miles to the Sink of the Carson.  Reaching the place without mishap, he changed mounts and hurried on for thirty-seven miles over the alkali wastes and through the sand until he came to Cold Springs.  Here he again changed horses and once more dashed on, this time for thirty miles without stopping, till Smith’s Creek was reached where he was relieved by J. G. Kelley.  “Bob” had thus ridden one hundred and eighty-five miles without stopping except to change mounts.  At Smith’s Creek he slept nine hours and then started back with the return mail.  On reaching Cold Springs once more, he found himself in the midst of tragedy.  The Indians had been there.  The horses had been stolen.  All was in ruins.  Nearby lay the corpse of the faithful station-keeper.  Small cheer for a tired horse and rider!  Haslam watered his steed and pounded ahead without rest or refreshment.  Before he had covered half the distance to the next station, darkness was falling.  The journey was enshrouded with danger.  On every side were huge clumps of sage-bush which would offer excellent chances for savages to lie in ambush.  The howling of wolves added to the dolefulness of the trip.  And haunting him continuously was the thought of the ruined little station and the stiffened corpse behind him.  But pony riders were men of courage and nerve, and Bob was no exception.  He arrived at Sand Springs safely; but here there was to be no rest nor delay.  After reporting the outrage he had just seen, he advised the station man of his danger, and, after changing horses, induced the latter to accompany him on to the Sink of the Carson, which move doubtless saved the latter’s life.  Reaching the Carson, they found a badly frightened lot of men who had been attacked by the Indians only a few hours previously.  A party of fifteen with plenty of arms and ammunition had gathered in the adobe station, which was large enough also to accommodate as, many horses.  Nearby was a cool spring of water, and, thus fortified, they were to remain, in a state of siege, if necessary, until the marauders withdrew from that vicinity.  Of course they implored Haslam to remain with them and not risk his life venturing away with the mail.  But the mail must go; and the schedule, hard as it was, must be maintained.  “Bob” had no conception of fear, and so he galloped away, after an hour’s rest.  And back into Bucklands he came unharmed, after having suffered only three and a half hours of delay.  Superintendent Marley, who was still present when the daring rider returned, at once raised his bonus from fifty to one hundred dollars.

Nor was this all of Haslam’s great achievement.  The west-bound mail would soon arrive, and there was nobody to take his regular run.  So after resting an hour and a half, he resumed the saddle and hurried back along his old trail, over the Sierras to Friday’s Station.  Then “Bob” rested after having ridden three hundred and eighty miles with scarcely eleven hours of lay-off, and within a very few hours of regular schedule time all the way.  In speaking of this performance afterwards, Haslam[31] modestly admitted that he was “rather tired,” but that “the excitement of the trip had braced him up to stand the journey.”