When Harry Roff dashed out from Sacramento, he made one change and covered the first twenty miles in fifty-nine minutes. He changed again at Folsom and headed for Placerville, at the foot of the Sierra Nevada range, fifty-five miles away. At that point, he found a rider awaiting him, who, quickly shifting the two packed mail pouches, was off with the speed of the wind. Thus from point to point and relieving one another at comparatively regular distances, the entire run of 185 miles was made in a little more than fifteen hours. Be it remembered that in crossing the western summit of the mountains the horse had to wallow through thirty feet of snow. Not only that, but most of the distance was through a hostile Indian country, where a slight mistake on the part of the horseman was likely to prove fatal to him. There was no saying what boulder or rock sheltered a crouching redskin waiting exultingly with bow and arrow or rifle for the horseman to come within range. A white man was legitimate game for the warrior, as much as was the deer or bear, and the sentiments of the rider were the same regarding the warrior. One rider covered the last 130 miles of the western division, from old Camp Floyd to Salt Lake City, where his partner from the east met and exchanged mails with the comrade going toward the Missouri.