17. Eastern Stations

I awoke to clear blue skies and calm and rode on, now following the Little Blue River to Rock Creek station.  This became famous because of the killings of three men in July 1861 by a then lowly stable hand named James Butler Hickok, later to be known as “Wild Bill”.  In one version of the story Wild Bill, outnumbered, fought the dastardly McCanles gang and single-handedly gave them their due.  In another, McCanles, two neighbors and his 12 year old son went to collect rent on the station which was in arrears.  An argument started and “Wild Bill” who already hated McCanles for calling him “Duck Bill”, a reference to his protruding lip, killed the men in cold blood.  The boy, who escaped, was too young to testify in court.  The truth is probably somewhere in between for Hickok was never noted for unnecessary killing.  He was acquitted of the charge of murder and went on to become one of the most famous gunfighters in the west.

 

This original pony station has survived. It was called Midway.

I crossed the border into Kansas and immediately came upon fresh cut golden wheat fields and bales of straw.  The sky was deep blue and John Denver was playing in my head.  I sped along highway 36 where signs exhorted voters to re-elect Albert (Butch) Clark for Sheriff.  I wondered if William (Killer) Smith or John (Shoot first and ask questions later) Jones might be standing against him.

I spead ahead to St.Jo. to visit the Patee House museum and its curator Gary Chilcott with whom I had been in touch from Australia. I wanted to find out the best spot to join up with the re-enactment riders. The  affable Mr. Chilcote showed me around the excellent displays and I learned of the history of the trail. (He himself had been on a crossing on which a four-wheel drive had suffered 3 simultaneous blow outs -how lucky was I!). He suggested the well preserved station of Hollenburg where the riders stopped for a meal. I went back down the highway and put up my tent on the free town camp site at Marysville  ,the location of another historic station. Unfortunately one border of the site was the Union Pacific railroad and a procession on wailing freights prevented much in the way of sleep.

At Hollenburg a group waited for the riders among them three Germans and a Czech in Pony Express gear of red double-breasted shirts and blue bandanas.  They were part of the Pony Express Club of Germany and the leader had come to the USA the last four years and followed the ride over it’s whole course doing a couple of legs himself. 

I was talking to a taciturn older cowboy, his chest hair so long, straight and white it looked like he was wearing a fluffy boa around his neck.

            “Why dja’ let’m tek yer guns off yer?”

Oh that question again.

Two more sets of ears pricked upon hearing this and the owners hustled over to hear the answer.  I explained that I didn’t really know the details, but as far as I knew, only assault rifles and semi-automatics were involved.  They seemed mollified by this explanation.

The local woman’s support group had prepared a meal for the riders but they didn’t stop long being a bit behind time due to the heat of the day.  A group of them took turns riding a mile or two with the mochila , then swapping to another horse and rider who were carried in light trucks and horse trailers in between.  I had planned to follow them into the night but ran short of gas and after refilling was unable to locate them on the myriad of dirt roads that crisscross the farms here.  I picked them up the next day and rode across the bridge in the procession behind the flag flying escorts and flashing police cars.

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