Pony Bob

Historical Fiction

1911, Southside of Chicago

Myron Summerville was walking down the sidewalk at a very brisk pace. This should be it. He looked and checked the address above the porch of a rundown tenement house with the piece of paper he was holding. Myron was in a very rough area on the Southside and he was on full alert, head on a swivel.

His eyes reluctantly followed the trail of the cracked weedy sidewalk leading up to the crumbling porch steps. It looked like a walk to the gallows to him. He put a gloved hand on the rattling wrought iron gate but stopped. The cold gusty wind of March is indeed no picnic in Chicago. He was freezing, wanting nothing more than to get back on the train and go back to his warm downtown office on Roosevelt Road.

Myron was sure this assignment would be a bust. Looking right and then left along the deserted street, he decided that he would say the address had been wrong. Or maybe better yet, the room was vacant. Yes, that was it. Vacant. He nodded to himself, pulling the lined collar of his overcoat up higher. He began to retrace his steps, gong back the street the way he had just come.

Once again however, he wavered and then came to a full stop. Summerville was a conscientious young man, determined to stake his claim as a reporter and journalist. His inner voice was scolding him. He looked down at the scrap of paper, even though he didn’t have to and confirmed the address that his editor had given him earlier this morning. Letting out a deep sigh, he turned back to the tenement building.

Climbing the narrow front porch steps with a thin and bent iron railing, he entered the vestibule, shutting the door behind him. It was only a degree or two warmer inside the building. There was a scribbled over room listing posted on an ancient framed poster board with mail slots below it. To his disappointment his roving finger found the name. Ragged pieces of yellow butcher tape with different names had been placed over all of the rooms, several times over.

On reaching the third floor by way of a creaking staircase, he walked down the dim hallway, illuminated only by a bare bulb on each end. He found room 305 and paused yet again. He straightened his coat and bow tie, took a breath and knocked.

He waited and leaned forward listening for any movement inside. Nothing. Summerville pulled out the writing pad from his coat pocket, took his derby off and smoothed his hair down in a nervous self-conscious way. Still no answer, so he knocked again while thinking he might just be in for a stroke of luck.

Glancing to his right and down at the end of the hallway he heard something. A man drunkenly weaved out of another room and slammed his door shut, heading for the same staircase he had just climbed up. The man teetered at the top of the steps and Myron was sure he would watch him fall but the man somehow began to navigate his way down.

He knocked a third time while watching the drunk disappear from sight, one staggering step at a time.

“Damn you to hell and back. Stop your poundin’ now will you, and go ‘way.”

The voice that had yelled at Myron from the other side of the door had an odd accent. Western to be sure, but tinged with a little Irish or English.

“Mister…”, Summerville looked at Editor’s messy writing closer. “Mister Bob… excuse me, Mr. Robert Haslam. I am Myron Summerville, a reporter for the Chicago Examiner.”

“Oh well then, are you now lad?”

“Yes sir, and I would like to discuss with you a feature story we want to do.”

There was no answer and then without warning the door was yanked open. “And what in the blue flames of hell itself might you want to discuss with me?”

A stooped and crooked old man, leaning heavily on an old cane, stared at the young reporter. His mouth and jaw were scarred, disfigured.

Myron initially had taken a surprised half step backward from the doorway but he regained his composure and stood straight. “Well, Mr. Haslam I would like to interview you.”

“An interview you say?” The old man’s eyes narrowed and hardened even more. “So then, you’re having some sport with me now? Now you listen close, sprout. I’m no one’s fool. You’ll be taking your leave now before I decide to show you this old pistol is still in fine working order.” With his free hand, he brought a gun up he’d been holding behind the door.

Summerville retreated backward into the hallway and held the writing pad up as a shield of sorts. He spoke quickly because he feared this would be only chance. “Oh, no sir. I mean no disrespect. In fact, quite the opposite. My editor wants me to write a feature story on the fiftieth anniversary of the famous ride you made.”

Haslam stared at the reporter while partially closing the door but paused. “I did some ridin’, that’s a fact but that was a long time ago boy. No one cares ‘bout that no more.”

Sensing an opening and he pounced on it desperately. Myron pointed at the gun and said, “My father…my father has one of those in a glass display case…in his study. Is that a Colt? A Navy Colt?”

Looking at the gun as if he had forgotten he was holding it, Haslam muttered, “It is. It is indeed sonny boy. Now what’s this ‘bout again?” The old man shifted uncomfortably, he seemed to be partially paralyzed on the left side of his body and his speech was slow and labored as well.

“Well sir, my editor is a history buff. Partial to American history and the Wild West days…May I come in? Just for a short while?”

“Nobody is carin’ ‘bout fifty years ago. It’s all been told already, mostly in dime novels and most a it is pure bull. Now then, are you deef in the ears? You shouldn’t be with how big they are. Or do you not understand the King’s English son?” Haslam started to close the door again. “Be off.”

Young Summerville smiled despite himself. He was getting somewhere. “The editor of the Chicago Examiner cares and thousands of our readers will care. Can you give me just an hour of your time…even a half hour?”

Haslam stopped closing the door and looked at the reporter with sad raised eyebrows. He didn’t respond this time.

“Please Mr. Haslam. If I go back with nothing, my editor will just send someone else and I’ll be sent back to writing obituaries again.” Summerville smiled with genuine humility, “I hate writing obituaries. I want write to something that really matters. You really matter. You made history. Please…please, just a few minutes?”

The old man scowled at him and shook his head like a horse, but he shuffled painfully aside, opening the. “Okay son, I’ll tell you a few things if you want to scribble ‘em down for your boss and cobble up a story. It’ll be truthful too, not the bunch of imaginary malarkey others have written.”

Myron felt triumph and his words came flowing out. “Thank you so much Mr. Haslam. Oh my, you just have no idea how much I appreciate th- ”

Haslam held a shaky hand up to stop him. “Stop falling all over yourself and come in before I change my feeble mind.”

Summerville entered and scanned the spartan one room apartment. It was the typical cold water flat. A small pedestal sink stood crookedly in a corner on his left. In another corner was a sagging cot with a couple of wool blankets. He tried not to gawk at the poverty.

It glared at him in anger though, demanding to be seen. There was a small scarred and nicked wooden table with two rickety chairs that didn’t match. An old cast iron cook stove had some lump charcoal burning low. There was a strong draft as the cold wind from outside seeped through the thin walls and whistled though the only window’s loose frame.

Haslam waved an arm around the room. “This is a might embarrassin’ but its no one’s fault but my own and I neither deserve, nor desire sympathy. So there we are on that.” He waved a bony hand toward a single cupboard. “Whisky? I have in my possession a bottle of Four Roses squirreled away.”

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After two shots were poured, both men clinked glasses, drank and sat down. Myron started out by asking a few general questions but then Bob Haslam opened up. As it turned out, he had a lot to say. His words were awkward at times, hard to understand at others and he tended to ramble and skip around a bit.

Like the good reporter he was already becoming, Summerville didn’t let any of that bother him, he just let loose of the reins and let Haslam run. Notepad in hand, he scribbled furiously to keep up.

“Pony Bob. Yes boy, that’s what they called me from the very first day. I was sixteen, maybe fifteen when I started. I’m not even sure myself because when I came over from England, alone mind you, I was lyin’ straight through my teeth ‘bout my age and circumstances. Didn’t know the full truth of it myself. Landed in New York, headed straight west and just kept going.”

Summerville looked up from his writing, nodded and smiled.

“Not sure which of the fellas thought that name up and bestowed it on me, but it stuck. I made some damn good rides right away, for that first courier service. I could ‘andle a horse and that’s a fact. Always ahead on the time, ne’er missed a leg or a station and took on other rides I wasn’t meant for if they needed me.”

Haslam stopped talking for a moment then and he gazed out of that lone, clouded and grit covered window. He went away for a bit, to another time and another place.

Myron watched him closely and narrowed his eyes trying to imagine the scenes the old man was conjuring up in his mind. He started to say something, but he thought better of it, pursed his lips and went back to his notepad, patiently waiting.

A gust of wind rattled the window frame and Haslam seemed to come back at the sound. A look of momentary confusion melted away and he cleared his throat. “Yessir. I started gettin’ a reputation of sorts I ‘spose. I was small but wiry and reckless. Full of spit and vinegar, I was. Hell, we all was.”

Held held up a crooked finger. “Then one fine day, I talked to fella from the Pony Express. Turns out the Express was looking for riders. They were picky bastards. You couldn’t weigh more than a hundred thirty pounds. That was a rule. Had to be sworn in too. They said they only wanted young men. No wives or wee ones to worry ‘bout. Orphans, even better.”

“So I fit that bill like a glove.” He paused at that, giving the reporter a sad smile and laid his hand on the table. The smile didn’t last and he patted the table softly.

Summerville smiled back and nodded. There was a pain there and he would not pry for the sake of a story.

“Anyway, it was an honorable thing to ride for the Express. An’ honor meant somethin’ back in those days. Made me proud, it did. I was just a little English mutt, but by the Lord’s will, I was doing somethin’ important. The Express would be a part of history. We knew it even then. We just didn’t realize how quick the trains and telegraph would make us a damn novelty.”

Myron took an opportunity to comment, “The sheer size and scope of the undertaking. It’s hard to fathom the challenge even now, but back then it must have been…” The reporter was rarely at a loss for word but he was now.

“Loco.” Haslam finished. “And it was, it was insanity, but hell there’s always been people who love to be told that something can’t be done. I was one of those people. I could never have known that I would become involved with something as grand as that was. But once I was, no one and nothing, on God’s green earth was goin’ to stop me.”

Summerville stopped writing for a moment, “From St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California in ten days. Absolutely unheard of back in those days.” He nodded appreciatively at the old man. “What a splendid endeavor.”

“I don’t know about splendid, but an endeavor? Oh yes, it most definitely that. Now, how about another pop a that whiskey? I forgot all about it and I’m thirsty.”

“Oh, no thank you sir. I shouldn’t.”

“There you have it, a smart young man. I will forge on alone then.” He got up stiffly and walked over to the small cupboard again. From where he sat, Summerfield caught a quick glimpse of a few cans of beans but little else. Haslam made his way back to the table with the bottle of Four Roses and his small juice glass.

Gurgling some into the glass, he capped the bottle and knocked back the drink. He held up the glass. “The recipe we was drinkin’ back then wasn’t this. It wasn’t liqour a’tall. Much stronger. Fear, mixed with challenge ‘n stirred with excitement.” He laughed then. “I’m afraid I have stolen that saying from ol’ Bill Cody. But he was right.”

“So, you actually knew Buffalo Bill Cody?” Myron tried but failed not to sound too much in awe.

“I did. Him and Hickok too. Cody was an Express rider himself for a time. A bit of a showboat but I’ll say it again, he was right as rain.” He thumbed his bony chest. “That’s what got this boy drunk - and that’s all I really was too, just a boy. All us riders was hooked like hungry fish in the spring. The adventure and romance of it all, it just swallowed us up. We all wanted that glory, not just me.”

“So in April of 1861, you made your most famous ride. What can you remember specifically, can you tell me the story or parts of it?

“Oh, I can remember that just fine son, but some folks used to say that my best ride was a year earlier in May of ‘60.”

“But that wasn’t the ride delivering Lincoln’s inaugural address?”

“No sir, it sure wasn’t, but I’m proud a that too. It was something thought impossible, from St. Joe Missouri to Sacramento, California in under eight days? You had to be daft to think that possible.” He shook his head “But don’t ya know a team of drivers, includin’ me, stationed around the west, thought it could be done. And by God we did it.”

“May of ’60?” Summerville looked down at his notes and flipped through the summary that his editor had given him. “I don’t see that here…”

“Doesn’t surprise me. Not talked about as much but it was the longest, fastest ride by a single Pony Express rider. Ever. On record it is to this day.” He leaned back in his creaky chair, then continued. “My territory was in what became the state of Nevada a few years later. We rode from station to station, usually 12 or 14 miles apart. Fresh horse at each station. Allowed us to never slow beyond a gallop, it did.”

“So, Pony Bob, may I call you that? How far and how fast did you go on this ride in 1860? What made it noteworthy?”

“Well, the Paiute War was going on at that time and it was an even wilder time to be a rider. Stations were getting burned, station masters were gettin’ killed and horses were gettin’ stolen. You just didn’t ever know what you were ridin’ up on.”

“I see.”

“No, you really don’t see.” The old man chuckled. “But that’s not your fault son, it was a different time. Anyways, on one particular run we had some riders bow out because they didn’t want to lose their hair. So, off I went. Just over three hundred and eighty miles in total. In under thirty-six hours. Couple of quick naps, while sittin’ in the saddle, is all I took…” Haslam’s voice faded off and he poured another half glass of whiskey for himself.

“Almost four hundred miles? Why that’s…” Summerville raised his eyebrows, “That’s…”

“About the same distance between Boston and Baltimore for your Chicago readers to understand it better.” Haslam nodded. “I mean to tell you I was blazin’ across Nevada and hell bent for leather on that ride.”

“How on earth could the other ride, the one I was sent here to write about, stand up to that?”

Haslam sipped his drink and gazed out the window again. The overcast, leaded sky was darkening and the room had gotten even colder. Myron swore he could almost see Haslam’s breath when he sighed and started to speak.

“The other big ride, the one in 1861 that your editor sent you here for, had to do with the most important piece of mail the Pony Express ever delivered. Inside our mochila’s was a copy of the darn inaugural address written by the one and only Abraham Lincoln. He’d just been elected president, but the country was divided as can be, and he was either hated or loved.”

Haslam stopped again and looked at Summerville solemnly, “Justice was hard to find, injustice wasn’t. It was a time of great upheaval and turmoil for everyone. North, south, east and west. Every race and creed. City folk and country folk. Everybody. And well, California was leanin’ to the Confederacy side but the thought in Washington was that if the Express delivered it fast enough so’s folks could read it, well, that might just change things out there.”

The reporter was writing as fast as he could, and he held his hand up at this point. “Pony Bob, what exactly is this mochala you mentioned?”

“It’s mochila son. Spanish word. They were specially designed saddle bags with leather straps that fit over the top of the saddle, so we sat on it. Wasn’t going to get lost that way. We had that, a bible, and a revolver. Some fellas carried a long gun, but I just packed another pistol. Colt was the way to go.” He thought for a moment. “Yup, that was ‘bout it. The lighter you rode, the better. No real uniforms either, so fellas were dressed ever which way.”

Summerville nodded while he wrote. “Please don’t stop, please go on.”

“Well, as you said earlier, the normal run from St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento was ten days. I’m here to tell you, to just make that trip in ten days was some hard riding. So, you might not believe me but as sure as I’m sittin’ here, we set out to make that particular trip in seven days. Taking that much time off the trip was just short of impossible, but we were a determined bunch of little bastards, and we knew just how important it was.”

Myron stopped writing mid-word. He looked up with a blank expression, completely dumbfounded at how astounding that feat actually was. He shook his head slowly and in a serious tone asked, “Seven Days. And your part of the ride, what exactly happened? The stories vary widely.”

“The Paiutes, Shoshones and Bannocks were still raisin’ hell that year. Riders were scared and hell, I was too, if we’re putting everything on the table here. Some didn’t ride but like the little fool I was, I did. I ended up riding other fella’s routes and I finally handed some eastbound mail off at Smith’s Creek Station. Had a few winks, while I was waiting for the other rider that was headed west.

He showed up and transferred the inaugural address to me. I continued westward with it on a fresh horse. I’ll tell you what young man, there was never a time before or after that, where I felt more alive. It was like I was carrying the future. Rode like I never rode before. Like the wind, I was.”

Summerville stopped his frantic writing for a moment and dropped his pencil. He shook his cramping hand and flexed it several times, then continued to write.

Haslam poured himself another half glass and shifted his weight painfully in the chair. “So, I’m riding hard to get to the next station which was Cold Springs. It’s a longer than usual ride but I finally see it up ahead of me. Trouble is, I also see dark smoke.” He stopped and shook his head, the old memory was new again.

He swallowed hard and looked away but kept going. “Closer I get I can see that the station is completely ablaze, and I see a dead horse. It was an easy decision to keep riding. I pass by at a hard gallop and see the station master and his wife. They’re layin’ about the station yard, deader than Kelsey’s nuts. He was missing half his ‘air. Had arrows stickin’ out of him like a pin cushion. Stable doors wide open, horses gone.”

“What were you thinking at the time Pony Bob?”

He laughed and said “What was I thinkin’? I’m thinkin’ there’s most likely trouble up ahead waitin’ on me. I was lucky to be on the horse I was. He was a dandy – I had ridden him before. Name was Rapido. You don’t even have to know Spanish to know what that means.”

He grinned at Myron and nodded. “He was a mustang like most of them ‘n wilder than a March hare. He was big for a stang, had a lot of heart too and that’s what drives everything. He could go. He knew there was trouble too, horses always do. His ears were pointin’ straight up and that’s a fact.” He stopped and looked over at Summerville with a tight smile. “On that day, in that time and in that place, there was ne’er been a horse that ever ran faster. I’ll guaran-damn-tee you that.”

The wind whistled through the window again, making a high-pitched whine and both men looked over at the sound.

“So, I rode right on past Cold Springs and on towards the Buckland Station. Then outta nowhere, here they come, riding out from behind some big rocks. Three Paiutes comin’ hard and fast. I seen ‘em coming out of the corner of my eye, and it looked like they had the angle to cut me off. I leaned forward and low as I could get. My head was right against that horse’s neck. Yessir it was.” Haslam leaned forward and lowered his body while he was talking. “And…away we went. I didn’t even have to snap the reins or urge him on, Rapido took off like a house a’fire. He knew. It was all I could do just to stay on him.”

Summerville was leaning forward too, without realizing it. “Did you think you had a chance at that point?”

“Ah, you don’t really think about anything at a time like that. It must have been a sight though, me and them Paiutes scootin’ across that barren land. Dust all boiled up and trailing behind us. I didn’t have time to tighten my chin string good. Lost my lucky cowboy hat. Never had a better one since.”

Haslam got up from the table then, his face creased with pain. He managed to stand with the help of the cane and he began to pace. “Gotta walk.” He started to pace back and forth in the narrow confines of the room.

Myron waited patiently, watching him.

“It was close. They damn near cut me off, but Rapido put on another burst even I didn’t think he had in him. They barely missed us and just tucked right in behind me. Couldn’t have been more than maybe thirty feet behind me. Something hit my back, up high on the shoulder and it hurt like hell. I pulled my Colt and turned sideways in the saddle. I fired twice and didn’t hit a damn thing, so I turned back around and got low again, just as an arrow went right the hell over my head. They could do that. Those Paiutes were master horsemen. Ride with no hands and shoot with accuracy. They was somethin’ I tell you.”

He stopped pacing for a moment. “You know how hard that is Mr. Summerville?”

Myron didn’t look up from his writing pad. “I would imagine it’s extremely difficult.”

Haslam grunted and started to pace again. “Yes…extremely difficult. I was never much of a gun hand, so I decided that I’d have to shoot their horses out from under them or I was gonna die. God knows I love horses more than most people, but I had to do something. I turned again and fired. The closest rider on a spotted pinto went down hard in a rolling ball of horse, man, and dust. If it didn’t kill him, he was stoved up for good.”

“So, did you think you had a better chance then? That had to give you some reason to think you might make it.”

“You really don’t understand, and I don’t really expect you to, but I told you already. There is no thinking anything about that kind of thing. The only thing you’re thinking about is how not to die. So, on we ride, cutting across that wide open space. Me riding for my life, them riding to put me down in the dirt. Rapido was starting to flag a bit, and I snuck a look back. The two remaining Paiutes were inching closer. I just wasn’t gonna make it to Buckland Station unless I could dispatch of them.”

Myron stopped writing. “Were the Paiutes whooping and screaming? Did they have war paint on? I just need to add as much description as I can.”

Haslam shook his head. “Hell no, that was rare. Mostly bull crap written for books by fellas like you. One of the two had a black streak running across his forehead and they both had on rawhide headbands, but other than that no, none a that. The only sound I remember was the horses snorting and hoofs beating the ground. There was no theatrics to be found.”

“There was no theatrics to be found.” Myron repeated out loud and held up a finger, writing furiously.

Haslam shook his head at the reporter and started again. “So anyways, I turned to shoot and saw the lead rider let go with an arrow at the very same time. I fired just before the arrow hit me.”

Haslam frowned and looked down at the table. “Here I am shooting horses, and he pulls off a shot like that. It was damn impressive what he did. That arrow went right through my jaw and cheek. Well, I didn’t have no time for that arrow to be wavin’ around all over the place, so I yanked it out and turned back around again. I laid low and hugged Rapido’s neck again.

Pony Bob’s voice wavered and broke a little then, but he continued. “Shouted to him, I did. Asked him to try for me and go just a little farther…and I’ll be damned if he didn’t pick up the pace again. My god, he was one hell of a horse.”

“What about your shot Pony Bob?” asked Myron quietly. “What happened?”

“Oh, I hit his horse, and he went down too. Hell, a blind man can hit a horse.” Haslam’s voice trailed off again. He was tiring. He’d been talking almost non-stop for over an hour.

“So, there’s one Paiute left, and your horse is fading?”

“That’s when I got lucky. I looked back and that brave had pulled up and just stopped by the fallen rider. I remember seeing him shaking a fist at me. He just kept getting smaller and smaller. Pretty soon he was just a dot on the horizon behind me.”

“And so, you rode into Buckland Station and there was another rider waiting for you?”

“Finally, yes. Rapido was flat played out. Just barely putting one foot in front of the other when we staggered into the station yard. I was slumped over, just kinda hanging onto him. Wasn’t too much time for pleasantries though, I half fell out of my saddle and the new rider was ready. He grabbed the Mochila with the inaugural address in it. Off he went in a cloud of dust – like he’d been shot out of a damn cannon. It was a fella named Curly Donovan. Anyway, yeah, I rode some hard miles that day but Rapido is the one that shined.”

“Was there a doctor for you at the station?”

Haslam grunted and smiled. “A doctor at Buckland Station? Son, there wasn’t a doctor at any of them stations. About two in the whole dang territory. Ended up getting my jaw and shoulder patched up by a drunk old sawbones in Carson City two days later. It’s fair to say he was not steady of hand. Lost four teeth out of the deal too. Either swallowed them or spit them out while riding, can’t really remember what happened.”

There was a long and extended pause as Haslam’s eyes welled up. “We did it though. Seven days, by God. Delivered Lincoln’s address to the state house in Sacramento. Those were the best days of my life son, but they’re long gone.” He let out a sigh that rattled in his chest.

Summerville felt his eyes welling up.

“I’m tired now son. Gonna catch a wink. Before I do though, I gotta can of beans and some salt pork to share with you if you’re hungry. If not, I’ll take my leave. I’m all talked out.”

Myron stood and smoothed out his pants. “Well, I will leave you to it Pony Bob. One last question. How on earth did you end up here in Chicago, of all places?”

Haslam shook his head. “Long story, and a different story. Has to do with my sweet Jenny and that sir, won’t ever be discussed with anybody. Sure as hell, won’t go into that newspaper of yours.”

Myron smiled and stuck out his hand to the legend that was Pony Bob. “It’s been a pleasure and an honor sir.” They shook and Summerville remembered something, reaching for his wallet. “I’d like to pay you a stipend for this interview and story. My editor insisted that I do that.”

“Appreciate that and tell your editor thank you very much, but I won’t be accepting that.”

Myron wasn’t surprised at that response, but he knew the man needed it and he left a ten dollar note on the small table as he followed Bob Haslam to the door.

“Appreciate you listening to this old man Mr. Summerville, just spell my name right in the story, eh?” Pony Bob smiled as he ushered Myron out the door.

“Of course, Mr. Haslam. Good day to you.”

The door softly closed and Summerville paused, smiling despite the deep sadness he was feeling. He tucked his writing tablet under his arm and put his hat back on, then slowly walked away. Down the dim hallway and down the staircase.

Myron didn’t know it then, but he would soon be promoted to assistant editor of the Examiner, largely because of his Pony Bob article. The piece would be very popular, critically acclaimed and would take Chicago by storm.

He also couldn’t have known that less than a year later, he did something he used to hate. Due to his new position and success at the paper, there was an open assignment that was well below his station - but in fact, one that he would volunteer for.

The resulting obituary Summerville wrote for one Robert Haslam in the Chicago Examiner was later said to have been masterful written and fit for a king.   

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