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    Chapter VI

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    Chapter 8
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    Our new conductor (just shipped) had been without sleep for twenty hours.
    Such a thing was very frequent. From St. Joseph, Missouri, to
    Sacramento, California, by stage-coach, was nearly nineteen hundred
    miles, and the trip was often made in fifteen days (the cars do it in
    four and a half, now), but the time specified in the mail contracts, and
    required by the schedule, was eighteen or nineteen days, if I remember
    rightly. This was to make fair allowance for winter storms and snows,
    and other unavoidable causes of detention. The stage company had
    everything under strict discipline and good system. Over each two
    hundred and fifty miles of road they placed an agent or superintendent,
    and invested him with great authority. His beat or jurisdiction of two
    hundred and fifty miles was called a "division." He purchased horses,
    mules harness, and food for men and beasts, and distributed these things
    among his stage stations, from time to time, according to his judgment of
    what each station needed. He erected station buildings and dug wells.
    He attended to the paying of the station-keepers, hostlers, drivers and
    blacksmiths, and discharged them whenever he chose. He was a very, very
    great man in his "division"--a kind of Grand Mogul, a Sultan of the
    Indies, in whose presence common men were modest of speech and manner,
    and in the glare of whose greatness even the dazzling stage-driver
    dwindled to a penny dip. There were about eight of these kings, all
    told, on the overland route.

    Next in rank and importance to the division-agent came the "conductor."
    His beat was the same length as the agent's--two hundred and fifty miles.
    He sat with the driver, and (when necessary) rode that fearful distance,
    night and day, without other rest or sleep than what he could get perched
    thus on top of the flying vehicle. Think of it! He had absolute charge
    of the mails, express matter, passengers and stage, coach, until he
    delivered them to the next conductor, and got his receipt for them.

    Consequently he had to be a man of intelligence, decision and
    considerable executive ability. He was usually a quiet, pleasant man,
    who attended closely to his duties, and was a good deal of a gentleman.
    It was not absolutely necessary that the division-agent should be a
    gentleman, and occasionally he wasn't. But he was always a general in
    administrative ability, and a bull-dog in courage and determination--
    otherwise the chieftainship over the lawless underlings of the overland
    service would never in any instance have been to him anything but an
    equivalent for a month of insolence and distress and a bullet and a
    coffin at the end of it. There were about sixteen or eighteen conductors
    on the overland, for there was a daily stage each way, and a conductor on
    every stage.

    Next in real and official rank and importance, after the conductor, came
    my delight, the driver--next in real but not in apparent importance--for
    we have seen that in the eyes of the common herd the driver was to the
    conductor as an admiral is to the captain of the flag-ship. The driver's
    beat was pretty long, and his sleeping-time at the stations pretty short,
    sometimes; and so, but for the grandeur of his position his would have
    been a sorry life, as well as a hard and a wearing one. We took a new
    driver every day or every night (for they drove backward and forward over
    the same piece of road all the time), and therefore we never got as well
    acquainted with them as we did with the conductors; and besides, they
    would have been above being familiar with such rubbish as passengers,
    anyhow, as a general thing. Still, we were always eager to get a sight
    of each and every new driver as soon as the watch changed, for each and
    every day we were either anxious to get rid of an unpleasant one, or
    loath to part with a driver we had learned to like and had come to be
    sociable and friendly with. And so the first question we asked the
    conductor whenever we got to where we were to exchange drivers, was
    always, "Which is him?" The grammar was faulty, maybe, but we could not
    know, then, that it would go into a book some day. As long as everything
    went smoothly, the overland driver was well enough situated, but if a
    fellow driver got sick suddenly it made trouble, for the coach must go
    on, and so the potentate who was about to climb down and take a luxurious
    rest after his long night's siege in the midst of wind and rain and
    darkness, had to stay where he was and do the sick man's work. Once, in
    the Rocky Mountains, when I found a driver sound asleep on the box, and
    the mules going at the usual break-neck pace, the conductor said never
    mind him, there was no danger, and he was doing double duty--had driven
    seventy-five miles on one coach, and was now going back over it on this
    without rest or sleep. A hundred and fifty miles of holding back of six
    vindictive mules and keeping them from climbing the trees! It sounds
    incredible, but I remember the statement well enough.

    The station-keepers, hostlers, etc., were low, rough characters, as
    already described; and from western Nebraska to Nevada a considerable
    sprinkling of them might be fairly set down as outlaws--fugitives from
    justice, criminals whose best security was a section of country which was
    without law and without even the pretence of it. When the "division-
    agent" issued an order to one of these parties he did it with the full
    understanding that he might have to enforce it with a navy six-shooter,
    and so he always went "fixed" to make things go along smoothly.

    Now and then a division-agent was really obliged to shoot a hostler
    through the head to teach him some simple matter that he could have
    taught him with a club if his circumstances and surroundings had been
    different. But they were snappy, able men, those division-agents, and
    when they tried to teach a subordinate anything, that subordinate
    generally "got it through his head."

    A great portion of this vast machinery--these hundreds of men and
    coaches, and thousands of mules and horses--was in the hands of Mr. Ben
    Holliday. All the western half of the business was in his hands. This
    reminds me of an incident of Palestine travel which is pertinent here, so
    I will transfer it just in the language in which I find it set down in my
    Holy Land note-book:

    No doubt everybody has heard of Ben Holliday--a man of prodigious
    energy, who used to send mails and passengers flying across the
    continent in his overland stage-coaches like a very whirlwind--two
    thousand long miles in fifteen days and a half, by the watch! But
    this fragment of history is not about Ben Holliday, but about a
    young New York boy by the name of Jack, who traveled with our small
    party of pilgrims in the Holy Land (and who had traveled to
    California in Mr. Holliday's overland coaches three years before,
    and had by no means forgotten it or lost his gushing admiration of
    Mr. H.) Aged nineteen. Jack was a good boy--a good-hearted and
    always well-meaning boy, who had been reared in the city of New
    York, and although he was bright and knew a great many useful
    things, his Scriptural education had been a good deal neglected--to
    such a degree, indeed, that all Holy Land history was fresh and new
    to him, and all Bible names mysteries that had never disturbed his
    virgin ear.

    Also in our party was an elderly pilgrim who was the reverse of
    Jack, in that he was learned in the Scriptures and an enthusiast
    concerning them. He was our encyclopedia, and we were never tired
    of listening to his speeches, nor he of making them. He never
    passed a celebrated locality, from Bashan to Bethlehem, without
    illuminating it with an oration. One day, when camped near the
    ruins of Jericho, he burst forth with something like this:

    "Jack, do you see that range of mountains over yonder that bounds
    the Jordan valley? The mountains of Moab, Jack! Think of it, my
    boy--the actual mountains of Moab--renowned in Scripture history!
    We are actually standing face to face with those illustrious crags
    and peaks--and for all we know" [dropping his voice impressively],
    "our eyes may be resting at this very moment upon the spot WHERE
    LIES THE MYSTERIOUS GRAVE OF MOSES! Think of it, Jack!"

    "Moses who?" (falling inflection).

    "Moses who! Jack, you ought to be ashamed of yourself--you ought to
    be ashamed of such criminal ignorance. Why, Moses, the great guide,
    soldier, poet, lawgiver of ancient Israel! Jack, from this spot
    where we stand, to Egypt, stretches a fearful desert three hundred
    miles in extent--and across that desert that wonderful man brought
    the children of Israel!--guiding them with unfailing sagacity for
    forty years over the sandy desolation and among the obstructing
    rocks and hills, and landed them at last, safe and sound, within
    sight of this very spot; and where we now stand they entered the
    Promised Land with anthems of rejoicing! It was a wonderful,
    wonderful thing to do, Jack! Think of it!"

    "Forty years? Only three hundred miles? Humph! Ben Holliday would
    have fetched them through in thirty-six hours!"

    The boy meant no harm. He did not know that he had said anything that
    was wrong or irreverent. And so no one scolded him or felt offended with
    him--and nobody could but some ungenerous spirit incapable of excusing
    the heedless blunders of a boy.

    At noon on the fifth day out, we arrived at the "Crossing of the South
    Platte," alias "Julesburg," alias "Overland City," four hundred and
    seventy miles from St. Joseph--the strangest, quaintest, funniest
    frontier town that our untraveled eyes had ever stared at and been
    astonished with.
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