The Delivery

The poster outside the Amity General Store was faded and tattered but readable. "Wanted. Young, skinny, wiry fellows. Not over 18. Must be expert riders. Willing to risk death daily. Orphans preferred."

Johnny Chapman read the poster and knew he fit the description well. He was 17, wiry, could ride well and although he was not an orphan, he reckoned he could be if that's what they wanted. He read on as the poster described a need for riders to deliver mail. Strange he thought - why would anyone risk death for mail? The final sentence of the notice contained the part that made his heart skip a beat. The pay was $100 per month! Now that was something worth a risk. He knew right then that he wanted that job.

In just a few months he could save enough to return and get Emma. Johnny and Emma had sworn their love for each other when they were fifteen. She had wanted to go with him, but he knew he had to do this on his own. That miserable, backbreaking task of busting the sod, planting and then hoping that the seedlings would survive the drought and insects was more than he could endure. He was just not cut out for farming. He had a higher purpose. He had to leave. Ma and Pa would be broken hearted, him being the oldest, but they had his four brothers to help carry the load.

Johnny, slipped out of bed late one evening, saddled up his horse and made the 20 mile ride to St. Joseph. He arrived at the Patee House, a new hotel where the Pony Express office was located, at about mid-morning the next day. He was not tired, but he was anxious and nervous about what the future might hold. Johnny dismounted, carefully tied up his horse, adjusted his wide brimmed hat, tucked in his calico and marched into the office with as much swagger as he could muster.

William Russell was behind a brown, brightly polished counter as Johnny entered. He was a thin faced, balding man of about six foot in height with a handlebar mustache and bright blue eyes that appeared warm and welcoming."Can I help you young man?" he said in a voice that sounded like he really meant it. "Yes sir," said Johnny, "I read a poster that said you needed young fellers to deliver mail. I reckon I could do that." Russell assessed the dress and manner of the young man. The homespun shirt, wool pants and the brown sweat-stained hat with the brow turned down, spelled farmer. "Can you ride," he said. "Yes sir," said Johnny, "I been farmin' all my life, but my Pa taught me how to ride."

"What are you ridin'?" asked Russell, his curiosity piqued.

He definitely had a need for a new rider. This kid might do. He was slender enough, stood about 5 foot 7, probably didn't weigh more than 120 pounds. If he could ride . . . He quickly surveyed him again in an effort to learn something about his attitude and determination. His age was easy to determine, probably about 16, he thought. Wisps of fuzzy hair were forming above his lip; his eyes were deep brown and had the glint of youthful optimism. His long brown hair extended below his hat and he had a strong face with high cheekbones and a ruddy complexion that was burnished brown and weathered, no doubt from an outdoor existence. Maybe he can make it, thought Russell.

"Got a mustang," replied Johnny, "had him for three years now. He's tough, fast and dependable."

"Well then, let's see just how good you can ride," said Russell. He moved from behind the counter and walked to the door with Johnny following. "All ya gotta do is mount up and ride down the street to the saloon over there. Do ya see it?" Russell asked.

"Yes sir," said Johnny as he untied his horse, grabbed the reins, slipped his foot quickly into the stirrup and mounted with youthful exuberance. He confidently turned the horse to begin the gallop to the saloon when Russell stopped him. "You can tie her up and get down now, I've seen enough." Johnny was puzzled. Did he fail already without even a chance to prove he could ride?

He followed Russell to the counter and waited as he went over to the desk grabbed some papers and returned to his side of the counter. Russell didn't need to see him ride. He knew the boy could ride when he watched him mount with confidence. He was in control and it was easy to see that horse and rider moved together as one. He was confident in his ability to ride, but could he find his way? That would be the challenge. "Do your parents know you're here asking for a job?" said Russell. "No, they passed two years back," lied Johnny. "I been livin' with my uncle on a farm 'bout 20 miles outside of St Jo. He's turned me out., sez I'm more trouble than I'm worth." Johnny felt good about the story he had concocted. Russell had doubts about the youth's story, but he was here, he could ride and he had to have someone.

Johnny's route was to start at Fort Kearney and head west for about 90 miles. The next day he was then expected to make the return trip. The route was well marked and generally followed the Platte River. Every 10-15 miles there was a way station where he would mount a fresh horse and continue. He was expected to make at least four trips per week. Some of the trips would be at night. The company would provide him with horses, clothes, saddles, food and shelter when he wasn't riding. All he had to do was complete the trip quickly and be on time.

Johnny was given new clothes - tight fitting wool pants, a cotton shirt, a wool jacket and a canvas slicker for protection from rain or snow. The clothes seemed to strangle him after years of wearing loose-fitting clothes that had been loomed and sewn by his mother. They showed him a new style of saddle that was lightweight and felt strange to sit. They said it was the lightest available so as not to tire the horses any more than necessary. He was also shown the mailbag that was called a mochila and he was given directions about how he would attach it to the saddle so it wouldn't fall. If he was ever to lose the mochila and the precious mail that it contained, he was told, he might as well lose his soul.

When he arrived at Fort Kearney it was almost sundown. His heart was beating fast as he strolled over to the Pony Express office. He introduced himself to Jake, the station attendant and was told where his bunk was and where to store his small bag of personal items. Johnny threw his bag under a bunk and lay down. The shack had no windows and smelled of smoke and half-burned wood. Jake entered, asked him about his background, and then began to explain the route he would follow the next day. He said he would be following a trail created over decades by the buffalo and the Indians. About half way between the second and third way stations he would see a large mound on the west side of the trail that was an ancient Pawnee burial ground. Jake said to stay on the trail, as other riders had reported strange happenings in that area. He said that about three months ago a rider had disappeared without a trace - probably just tired of the rigors of riding and headed north to the Dakotas. Johnny fell asleep listening to the drone of Jake's voice as he dreamed of the adventures that lay ahead. He could return to St. Jo, fetch Emma, get married and have enough money to move to a city and stay as far away from farming as possible. Now, he had found his purpose.

"Hey, you gonna git up boy or do you plan to sleep all day". Johnny sat up quickly and noted that the back door was open and a full moon lit up the room. "Is it morning?" he asked still in a sleepy stupor. "Sure is," said Jake, "get a plate over there and git some of these beans and eggs."

"That molasses sure makes them beans good," Johnny said. Jake was flattered. There weren't many that ever complimented him about beans.

"You might as well eat good now," said Jake. "Today is your big day. You'll be leaving as soon as the mail arrives. Ought to be just after sunup. I'm going to spell out your route one more time and you can pick out one of them horses in the corral. They're all well rested."

After Jake gave him his route once again, Johnny went out to the corral that remained illuminated by the bright moonlight and selected a horse. On the horizon, pink clouds could be seen and signaled the impending sunrise. It was just at sunup when Jake called at him. "Ok kid, this is it. Get your horse saddled and ready. The other rider ought to be here soon. He's generally right on time." Johnny saddled the pinto and led him out toward the front of the express office to wait. He grabbed the piece of beef jerky that Jake offered and they both stared out to the east. In a few minutes they could see the dust of the rider from St. Louis.

The rider arrived at full gallop, jumped off his horse and handed his bag of cargo to Jake. Johnny mounted his horse, Jake secured the mochila, and he was off. He could feel the power and anticipation of the mustang as he loosed the reins and headed away from the fort toward the banks of the Platte. The air blew cool and fresh on his face as he headed west at the fork like Jake had told him. He thought about how lucky he was. He'd surely have some stories for Pa when he went back and fetched Emma. His reverie was abruptly interrupted as the horse stumbled slightly and almost threw Johnny, but they recovered and assumed a steady gallop. The horse seemed to know the route and had galloped furiously for the first few miles then settled into a pace that could be sustained. Johnny knew he'd better concentrate on the route and made mental notes of the surroundings along the way. In just a few miles he would be at the first way station. He spurred the horse; it snorted and seemed to get a second breath. Maybe it knew that rest and water was just ahead.

When he arrived, the stationmaster was already holding a horse at the ready. Johnny jumped off, grabbed the mochila and mounted the pinto. He knew the stationmaster's name was Kincaid, but they scarcely traded a word. Kincaid told him to watch out for prairie dog burrows and he was off. His legs had felt a little wobbly when he had jumped off, but now he was secure in the saddle again. This horse felt the same as the last. The color was different, but it seemed like a twin - strong, bold and eager. This horse also seemed to know the way as he followed the narrow trail at a steady pace. Johnny looked back and the station was already out of sight. Then it happened.

Johnny heard the crack! It was loud and broke the rhythmic sound of hoof beats that he had been listening to since he started. The horse stopped suddenly as if it had run into a wall. Its head went down and Johnny catapulted forward.

* * * * *

William Russell was sitting at his desk thinking about how unlucky the kid had been. The horse had apparently stumbled in a gopher hole. The kid had been thrown and broke his neck. The rider coming east had found him and delivered his body to the way station where he was buried. It was strange that the mochila was not to be found.

The door opened and a young boy entered interrupting his thoughts. "I read the sign outside that said you needed young fellers to deliver the mail." Russell looked up and surveyed the wiry young kid. He was dressed in a homespun shirt, wool pants and a brown sweat-stained hat with the brow turned down. Must be a real coincidence he thought to himself.

"What's your name?"

"Johnny," the kid replied.

"What kind of horse you ridin?" asked Russell. "Got a mustang," replied Johnny, "had him for three years now. He's tough, fast and dependable."

Russell was confused but continued the conversation. "Do your parents know you're here asking for a job?" said Russell. "No, they passed two years back," the kid lied. "I been livin with my uncle on a farm bout 20 miles outside of St Jo. He's turned me out, sez I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

Russell knew it wasn't a coincidence and he knew he wasn't crazy, but how could anyone explain this?

* * * *

Russell sat at his desk after the kid had departed for Kearney. A week had passed since he had hired the first kid, now he had relived that time. Why, he thought. Would it happen again? Did it have anything to do with the missing mochila? He would know in about four days. Russell picked up the paper and began reading about a new invention called a telegraph.

* * * *

Johnny knew he was forbidden to go back. His last experience had been a shock. It was difficult to completely comprehend the events that had brought him to his present circumstance, but he felt a peacefulness that he had no memory of experiencing in the past. He remembered his family. Ma, Pa and his brothers would be distraught when they heard the news. He wondered how Emma would react. He knew that everyone here possessed the power to return, but none had ever done it. Why have the power if you don't use it? he mused. If I could just return and let them know how much I loved them; how much I wanted to show them I was capable, independent and grown up. He decided he would take the chance and return.

* * * *

He couldn't know exactly where his return would be and to his surprise he found himself entering the Pony Express office. Events and speech unfolded exactly as it had previously. Nothing changed and he was unable to do anything to prevent the repetition. He realized that while he could return he could not change anything. It was then that the revelation entered his soul. He had fulfilled his purpose and been delivered.

Postscript

Many paranormal events occur and are never recorded or are ignored because there is just no rational explanation. A distant relative of mine died as a result of an accident when he was a pony express rider at the age of seventeen. The story has been passed down in the family for years and my great-great grandfather Robert Dodge, even ventured out to Fort Kearney, Nebraska at the time, with the thought of bringing Johnny Chapman's body back east for burial in a family plot. He talked with William Russell, a Pony Express official, about the accident and after he discovered the circumstances of Johnny's death and the strange events that occurred afterwards, he decided that it was best that Johnny remain in eternal rest at the old way station. I've put together this story based on the recollections of my grandmother who passed away several years ago. There is no written record of what actually took place. This story is based on oral history.