The Overland Mail
By Frederick Ritchie Bechdolt, adapted and updated.
From the earliest days of westward expansion, a common refrain echoed across the vast American landscape. Lean, sun-weathered figures clad in fringed buckskin, the vanguard of a relentless tide, offered a similar justification for their journey toward the setting sun. Each wave of westward migration, from the solitary trapper to the ambitious entrepreneur, presented a rationale, often tinged with the promise of financial gain, for braving the trials of the untamed West.
The initial wave, the fur trappers and pathfinders, spoke of untold riches in high-priced pelts beyond the horizon. The gold-seekers of ’49, fueled by the allure of instant wealth, proclaimed their intent to pluck golden nuggets from the streams of California. Later, the teamsters who guided heavily laden freight wagons along newly carved trails assured their loved ones they sought only to better their fortunes. And when the iconic Concord coaches began their arduous task of carrying mail and passengers between burgeoning frontier settlements and the distant metropolis of San Francisco, the wealthy investors declared the lines would be lucrative. The men of action, the drivers and handlers, claimed high wages lured them into the perilous undertaking.
Pathfinders, Argonauts, teamsters, stage drivers, Pony Express riders, and capitalists – all offered the same comforting explanation, a salve to ease their own anxieties and appease the concerns of those they left behind: they were going west to make money.
This narrative, however, was often a carefully constructed facade. Deep down, these individuals harbored motives far more complex and compelling.
One type of man, though, didn’t bother with self-deception or elaborate explanations. He openly proclaimed a burning desire for adventure, a yearning to test his mettle against the perceived dangers of the frontier – the threat of Indian attacks and encounters with desperadoes. He was consumed by a "lust for adventure." The men of action craved the thrill of risking their lives, and the men of wealth sought the adrenaline rush of risking their capital. While neither group actively courted loss, they were undeniably drawn to the inherent hazards.
These pioneers were driven by dreams and visions, and, remarkably, many of those dreams materialized into tangible realities. Few, however, achieved the financial success they initially envisioned. Many emerged from their Western experiences poorer in material wealth than when they began. Yet, nearly all found the experience transformative, living out their days with a treasure trove of memories, far more valuable than gold, of their participation in an epic drama.
"The Winning of the West," as this historical period is often dubbed, reached a dramatic crescendo in the years preceding the arrival of the railroad. This final act involved a fierce competition among ambitious individuals and companies vying for the coveted contract to transport mail across the vast wilderness by stagecoach, adhering to a strict schedule.
The then-frontier lay approximately 200 miles west of the Mississippi River. Behind that line, a rapidly modernizing nation was taking shape. Wood-burning locomotives pulled long trains across steel tracks, steamboats plied the muddy rivers, and burgeoning cities darkened the skies with coal smoke. Men in top hats and women in elaborate hoop skirts strolled along sidewalks, newspapers delivered daily news, and the telegraph transmitted messages across the country. Even in the most remote villages, the people engaged in the same conversations and debates that were unfolding in sophisticated establishments like Delmonico’s in New York City.
West of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, another civilization flourished. In San Francisco’s grand hotel lobbies, men and women donned the latest Eastern fashions. Newspapers prominently displayed news from the East, and people debated the same political and business issues that gripped the Atlantic seaboard.
Between these two burgeoning centers of American life lay a formidable barrier: 2,000 miles of untamed wilderness. Bands of hostile Native Americans further complicated the journey across the seemingly endless prairies, sagebrush plains, snow-capped mountains, and desolate deserts.
In Europe, such a vast and challenging expanse might have remained undeveloped for centuries, traversed only by slow migrations driven by poverty or political unrest. These isolated communities would have evolved independently, developing distinct cultures and potentially forming separate nations.
But the populations east of the Mississippi and west of the Sierras were united by a shared identity: they were Americans. This shared national identity fueled a strong desire for close connection. Their business practices demanded efficient communication, and their political and social ideals chafed at the isolation imposed by distance. Moreover, they refused to view natural obstacles as insurmountable. The 2,000 miles of wilderness, with its associated dangers, became a challenge to be overcome.
A clamor arose, with the East demanding quicker communication with the West, and vice versa. The timely delivery of letters from New York to San Francisco became a pressing national concern.
The initial step toward solving this problem was selecting a suitable route. This decision rested with the federal government in Washington D.C., but the evidence supporting each proposed route depended on the efforts of the wealthy and ambitious men willing to invest in the enterprise. Two rival factions emerged, each determined to prove that their route was the fastest and most practical. Russell, Majors & Waddell, already heavily invested in freighting contracts along the northern route from Independence, Missouri, to Sacramento, California, via Salt Lake City, dedicated their resources to demonstrating its viability. Simultaneously, the Wells-Butterfield stage and express company championed the longer, southwestern route from St. Louis to San Francisco.
In 1855, Senator W.M. Gwin of California, in collaboration with F.B. Ficklin, general superintendent of Russell, Majors & Waddell Co., introduced a bill in Congress to facilitate mail delivery by horseback along the northern route. However, the measure was shelved, primarily due to concerns about snow in the mountains.
In 1857, James E. Birch secured the contract for carrying semi-monthly mail from San Antonio, Texas, to San Diego, California. This agreement gave the champions of the southern route an opportunity to showcase its advantages.
Apart from a few short sections in Texas and Arizona, there were no established wagon roads. El Paso and Tucson were the only significant settlements along the route. Scattered military outposts, struggling to defend themselves against Comanche and Apache raids, provided the only semblance of protection from hostile Native Americans.
Initially, horsemen carried the mailbags across this unforgiving terrain of rugged mountains and scorching deserts. On the inaugural journey, Silas St. Johns and Charles Mason rode side-by-side from Carrizo Creek in Texas to Jaeger’s Ferry, the future site of Yuma, Arizona. Their route took them directly through the Imperial Valley. In those days, the life-giving waters of the Colorado River had not yet been diverted, leaving the region as one of the hottest and most desolate deserts in North America, a landscape of shifting sandhills, blinding alkali flats, and only a single, tepid spring in the distance. The two horsemen covered the 110-mile stretch in a grueling 32 hours.
The company then initiated preparations for stagecoach service. During late November, St. Johns and two companions drove a herd of livestock from Jaeger’s Ferry to Maricopa Wells. This location was chosen as a relay station due to its access to water and the presence of friendly Pima and Maricopa Indians, who provided a buffer against Apache attacks. During this arduous 200-mile drive, the pack mule lost its load one night in the desert. The men were left without food for three days and without water for 36 hours.
The first stagecoach departed San Diego for the East in December, carrying six passengers. Throughout the journey, a hostler rode alongside, herding a team of relay horses. The driver pushed his six horses to their limit for two hours, after which the weary passengers and animals were given a two-hour rest. A fresh team was then hitched to the coach, and the journey continued.
In this manner, they covered approximately 50 miles per day. Upon reaching Fort Davis, Texas, they discovered that the garrison, which they had expected to supply them with provisions, was facing its own food shortages. For the next five days, the passengers subsisted on barley taken from the horses. They arrived at Fort Lancaster, Texas, shortly after a Comanche war party had raided the post and stolen all the livestock, forcing them to travel 200 miles further to find a relay team. Despite these setbacks and delays caused by swollen rivers, the stagecoach persevered, arriving with the mail sacks only ten days behind schedule.
The Birch line continued its service, and letters from San Francisco reached St. Louis in approximately six weeks. Although Indian attacks and robberies by renegade whites and Mexicans occasionally occurred, these incidents were considered within the realm of the expected. James Birch had proven his point: the southern route was viable. In 1858, the government awarded John Butterfield of Utica, New York, a six-year contract to carry mail twice a week between St. Louis and San Francisco.
The Wells-Butterfield interests had achieved their first major victory. Butterfield’s annual compensation was set at $600,000, and the schedule required the journey to be completed in 25 days. The 2,760-mile route passed through Fort Smith, Arkansas; El Paso, Texas; and Tucson and Jaeger’s Ferry in Arizona, with nearly 2,000 miles traversing hostile Indian territory.
Completing the journey in 25 days required a swift pace for both horses and the lumbering Concord coaches, necessitating frequent relays and strategically placed stations. While road crews removed obstacles in mountain passes, other teams erected adobe houses to serve as stations. These structures were designed as small forts, capable of withstanding Indian attacks, with walled corrals reminiscent of ancient castle yards.
William Buckley of Watertown, New York, led the station-building effort. His crew faced constant threats from Comanche raiders on the Staked Plains of West Texas and Apache ambushes in the mountains of southwestern New Mexico. Despite the constant danger, they continued their work, driving Mexican laborers to complete the adobe stations that would link the country.
Mexican outlaws, drifting into Arizona and New Mexico from Chihuahua and Sonora, posed another serious threat. These ruthless individuals, for whom murder was a way of life, proved as dangerous as the Indians. Three of them infiltrated the station building crew, awaiting an opportunity to profit from their violent tendencies. They found their opportunity at Dragoon Springs, Arizona.
At Dragoon Springs, where the Dragoon Mountains rise from the plain, the construction crew had finished the walls of a stone corral, inside which a storehouse and stage station were partitioned off. The roofing of the two rooms and some ironwork on the gate remained to be completed. The main part of the construction party moved on to the San Pedro River, leaving Silas St. Johns in charge of six men to complete these tasks. The three Mexican bandits were members of this small group, along with three Americans.
The location was directly on the Apache’s route to Sonora, necessitating a guard from sunset to sunrise. St. Johns always awoke at midnight to change the sentries. One starlit night, after posting the night watch, St. Johns returned to his bed in the un-roofed station. He fell asleep, only to be awakened by a commotion among the livestock in the corral, followed by the sounds of blows and groans.
St. Johns leaped from his blankets as the three Mexicans burst into the room. Two were armed with axes, and the third carried a sledgehammer. The ensuing struggle lasted less than a minute.
St. Johns kicked the first attacker, who stumbled. St. Johns then lunged for a rifle he kept nearby. The other two attacked him with their axes. He dodged one blow aimed at his head, the blade embedding itself in his hip. While the attacker struggled to free the axe, St. Johns struck him down with a blow to the jaw. The third Mexican struck downward, severing St. John’s left arm near the shoulder.
St. Johns managed to get his right hand on his rifle, and the three attackers fled. They had killed one of the Americans sleeping in the enclosure, mortally wounded another nearby, and fatally wounded the third outside the gate.
St. Johns managed to stop the bleeding and crawled to the top of a pile of grain sacks, where he could see over the unroofed wall. He remained there for three days and three nights. During the day, magpies and buzzards perched on the wall after feeding on the corpses in the corral, watching him. At night, wolves crept down from the mountains, fighting over the body outside the gate. Day and night, the thirst-crazed mules made a constant commotion.
A road-grading party finally arrived on Sunday morning. They provided St. Johns with first aid and sent a rider to Fort Buchanan for a surgeon. The doctor amputated his arm nine days after the attack. Three weeks later, St. Johns was able to ride a horse to Tucson.
Silas St. Johns embodies the spirit of the men who built and operated the Overland Mail. Many like him served as drivers, stock-tenders, and messengers. They were resilient, unyielding men who fought to the last breath.
John Butterfield and his associates shared the same tenacious spirit.
These investors poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into the Overland Mail line before a single stagecoach wheel turned. This was a staggering sum, especially in an era when such fortunes were rare and the success of the venture remained uncertain.
They established over 100 stage stations along a vast arc through the Southwest. They purchased approximately 1,500 horses and mules and distributed them along the route. Hay and grain were transported hundreds of miles to feed these animals, with the cost of the cargo nearly equaling its weight in silver. At one station in West Texas, water had to be hauled 22 miles for nine months of the year. Each of these isolated outposts required an agent and a stock-tender, and some necessitated small garrisons for defense. Arms and ammunition were stockpiled for protection against Indians and outlaws, and provisions were stored to last for weeks. One hundred Concord coaches were purchased from the Abbot Downing Company, renowned for their sturdy construction, and 750 men, including 150 drivers, were hired and transported to their respective stations.
This massive investment occurred before the first journey. It was the largest expenditure on a single transportation project of its kind in America, fraught with countless wilderness hazards and natural obstacles.
The men of money had done their part, and the Overland Mail line was ready. On September 16, 1858, mailbags departed from St. Louis and San Francisco, and it was up to the men of action to ensure they arrived on schedule.
The allotted time for the 2,760-mile journey was 25 days. The westbound coach reached San Francisco approximately 24 hours ahead of schedule. That October evening, crowds thronged Montgomery Street, as cannons boomed, anvils exploded with black powder, brass bands blared, and orators proclaimed the significance of the occasion.
In St. Louis, the eastbound mail arrived an hour early. John Butterfield carried the mailbags from the Missouri Pacific train, and a grand procession escorted him to the post office. Bands, carriages, and a patriotic display enlivened the city, and President Buchanan sent a congratulatory telegram.
Despite the initial success, the real challenge lay in maintaining regular service. Storms, floods, Indian attacks, and robberies were common, but the Overland Mail line persevered. The horses, often unbroken, bolted into a gallop at nearly every change. Drivers counted themselves lucky when a vast plain allowed them to push the horses through the mesquite or greasewood while the stagecoach followed, sometimes careening on two wheels. The route was often treacherous, traversing steep hillsides, crossing washes, and skirting rocky precipices, and overturned coaches were a common occurrence.
The "Bronco" stock proved challenging, but the green mules were the worst. It was often necessary to lash the stagecoach to a tree or the corral fence while the mules were being hitched. Once the traces were secured, the hostlers cautiously freed the vehicle and scrambled for safety.
The term "road" was a generous description. In some places, approaches had been dug into stream beds, and obstacles had been removed from mountain passes. However, with the long climbs and the challenges of loose sand and mud, drivers had to maintain a swinging trot on level ground or downhill stretches. Often, they had to whip the horses into a dead run, where most would hesitate to walk a buckboard.
During the rainy seasons, the rivers of the Southwest lived up to their name, overflowing their banks. Thick layers of quicksand lay beneath these muddy floods, occasionally swallowing a coach and claiming a few mules in the process.
Comanche war parties roamed western Texas, ambushing stages and forcing drivers and passengers to fight for their lives. The Indians attacked stations, sometimes in groups of 200-300. The vigilant agents and stock tenders usually retreated to the thick adobe walls of the stations, from which they could often defend themselves. However, they were sometimes forced to watch the enemy drive off the livestock, and massacres occasionally occurred.
Under the leadership of Mangas Coloradas, the Apache terrorized New Mexico and Arizona. They were more methodical than their Texan counterparts, and a particular gorge along the route became known as Doubtful Canyon, where drivers could almost certainly expect a fight.
Native Americans were not the only threat in the wilderness. Arizona became a haven for fugitives from California Vigilante Committees and renegade Mexicans. Road agents established a thriving business near Tucson.
Despite these challenges, the Butterfield Overland Mail was only late three times.
Despite bad roads, floods, sandstorms, battles, and hold-ups, the east and westbound stages usually made the distance in 21 days. And, there was a long period during 1859 when the two mails- which had started on the same day from the east and west terminals met each other precisely at the halfway point. The Wells-Butterfield interests had won the struggle. Service was increased to a daily basis, and the compensation was doubled. The additional load was handled with the same efficiency shown in the beginning.
The resilience and courage of the individuals involved explain these achievements. The story of the Free Thompson party at Stein’s Pass exemplifies this quality.
Stein’s Pass, located west of Lordsburg, New Mexico, was a treacherous location where Apache chiefs Mangas Coloradas and Cochise, with 600 warriors, planned to ambush an approaching stagecoach.
The six passengers in the coach, seasoned veterans of the West, were well-armed and prepared to defend themselves.
Realizing the danger, the driver steered the coach to a hilltop, where the passengers made their stand.
For three days and three nights, these seven men fought off the overwhelming Apache force. They were remarkably brave, calmly reloading their rifles and estimating the distance to their attackers.
Despite being outnumbered, the Free Thompson party inflicted heavy casualties, killing an estimated 135-150 Indians before the last of them fell.
Cochise later recounted the battle, calling the men "the bravest men I ever saw."
The story of Stein’s Pass illustrates the character of the men who kept the Butterfield Stage line operational. In 1860, Russell, Majors & Waddell launched the Pony Express, bringing the overland mail to the northern route.
This daring venture, featuring such figures as Wild Bill Hickok, Pony Bob Haslam, Buffalo Bill Cody, and Colonel Alexander Majors, involved riders on horseback carrying mail at top speed across the wilderness, with fresh relays every 10-12 miles.
On April 3, 1860, riders set off from Sacramento and St. Joseph, Missouri, racing towards each other on a 2,000-mile trail.
The riders, lightly armed, relied on speed and endurance to deliver the mail. The first trip took ten days for both eastbound and westbound pouches.
Jim Moore’s ride, a 280-mile round trip across the Great Plains of western Nebraska, became legendary. Pony Bob Haslam completed a 380-mile ride across the scorching deserts of western Nevada, racing through Indian war parties to deliver the mail.
In 1860, the Butterfield line was notified to transfer its rolling stock to the west end of the northern route, and Russell, Majors & Waddell secured the mail contract for the eastern portion.
The Wells-Butterfield interests faced increasing challenges, and eventually sold the line to Ben Holladay.
Holladay improved the stage line’s operations, sometimes employing ruthless methods, as exemplified by the story of Jack Slade’s tenure in Julesburg.
Holladay carried the Overland Mail throughout the early 1860s. However, in 1864, a coalition of Plains Indians destroyed stations and murdered employees, causing significant financial losses.
Holladay sold the property to Wells Fargo, marking a return to the original victors.