Giddyap! With a good swat to my mustang Bandit's rump, I'm off.
My name is Henry Thompson; I'm 19 years old, and I'm galloping as fast as I can.
Since April of last year, I have ridden for the Central Overland California and Pike's Peak Express Company,
which is the official name for the Pony Express.
My route in Nevada, from Fort Churchill to Friday's Station,
is only one part of a large network of routes that have made it possible to send news, letters,
and other important papers all the way across the country.
I'm proud to be a part of the Pony Express, which takes the mail from St. Joseph, Missouri, to San Francisco, California, in about ten days.
But today, November 17, 1861, is my last ride, because the telegraph line joining both coasts of America went into operation about three weeks ago.
Soon there will be no more need for the Pony Express.
Eighteen months ago I was picked from the many young men who answered a newspaper advertisement in Sacramento, California.
The company wanted skilled riders weighing less than 120 pounds, which describes me perfectly, since I'm skinny as a rail and an excellent rider.
The weight the horses carry must be as low as possible because they run very hard.
The horses we ride aren't really ponies, but they're small, which is probably why the company got the nickname "Pony Express."
To make it easier on our horses, I'm only allowed to carry 25 pounds of equipment, like some food and my Colt revolver.
Of course I also carry an additional twenty pounds of mail in a mochila, a leather saddlebag.
I was assigned to the Fort Churchill home station, and I've learned my route well.
It's one of the hardest routes, because I have to go high into the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
You'd think the Pony Express carries the mail only by horse, but that's not exactly true.
The mail usually travels between San Francisco and Sacramento by boat.
Between the east and St. Joseph, Missouri, the mail travels by stagecoach.
But riders on horseback are needed between St. Joseph and Sacramento because it's rough country—
through the deserts of the Great Basin and over the mountains.
There are home stations, where the riders live between trips, every 75 to 100 miles,
and relay stations, where the riders can change horses, every 10 to 15 miles.
Saddling up a fresh horse usually takes less than two minutes, and then we're off again to the next relay station.
My route is about 75 miles, but other routes are longer.
Special, lightweight saddles make the horses' jobs easier.
I sling the mochila over the saddle and secure it over the saddle's horn.
Most of the time we carry about fifty pieces of mail, which are placed in four leather boxes sewn into the corners of the mochila.
When the Pony Express started, the price to deliver a piece of mail was five dollars for each half ounce.
Only the wealthiest people use our service; although we've dropped the price to one dollar now, that's still a lot of money.
Our service is expensive because it's the quickest.
Before the Pony Express, mail from New York to San Francisco took about four weeks—and often longer—
because it had to be shipped down the East Coast to the Isthmus of Panama, transported by rail overland,
and then shipped up the West Coast by steamship.
But President Abraham Lincoln's inaugural address made it to California in 7 days and 17 hours—
because it was telegraphed to Nebraska and then traveled on the Pony Express.
The rider from the east arrived at Fort Churchill at six o'clock tonight, and I left right away.
I'm so grateful the moon is full.
Although I know this route like the back of my hand, I don't want anything bad to happen on my last ride.
As I head toward Reed's Station, I remember the day I rode through a forest of aspens, where Indians were hiding.
I crouched over my horse's neck and rode as fast as I could, shooting behind me the whole time—
that was the fastest I have ever ridden in my whole life.
As I get close to Reed's Station, I blow a horn four times to alert the stationmaster that I'm coming in.
A fresh horse is ready for me, and I immediately set off for Dayton.
That little town sprang up just recently because gold was discovered nearby.
Riding through a hemlock forest, I have to be careful my horse doesn't stumble in the dark, because a few riders have been hurt this way.
But once we're out of the woods, there are places where I can let him run as fast as he wants on this chilly, moonlit night.
Pony Express horses are specially selected for their speed and endurance,
and they can gallop up to 25 miles per hour; usually, though, we ride at about 10 miles per hour to save the horses' energy.
After a brief stop at Carson City, it's a fairly easy 15-mile ride to Genoa, but the hardest part of my trip is still ahead of me.
With a fresh horse, I head into the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
This stretch of the ride is only about ten miles, but the uphill climb is extremely difficult.
Halfway up I find myself in six inches of snow, and I must slow down—slipping on the rocky slopes would be a costly delay.
Soon, though, I see the light reflecting off Lake Tahoe, and both my horse and I are relieved to finally arrive at our destination, Friday's Station,
and pass the mochila on to the next rider.
Now I'm going to take off my boots, grab a bowl of beans, and sit by the fire as I think of all the men that made the Pony Express possible.
Some are no longer with us, killed by Indians or robbers or the weather.
After I rest a bit, I'll probably head east, where I hear the Union Army is looking for some good riders.
After being a Pony Express rider, I'm used to danger.
It's time for me to look for a new adventure.