BIG SAM, THE STAGE-DRIVER. 



MAJOR PHILIP READE, U. S. A. 



Thirty years ago, Eastern folk had no 

 other line of transportation into New Mex- 

 ico than by stage, starting from some point 

 in Eastern Kansas. 



The stage men were important factors in 

 those days; they made contracts with Uncle 

 Sam to carry the mail, and their charges for 

 carrying express matter were exorbitant. 

 The stage driver was a type peculiar and dis- 

 tinct. Passengers were of no moment to 

 him, but he bragged on his horses. Every 

 stage had also a conductor and a messenger. 

 He carried a gun and kept guard over the 

 iron safe habitually on the front dasher un- 

 der a leather boot. The conductor had only 

 a leather pocket-book containing the way 

 bills to look after and he was never quite so 

 much of a man in the eyes of the passengers 

 as was " Big Sam," the driver. 



Sam was illiterate, mendacious, bully- 

 ing, but he knew how to drive. He never 

 descended to terms of familiarity with the 

 hostler; not he. The hostler harnessed and 

 unharnessed the horses and passed the reins 

 up to Sam, while the latter sat like a king 

 on his throne and damned the hostler for 

 various omissions and commissions con- 

 nected with the horse-gear; with neglecting 

 the grooming; with breaking the ivory 

 martingale rings; or the way Jim, the nigh 

 leader, was shod, etc. The hostler was 

 paid $30 a month and " found " ; he lived 

 at the stage station. Sam was paid $120 

 a month: found himself in grub, and 

 was always the recipient of gifts from the 

 passengers. Sam never lacked for a flask 

 or a plug if there was any rivalry between 

 the passengers as to who should have a seat 

 beside him. This was the post of honor and 

 observation. 



Once off from the ranch where the relays 

 of stage horses were kept, Sam would settle 

 down into a garrulous mood and be open 

 to more bribery from the passenger whom 

 he had elected to the post of honor. Great 

 discernment was necessary to learn whether 

 Sam's favorite was a leader, a swing or a 

 wheeler, and we governed our encomiums 

 accordingly. 



Sam's next weakness was his whip lash. 

 It was 12 feet long, braided of 16 strands; 

 was tipped with buckskin and silk. Sam 

 made it. It was kept lubricated and could 

 easily be carried, coiled, in one's vest 

 pocket. Only trout fishermen could appre- 

 ciate Sam's method of attaching that lash to 

 the silver ferruled whip-stock. Sam was 

 vain of that whip. He could flick a fly from 



the tip of Romeo's left ear (Romeo was the 

 off leader) and the horse would never know 

 it, or he could raise a cruel welt on Romeo's 

 flank if the latter shied. Each horse was the 

 pride or the pest of Sam's life. If the latter, 

 the Division Superintendent was sure to 

 know it and one of 2 things would happen. 

 Either a new horse would have to be gotten 

 or Mr. William Barnett (the Division 

 Superintendent) would be warned by Sam to 

 " git a shift," and then Messrs. Barlow & 

 Sanderson, stage owners and mail contrac- 

 tors, would transfer Sam to some other divi- 

 sion of the long route. 



Sam never got drunk on duty. On precip- 

 itous grades, he'd stick to his slippery leath- 

 er seat marvellously. Why he didn't get 

 pitched off it some times was a mystery. He 

 knew every foot of the road night or day, 

 winter or summer. With his eyes shut he'd 

 locate a chuck hole or a wash out and 

 avoid it. 



In a treeless country, with no milestones 

 or telegraph poles or habitations, save the 

 adobe stage ranches 15 miles apart, fol- 

 lowing the sinuosities of the Arkansas — a 

 mud-puddle in strenuous motion — it was 

 no easy matter to keep the road when snow 

 was falling or Kansas blizzards stirring up 

 alkali dust storms, but our stage driver was 

 always equal to the task. He never lost his 

 way. Sometimes he'd glance up at the Dip- 

 per, but instinct rather than astronomy kept 

 him to his route. 



He was a weather prophet, and could scent 

 a storm as quickly as could the prairie dogs. 



Freight for Pueblo, Trinidad, Santa Fe, 

 Albuquerque, Las Cruces, Silver City, had 

 to be laboriously hauled by bull trains from 

 Ellsworth or Junction City or Leavenworth 

 or Council Bluffs. Sixteen bulls were re- 

 quired to pull one prairie schooner (as the 

 huge trapeziums were called), and a day 

 was required by the Mexican bull-whackers 

 to travel a distance that the mail coaches 

 could make in 2 hours. 



Vehicles carrying the United States mail 

 had precedence and right of way over every- 

 thing except army wagons and army ambu- 

 lances. United States soldiers guarded the 

 freight trains and protected the stage sta- 

 tions. Sometimes escort wagons filled with 

 soldiers, each carrying a Spencer or a 

 Springfield rifle, accompanied the stages. 

 Then there was trouble. These escort 

 wagons were drawn by army mules and the 

 non-commissioned officers in charge of the 

 detachment exercised the right to travel in 



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