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matter,” I said.
    He just shook his head. “How much you weigh?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œWell . . . you look to be about a hundred fifteen.”
    â€œI know it’s more’n that, whatever it is.”
    â€œDon’t matter. That’s what we’ll call it. He told you about the pay?”
    â€œTwenty-five dollars a week?”
    â€œThat’s it. They’ll give you whatever else you need out at the station.”
    Again came that funny expression he kept looking at me with. “Your folks know you’re here?”
    â€œMore or less,” I said.
    He hesitated a minute, then wrote something down, but even upside down I couldn’t tell what it was.
    He shoved the paper toward me. “Sign here, kid.”
    I did.
    â€œWell, I reckon you’re an Express rider now.”
    â€œWhat do I do now?” I asked.
    â€œI reckon you ought to get yourself out to Jackson at Flat Bluff. He’ll take care of you the rest of the way.”
    â€œThanks, Mister,” I said.
    â€œDon’t mention it, boy . . . good luck.”
    And that was that. Within an hour I was riding out of Sacramento on my way to the Nevada border.

Chapter 6 To Flat Bluff
    It took me five days of moderate riding to get to Flat Bluff. I stopped at all the other stations along the way, even met Warren Upson and several riders I’d heard about from the newspapers or from other folks. I heard plenty of stories about those I didn’t meet, especially Pony Bob Haslam.
    I rode up through the Sierras to the Sportsman’s Hall station and then on to Friday’s Station. It was pretty cold getting over the Sierras, with lots of snow everyplace. I was kinda surprised, it being as far into the summer as it was.
    At Friday’s Station, the stationman was gone and the only person around was a Mexican boy. I was anxious to get to the job, so I just got me something quick to eat and kept right on going, heading down into Nevada near Carson City and then cutting out across the high desert flatlands of what they called the Nevada part of the Utah territory toward Fort Churchill.
    I didn’t see a soul. There weren’t no towns, no settlements, no farms, no ranches, no fences, no cows, no horses. There weren’t nothing! Nothing but rocks, sand, scrubby plants, hills, lizards, and snakes . . . and the sun, which was cool and distant at first but then started to warm up the further east I went.
    Across the high desert I rode, along long flat stretches that went on for likely ten or twenty miles, then up over a hill or small mountain, down the other side, and then out across the flat desert again. The ground was so flat between ridges that you didn’t need a trail to ride on, you just needed it to keep track of your direction. Over and over and over it went, just like that.
    The only sign of life I saw was the Express riders I passed, and they weren’t that many ’cause each stretch of the line was only run twice a week. But then everyone rode both directions out from his home station, and since I was going slower than the mail, I saw several of the riders twice.
    As a rule, they didn’t stop to do much talking, but once or twice they did. One fellow just whistled when I told him where I was bound and said I’d earn my pay for sure. I didn’t like the sound of that, but didn’t want to ask what he meant, either.
    The only Indians I saw were from a distance, and I didn’t know then how lucky I was! Later I found out that during that whole month of June, the Paiutes had been stirring up so much trouble it was a wonder the Express kept going at all. That’s why they was looking for boys for the Nevada runs—all the regulars had quit! But I didn’t know that, and I was riding right into the middle of it!
    Only a few weeks before I’d come through, in fact, there’d been a big uprising near Carson City. The