by Sigmund Brouwer

When I broke over the hill and saw the wagon down at the river, I told myself to stay at full gallop. With a snowstorm close behind, night approaching and five miles yet to go, I had more important things to worry about than a farmer foolhardy enough to travel on a day like this.

He heard the thundering of my horse’s hooves, looked up and waved his hat. I didn’t lift my hands from the reins to wave back. Riding at a full gallop takes plenty of concentration.

“Hey, Mister!” he shouted. “Hey, Mister! I need help!”

Not from me, I told myself. Pony Express riders have very strict instructions—deliver the mail at any cost.

He kept waving and shouting. I tried to shut my ears against his voice. But I made the mistake of looking over as my horse slowed to enter the river. I saw the man’s face, the slump of his shoulders—like he’d just lost all hope because I was passing him by.

I pulled back on the reins.

Just one minute, I told myself. I’ll stop long enough to explain why I can’t help. I was sure he’d understand. Everyone had heard of the Pony Express and how we were able to deliver a letter from California to Missouri in an unbelievable eight days.

“Thanks, Mister,” he said as my horse stamped its hooves and pranced around him. “I’m in a terrible fix here. My horse has gone lame. Short of pullin’ this wagon myself, I can’t get home.”

Higher Calling

The man’s dark beard covered most of his face. His clothes were worn and ragged, and he wore a chewed-up floppy hat. I found it interesting that he called me mister. I’m barely 16, and—except for a wild cuss named Bill Cody—I’m the youngest rider in all of the Pony Express.

“Sorry, not much I can do,” I told him. I pointed at the mailbags on my saddle. “I ride for the Express. They’re expecting me ahead.”

He nodded. If he lived somewhere nearby, he’d know of the Pony Express station at the Weyburn ranch, where fresh horses were kept ready for riders coming and going both directions. Riders like me covered three stations 10 to 15 miles apart, changing horses at each station.

This was my last leg. I’d come down the foothills of the Rockies, heading east across the plains. A fine young woman awaited me—Lucy Weyburn. She was as sweet on me as I was on her. Seeing her tonight would be extra special, as I had a red silk scarf wrapped in fancy paper as a Christmas gift for her.

“Mister,” he said, “you can see the snow is almost on us.”

I could, of course. The approaching clouds were so dark that the mountains behind were almost lost. I’d been racing the weather since leaving the last station.

“It ain’t me I’m worried for,” he said. “It’s my wife and four children. I went into town yesterday and promised ‘em I’d be home tonight. If I don’t show by the time the snow hits, they’ll be scared I’m lost.”

“I don’t see what I can do,” I said. “We abide by strict regulations. Just bringing my horse to a stop like this could lose me my job.”

“Mister,” he said, pulling his hat from his head and holding it to his chest, “if you could just go a half mile out of your way, you’d be doing me as much a favor as a man could ask.”

I shook my head no. Pony Express had rules.

“Someone will be along,” I said. “This trail gets used often enough.”

“On the eve of Christmas?” he asked. “I ain’t seen anyone for hours, and I was surprised to see you. I’d have started walkin’, ‘cept with the Indian trouble, I can’t leave behind my wagon. Without these supplies, we won’t last the winter.

“Some five miles ahead and directly along your way,” he continued, “you’ll see a rock tower guarded by a tall pine. Turn north, along a dry creek bed, and you’ll see the homestead in a half-mile. Hardly out of your way. With the horse you’ve got, wouldn’t take no time at all to let my family know where I’m at.”

The first flakes of snow began drifting down into our eyes. I didn’t want to tell him yes. There were regulations ... and darkness and a storm to beat—with Lucy waiting for me. I patted the package I had for her, tucked inside my coat.

“Mister,” he said, looking up at me on my horse, “I’m sorry to beg. I do know Pony Express riders can’t stop for nothin’. But I don’t know what else I can do, ‘cept throw myself on your mercy.”

I finally nodded. Some things are more important than a job. And it was Christmas after all. “Consider it done,” I said.

“God bless you!” he said. Then he hesitated. “Just in case it takes a while to ride out the storm, can you deliver some presents? I promised them somethin’ for Christmas, and a man hates breakin’ promises to his children.”

I nodded again. The snow was sweeping in harder, and I wanted to be on my way.

The man ran to the wagon. He dug into a box and came back with four small packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with cheap string.

“One for each of my boys,” he said.

I took the gifts and slipped them inside my jacket.

“Thank you kindly,” he said. “Comes the day when I can do the same for you or anyone else, I’ll return the favor.”

I waited. I was expecting him to come up with another present—one for his wife.

He gave me a questioning look. “Something wrong?”

“I’d be happy to take along the package for your wife,” I told him.

“We’re going through tough times,” he said, staring off into the snow. “Somethin’ little would put the sparkle back in her eyes. But all I could afford was a few trinkets for the boys. I’m hoping she’ll understand.”

I felt his shame. Not knowing what to say, I saluted goodbye, wheeled my horse around and splashed through the river.

Mercy Ride

It didn’t take long to reach the rock tower. My horse had barely broken a sweat. If Pony Express horses are anything, they’re tough and fast.

I was fine, too, even with the snow falling heavy in the purple light of dusk. I’d ridden through plenty of worse storms. Pony Express riders weren’t to let snow or hail or heat or Indian attacks stop us. It was as simple as that.

The snow began to fall so heavily that the rock tower was coated white when I got there. I rode hard, with snow whipping across my horse. My arms and gloves became as white as the ground. I knew once I reached the farmhouse, I wasn’t going to waste any time delivering my news. If I didn’t get back to the main trail quickly, I’d risk getting lost.

There was a light in the single window of the cabin.

I jumped down from my horse, not even bothering to brush the snow off my coat and hat. As I knocked on the door, I could hear singing inside.

Special Delivery

A small woman with a tired face and a shy smile opened the door. Behind her, I saw the heads of four boys. She shooed them away, and they returned to peek around her. I guessed the oldest to be 10 years old.

“Hello,” she said. I saw her eyes move up and down as she looked at the snow that covered me from head to toe. “Come in,” she said, stepping back from the doorway. “You must be freezing. We’ve got some soup, and you’re welcome to it.”

“Thank you kindly, but no,” I said. “My name’s Jesse, and I ride for the Pony Express. Your husband . . .”

She brought her hands to her face. “He’s not hurt? We’ve been waiting on him, singing Christmas carols to pass the time, and . . .”

“He’s fine, Ma’am,” I said. Then I explained the whole story.

“That sets me at ease,” she said. But her face didn’t show it. She still looked tired and sad.

I took off a snowy glove and pulled one of the brown, paper-wrapped packages from inside my jacket.

“He asked me to make a delivery for him,” I said. She smiled like I’d handed her a bar of gold.

“Merry Christmas,” I said, pulling out the other three presents. “For the boys,” I explained.

“Merry Christmas,” she said. Her eyes kept going to my coat. But I didn’t have anything for her.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve got to be moving on with the storm and all.”

“I understand,” she said. The smile had left her face. It nearly broke my heart thinking how she must be struggling to raise four boys out here. I remembered how the man had wanted to put a sparkle back in her eyes.

“ ’Course,” I said, pulling out a gift in fancy paper, “there is one last gift.”

The Pony Express delivered mail and news between St. Joseph, Missouri, and San Francisco, California, from April 1860 to October 1861. Pony Express riders carried mail in relays, covering the 2,000-mile, one-way trip in 10 days.

	Q: What did one lightbulb say to the other one? A: “Watt are you doing?” Charles R., 10, Georgia Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe