On the second night after my arrival in El Paso I had my first
experience of the manner of settling difficulties there. Samuel Schutz,
still of El Paso, and one Tom Massie had had a misunderstanding about
the rent of a house. My brother and I went across the river that
afternoon, and on the way we met one Garver, a half-witted fellow,
called “Clown,” who said he had been “fixing a canoe” at the river, and
in a friendly way he advised us to return early because there would be
some fun that night. We asked him what fun, and he replied: “_Oh,
killin’ a Dutchman!_” That night, in front of the postoffice, I heard
Massie say to a friend: “I have taken half a dozen drinks of straight
brandy, but d—n me if I can get drunk.” I went into the postoffice and
found an unusual crowd of men talking in low tones, and Mr. Schutz, in
his shirt sleeves, was playing billiards with a friend. Presently Massie
entered, and saying, “Mr. Schutz, you told a d—d lie,” presented a
cocked pistol at that gentleman. There was no mistaking his intention.
Murder was in his voice and in his face. Then there came from Mr. Schutz
such a sound as I never heard before or since. It was not a shriek, or
an outcry, for he did not distinctly articulate a single word. It was
not exactly an expression of fear, but was more like a prolonged wail
over some tragedy which had already occurred. But Schutz did the right
thing, and quickly. He seized the barrel of Massie’s pistol and held it
upward. Then commenced a struggle for life. Both were powerful men, and
in their prime, one moved by hatred and revenge, and the other by the
instinct of self-preservation. It was some seconds after they grappled
before that strange sound ceased. Massie strove to bring his cocked
pistol to bear on Schutz, and Schutz to move it in any other direction.
Shocked and alarmed, and remembering my teaching about law and order, I
stepped forward and said, “Gentlemen, would you see the man murdered?”
_Not a man moved._ Massie finally let fall his pistol, drew a knife and
drove it into Schutz’s shoulder. Schutz fled, but Massie recovered his
pistol and fired two shots at him as he ran out through the front door.
It was dark outside. Immediately after the shots Schutz stumbled over a
water barrel and fell, and Massie, thinking him dead, crossed to Mexico
in that canoe which Clown had “fixed.” Schutz was untouched by the
bullets, and the knife wound was not serious.
The next day “Uncle Ben” Dowell gave me this advice: “My young friend,
when you see anything of that kind going on in El Paso, don’t interfere.
It is not considered good manners here.” The advice was well intended
and worthy of careful consideration. Tom Massie returned to El Paso, but
was not prosecuted.
Not long after the above occurrence, I saw a certain gambler shooting at
another member of the profession in this same postoffice. A stray bullet
killed an inoffensive by-stander. The coroner’s jury exonerated the
killer, as they said the killing was clearly “accidental.” There was, of
course, some sympathy for the innocent dead man, but most of it appeared
to go to the gambler who had been so “unfortunate” as to kill _the wrong
man_.
Of the Americans then at El Paso, some had left wives, or debts, or
crimes behind them in “the States,” and had not come to the frontier to
teach Sunday school. But there were good people here also, and for the
few who were capable of doing business and willing to work, the
opportunities were as good then and as profitable as they have ever been
since that time. The products of the mines, crudely worked, in northern
Mexico, were brought to El Paso and exchanged for merchandise or money.
The military posts (forts) in northwest Texas and southern New Mexico
were supplied with corn, flour, beef, hay, fuel, etc., by El Paso
merchants and contractors.
The Overland Mail Company then operated a weekly line of mail coaches,
drawn by six animals, between St. Louis and San Francisco. The time
between these two cities was usually twenty-six days, the distance being
2,600 miles. These splendid Concord coaches (now almost gone out of use)
carried the United States mail, for a Government subsidy, and usually
four to nine through passengers, besides the driver and “conductor.”
Changes of animals were made at “stations” built of rock or adobe, every
twenty-five to forty miles, or wherever the company could find a stream,
or spring, or water-hole. These coaches traveled day and night, in all
kinds of weather.
El Paso was at this time (1858) the terminus of two other important
stage routes—one from Santa Fe, New Mexico, and the other from San
Antonio, Texas. These were in every particular so similar to the greater
“Overland” route that a description is unnecessary. There was also a
stage line to Chihuahua.
These mail coaches were the forerunners of the “Limited Express” and the
Pullman sleeper of the present day; and the rough, brave men who drove
and managed them and protected the stations, fighting Indians the while,
were the pioneers, the Daniel Boones and Simon Kentons of this frontier!
They opened the way for the Southern Pacific, the Mexican Central, the
“Sunset” and the Santa Fe.
Does the tenderfoot who now rides over these routes, in luxury and
safety, appreciate the work of these men? I have heard more than one of
them intimate that he would have done things much better than we did, if
he had only arrived in time. I am very sure I have heard several of them
say that they would have made and saved plenty of money, if they had
only had our opportunities; and this appears to me the proper place for
a few remarks on success and failure in life; if, indeed, any place is
good for such a homily. By success I, of course mean what the majority
of men mean by the word success—the accumulation of wealth.
Well, during the ten years following my locating at El Paso, I was well
and familiarly acquainted with at least fifty active, intelligent,
educated young men, of whom it might have been predicted that they would
succeed in life. These, if now living, would all have more than
three-score years. Several of them died by the hands of the Indians, and
some of them by the hands of their own countrymen, a number went to the
bad or died early. Several of them lived beyond middle age and led
brave, honorable and useful lives, but I recall _only two_ who could be
classed as successful men, according to the above test. True, some of
them gained much money and spent it liberally and often charitably, or
lost it, but according to the popular idea, a man to be successful must
have plenty of money _when he dies_. And though he leaves no minor
children or dependents, his neighbors will whisper at his funeral, “He
died poor,” in much the same tone as one might say, “He was hanged.”
In order that the importance of these mail routes and other enterprises
on this frontier may be appreciated, I must here state a fact which may
seem strange to some of my readers. At that time this whole frontier was
in the actual possession of savage Indians. The Americans and Mexicans
were secure only near the military posts, or villages, or large
settlements, and when they traveled from place to place, they traveled
in companies strong enough for defense, or at night and by stealth,
trusting to Providence, or luck, each according to his faith.
The men who, for whatever reasons, had made their way to this distant
frontier, were nearly all men of character; not all of good character,
certainly, but of positive, assertive individual character, with strong
personality and self-reliance. (The weaklings remained at home.) Many of
them were well bred and of more than ordinary intelligence, and
maintaining the manners of gentlemen. Even the worst of these men are
not to be classed with the professional “toughs” and “thugs” who came
later with the railroads. They were neither assassins nor thieves nor
robbers. Vices? Plenty; but they were not of the concealed or most
degrading kinds. Violence? Yes, but such acts were usually the result of
sudden anger or of a feeling that under the conditions then existing
each man must right his own wrongs or they would never be righted. Their
ideas of right and wrong were peculiar, but they _had_ such ideas
nevertheless. I knew a young man who was well liked and had good
prospects, who violated confidence and attempted to betray his
benefactor. The facts became known. Now, if he had shot a man because he
did not like him much, anyhow, or if he had run away with his neighbor’s
wife, his conduct might have been overlooked. But treachery?
Ingratitude? Never! He became the most despised man in the community.
The merchants and business men were certainly an exceptional class.
Honorable, highly intelligent, charitable and gentlemanly. I could name
a dozen gentlemen who were here even as far back as the “sixties,” from
which list I believe any President might have selected an able cabinet.
Not all of these were of my own race; and yet, even these did not hold
themselves entirely aloof from the other classes. The times did not
favor or permit such exclusiveness.
Common trials and dangers united the two races as one family, and the
fact that one man was a Mexican and another an American was seldom
mentioned, and I believe as seldom thought about. Each man was esteemed
at his real worth, and I think our estimates of each other’s characters
were generally more correct than in more artificial societies.
Spanish was the language of the country, but many of our Mexican friends
spoke English well, and often conversations, and even sentences, were
amusingly and expressively made up of a blending of words or phrases of
both languages.
To the traveler, who had spent weeks crossing the dry and desert plains,
this valley, with the grateful humidity of the atmosphere, the
refreshing verdure, the perfume of the flowering shrubs, the rustling of
the leaves of the cottonwood trees, and their cool shade, and in the
spring or summer, the bloom of the many fruit trees, or the waving of
grain fields, were all like a sight or breath of the Promised Land!
The people, the peasantry, were content and happy. To them, with their
simple wants, it was a land of plenty. The failure of water in the Rio
Grande has sadly changed all this. It may be said that this valley and
the things here described were not in themselves beautiful, but only
appeared so by contrast with the barren country over which the wanderer
had traveled; and this may be true, but it is not wise to analyze too
severely the things that give us pleasure. They are few enough at best.
Our currency was the Mexican silver dollar, then at par, and the Mexican
ounce, a gold coin worth sixteen dollars.
There were no banks, and no drafts or checks except those given out by
the paymasters and quartermasters of the United States Army.
Everybody loaned money when he had it, but only for accommodation. I
knew of only one man in the whole valley who loaned money at interest or
required security.
It was no unusual thing for merchants to loan large quantities of their
goods, bales of prints and muslin and sacks of sugar and coffee to their
neighbor merchants, to be repaid in kind when their wagon train arrived.
Carriages and buggies were considered as almost community property, and
the man who refused to lend them was considered a bad neighbor.
Everybody had credit at “the store,” and everybody paid up—sooner or
later.
There were no hotels. Travelers stopped at each other’s houses and even
strangers were welcome there. Any one having any claim to gentility or
education was cheerfully received and entertained by the officers at the
army posts, and many, _very many_, by the collector of customs at El
Paso.
There was one peculiar fact about the El Paso of those early days, for
which I could never give any good reason.
Perhaps there were several reasons.
Our little village was better known, or, rather, it had greater
notoriety and elicited more interest and inquiry, than any other town in
the United States of twenty times its population. I know this from my
own experience during my visits to Eastern cities, and the same
statement was made by every El Paso wanderer on returning home. I mean
that a gentleman registering from El Paso in any of the great cities
received more attention and was more questioned about his town than one
from San Antonio or Denver.
It seemed impossible to go anywhere without meeting an army officer or
some one who had lived at El Paso, or some stranger who had heard of the
little hamlet and was eager to learn more.
In spite of privations, our little village seemed to have an
unaccountable fascination for every one who saw it, refined American
ladies as well as the less fastidious and sterner sex.
This was _my_ El Paso. To me it was like the Deserted Village to
Goldsmith.