Pony Express
Across prairie and fields of clover,
They rode through towns like Hanover.
Astride valiant and trusty steeds,
Long distances done at break neck speed.
With the wind at their tails,
Leather pouches filled with mail.
Dusty riders always alert
Ready to use the rawhide quirt.
In case of wild angry Indians,
Ready to change a white man's opinions.
Gopher holes that break a horse's stride,
Leaving him and his rider to die.
Rattlesnake and biting fly,
Enough to make a young rider cry.
Fifteen to nineteen were their age,
Most had not even learned to shave.
But old enough to give their life,
On a rakish ride and not think twice.
Although they rode for such a short time,
They didn’t even clear a dime.
Tired horses now at rest,
It really was no contest.
Replaced by a ribbon of rails
We salute the Pony Express trail.
Although I wrote this poem several years ago, last August I again visited the Pony Express Museum in St. Joesph. When taking the tour I noticed a large wooden sign with the rider's names listed, one of those last names was Martin and made me wonder if we were related. Although the Pony Express was only in opteration for a very short time---it was so important to getting the mail across country in the time period before the railroad connected east and west.