcome aboard,” said Sam. “But you’ll have to take the oath that all riders take. You must promise not to swear, drink, or gamble. That’s Mr. Majors’s doing—he’s a churchgoing man.”

  Jesse nodded.

  “All your room and board is paid for while you work for the service, plus the monthly wage,” Sam continued. “Every rider gets a Colt pistol to protect what’s his and a Bible to fortify his spirit, as Mr. Majors says. And we’ll pay two hundred dollars for the horse.”

  “I don’t aim to sell her,” Jesse said quickly. “Ain’t no other rider would get as much out of her as I would.”

  “Horses and riders don’t stick together on the Express,” said Sam. “Each man’s route is up to seventy miles long, and no horse can gallop that far. You’ll switch to a fresh mount at each relay station, every ten or fifteen miles.”

  Jesse was quiet. He smoothed back my multicolored forelock and scratched between my ears for a moment. “It’s just that Penny and I have come a long way together….”

  “Mr. Russell, Majors, and Waddell spent a fool’s fortune building the Pony Express trail,” said Sam. “They aim to protect their investment, and they hired us station managers to make sure the Express horses stay sound at any cost. I’ll take care of your Penny.”

  Jesse’s fingers tightened in my tangled forelock for a moment. Then he nodded briskly. Just then, a trumpeting sound came from beyond the eastern border of trees. The chestnut horse, Kismet, began to prance and paw again.

  The hoofbeats grew louder. Moments later, a horse and rider came tearing down the trail to the station. The rider held a brass horn to his lips.

  The horse skidded to a halt in front of Sam, and the rider dismounted in one smooth motion. He looked a few years older than Jesse, thin and wiry. I watched as he lifted something from his horse’s back—a leather saddlebag that fitted over the seat of the saddle.

  The saddlebag had a pouch at each corner. Three of them were padlocked. The rider opened the fourth pouch and took out a square paper card. Sam removed a gold watch on a chain from his shirt pocket. He glanced down at it and marked something on the card with a stub of pencil. “You’re two hours behind schedule, Billy,” he said to the rider.

  “Rockslide covered the trail back in Julesburg,” Billy replied breathlessly. “Josiah Faylor had to find another route. I’ll try to make up the time.”

  He mounted the prancing Kismet. “Hi-ya!” he cried, slapping the ends of the reins against the horse’s flank. The chestnut shot forward like a bullet from a rifle. The pair galloped off toward the west, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

  Billy had left his first horse, a dark bay mare, behind. She was breathing fast and her sides were lathered with sweat. Sam curried her dry and walked her for a spell before he set her loose in the corral with the other horses.

  “I’ll have you ride to El Dorado with Billy tomorrow,” Sam said to Jesse, who’d been watching wide-eyed. “He’s leaving to scout for the army. You’ll take over his route.”

  Sam took my reins from Jesse and put me in the corral with the other horses. Jesse cast a glance back at me as he and Sam walked away toward the cabin. I lingered near the fence and watched him through the window, sitting at a table and drinking coffee with Sam.

  The other horses were gathered shoulder-to-shoulder around a bale of hay, eating busily. None of them seemed very interested in me, and there didn’t seem to be room to join them. I kept to myself in a corner of the paddock and nibbled at wisps of hay the wind blew over. The wind carried snatches of their conversation over to me.

  Anyone else scent wolves in Hope Valley? asked a buckskin gelding with a broad black stripe down the center of his stout back.

  I did yesterday, replied the dark bay mare that had just arrived. But the men have hunted nearly all the deer in the valley. The pack will move north
when they realize there’s nothing left to eat.

  Unless they get desperate enough to attack us in the night, said the buckskin, lifting his head to waft the air for predator scents.

  Next morning, while the sky was still streaked pink above the mountains, Sam tacked up two of the other horses. Jesse came out of the cabin a few minutes later. He wore a new blue shirt, leather chaps, and a broad-brimmed cowboy hat. A pistol was holstered around his waist.

  A trumpet sounded, and soon a rider came galloping into the station. In less than a minute, he’d switched the leather saddlebag to his new horse’s saddle. Jesse mounted the other horse. I whinnied after him as they rode off, wondering when I’d see him again.

  Later that afternoon, the sound of hoofbeats and the blast of a horn came from the west. To my surprise, Sam led me out of the corral and saddled me up in a few quick motions. He slipped a bit into my mouth just as a new horse and rider came thundering into the clearing.

  “Howdy, Boston,” said Sam to the rider. “How’s the trail today?”

  “Smooth as glass, and lots of mail,” the young man replied. He had a friendly face and shaggy dark hair that fell across his eyes like a mustang’s forelock. “This mochila is darn near full to bursting,” he said, patting the leather pouch.

  “I’ve got a new horse for you to try out,” said Sam, marking his time card and returning it to the saddlebag, the mochila. “You game?”

  “So long as you ain’t trying to trick me with another rodeo bronc!” said Boston cheerfully. He lifted the mochila from his horse’s saddle and secured it onto my own. It hardly weighed anything.

  Boston hiked a foot into my stirrup, swung his leg across my back, and let out a whoop. “Let’s see what this little lady can do!” he cried, digging his spurs into my sides. I was so startled that I leaped straight up into the air, then bolted forward into a gallop.

  The trail was rocky and winding, but Boston prodded me with the spurs whenever I slowed to a trot. I galloped through a stand of aspen trees, then sat back on my haunches as the trail dropped suddenly away in front of me. I braced my front legs and skidded down the steep slope to the bottom. Boston sat back in the saddle and held the reins short to help me balance.

  At the bottom of the hill was a creek surrounded by thick mud, the kind you sink in up to your belly. Brambles grew dense and tangled on either side of the trail. I hesitated. Should I go through the brush and risk getting caught in the thorns, or try to jump the creek?

  Boston made no effort to steer me. As my hooves began to sink into the soft ground, I coiled up my muscles and launched myself across the water. I cleared the worst of it, and a second leap carried me onto dry land.

  “Attagirl!” said Boston, giving me a hearty slap on the neck as I galloped on.

  I wasn’t used to running like a rabbit chased by a hound for so many miles. My ribs were heaving by the time Boston blew into his horn to signal our arrival at the next station. This one lay in the middle of a town—bigger than Luck’s End but smaller than Sacramento—with a blacksmith’s shop on one side and a general store on the other.

  Boston reined me to a halt in front of a small stone building, where a station manager was waiting with a fresh horse. Like Sam, this man wore a blue shirt, with a set of keys and a gun at his waist.

  Boston leaped down from my back and switched the mochila to the new horse. “You made good time,” remarked the station manager, handing Boston a sandwich and a mug of coffee.

  “This painted mare’s got heart,” said Boston, wolfing down the food. “Give her a good rubdown for me.” And off he went, galloping his new horse toward the next station.

  The station manager walked me until my chest was cool and the sweat had dried on my coat. Then he set me loose in the new corral with the other horses. This time I approached them more boldly.

  You new to the Express? asked a rust-and-white-spotted Appaloosa mare, flicking one ear in my direction.

  Yes, I said. This was my first run.

  How’s the trail to Split Rock? asked the Appaloosa, moving aside as I headed for the water trough in the corner and drank gratefully.

  Not bad, I said. A little muddy.

  Often stays that way for weeks after a heavy rain, the mare replied. The other horses snorted in agreement. They shifted to let me have a place around the hay bale and introduced themselves. The Appaloosa mare was Cinnabar. A black mustang was called Gunpowder, a pretty blue roan pony was Skip, and a dapple-gray thoroughbred named Bluegrass had come all the way from Kentucky. They all had bits of advice for me, but Cinnabar summed it up: Just get from one station to the next with your rider and the mochila—no matter what.

  I missed Jesse and wondered where he was, but I was eager for whatever adventures tomorrow would bring.

  The Pony Express ran every day, no matter the weather. Sometimes I was ridden east, other times west. Jesse’s route didn’t overlap with mine, so I rarely saw him. Sometimes he came to visit me on a day off, but he didn’t get many of those—and neither did I. The Express horses were well fed and looked after, but no one can say we didn’t earn our keep.

  All of us wondered where the mochila had started and where it was going. Between runs, I had rested at stations as far west as Placerville and as far east as Friday’s Station on the other side of the Sierras. But what was beyond that?

  One day a strange-looking gelding came loping into Split Rock Station. With his washboard ribs, rough sunburned coat, and oversize head and ears, I wondered if he might actually be a mule. Nonetheless, I tried to be neighborly and made a place for him around the hay bale.

  Are you new? I asked, just as Cinnabar had once asked me. I haven’t seen you before.

  You wouldn’t have, the horse said gruffly, grabbing a mouthful of hay with his yellowed teeth. Name’s Gumshoe. My route’s east of here, on the alkali flats.

  What are those? I asked.

  Long stretches of sand where nothing grows, and the dust is filled with a kind of salt that burns your eyes and skin, said Gumshoe. I wondered if that was why his coat looked so rough and dull.

  I’m the only horse that can cross them, Gumshoe boasted, raising his bulging head high. Most horses go lame after a single crossing, or drop down dead from heatstroke on the way. But I’ve crossed the flats at least a hundred times. I’ve been footsore these last few runs, so my rider, Wild Bill, has sent me for a rest with you coddled mountain ponies.

  I snorted at that. Coddled, indeed! Flash floods could turn the trail into a raging river in minutes. On the highest peaks, lightning was as likely to strike a horse and rider as a boulder or a stunted tree. I wondered how Gumshoe would like meeting a grizzly bear or a nest of mud wasps. Still, the plains of burning sand he described sounded like a nightmare, and I was glad my route was farther west. As dangerous as they could be, the mountains felt like home now.

  * * *

  —

  Gumshoe stayed only a few weeks before he returned to the alkali flats. I never saw him again, but it was often that way. Horses came and went on the Pony Express. Each time I galloped into a station, I was likely to see a mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces in the corral. But we were all part of the same herd—we were all Express horses, and we looked out for each other.

  One morning the Appaloosa mare, Cinnabar, came up lame. The blacksmith had driven a nail too deep into the sensitive inner wall of her hoof. When Sam headed out to the corral to get her ready for Billy, the rest of the horses formed a protective wall in front of her. I stepped forward and thrust my head into the halter that Sam held. He looked surprised, but he was smart enough to trust our horse sense.

  After Billy and I left, Sam discovered Cinnabar’s injury and made a poultice of bear fat and wild sage for her. She was soon as good as new, but if she’d had to run on her lame leg that day, she could have broken down for good.

  * * *

  —
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  That spring, when the oak leaves were the size of a squirrel’s ears, no riders came for several weeks. Sam fed and cared for the horses as usual. But we were restless and snappish in our corral.

  Late one afternoon, a distant bugle sounded from the west. Sam came hurrying out of the station and saddled me up in a flash.

  What’s held up the mail for so long? I asked Shadow, the horse who’d ridden in to the station.

  There’s been fighting among the men, said Shadow, sinking down to his knees for a roll in the dirt once he was set loose in the paddock. The ones who built the Pony Express are having battles with the people who lived on this land before them, the Paiutes. It hasn’t been safe for the mail to come through until now.

  The other horses gathered round to hear more. Shadow told us that he’d once heard the hoofbeats of Paiute horses on the trail ahead. Unlike Express horses, they wore no horseshoes. His rider’s ears weren’t as sharp, but Shadow had dodged the encounter by taking an unplanned detour through the brush.

  Everyone thinks I’m contrary, said Shadow, itching his sweaty back against a fence post. The truth is that I always think two strides ahead, and my riders get ornery about having to catch up.

  * * *

  —

  Like Gumshoe and Shadow, I soon gained my own reputation on the Pony Express. No other horse was as skilled at crossing the steepest and most treacherous part of the Sierras. The trail between Woodfords and Friday’s Stations scaled a peak called Echo Summit and descended steeply to the Lake Tahoe valley below.

  It was a hair-raising route at the best of times. When the snow began to fly, it could be deadly. My usual rider, Boston, started coughing during one ride and couldn’t stop. The next day, he had taken to his bed with pneumonia.

  His replacement came riding into camp that afternoon. It was Jesse! He was talking to the station manager as he dismounted, so I clanged my hoof against the corral’s metal gate to get his attention.