In 1867 I lived in my home on San Antonio street, two blocks west of
where the Court House now stands. There were two rooms opening on the
street, one of which had a spare bed in it for guests and was never used
by me. Back of this room, with a partition door between and with a door
and window giving into the back yard, was my own private room—the room
in which I habitually slept. My brother slept in another part of the
house. Of course it was my habit to lock the door opening into the back
yard, around which yard there was an adobe wall about six feet high.
I had some bitter enemies among the Americans at that time, some avowed
and others secret, as I afterward learned.
On the night in question I retired as usual in my own room, and,
strangely enough, on _this_ night of all nights, must have neglected to
lock the door. I awoke during the night and for some reason which I have
never been able to explain to myself, a fancy seized me to sleep in the
guest’s room. I went there, taking my pistol and candle, leaving my
watch on the table and all my other belongings handy for any one who
might come to take them, provided _theft_ were the object. I supposed
the back door to be locked, and closed the partition door between the
guest’s room and the bedroom I had left. I awoke again with a
consciousness that some one was in the room. I had not heard any sound.
I could not possibly see anything, yet I was _sure_ that I was not
alone. I was wide awake, was not alarmed; my feeling was rather one of
wonder.
I said aloud: “Wait a moment; I will strike a light.” I did so, and saw
a man, in his shirt sleeves, going through the partition door into the
bedroom, and closing it after him. I did not see his face. I seized my
pistol and followed through my bedroom and heard some one scramble over
the wall and into the street. Rain had fallen that night, and any man,
in climbing into the back yard, must have soiled his hands with mud and
dirt from the wall.
I called my brother and we found that no article of my belongings had
been disturbed, but my pillow and bed clothes were smeared and
blackened, and we distinctly saw the prints of a man’s fingers! The
object was clearly not theft. It is not usual to awaken a man to steal
his property. _That man’s hand surely held a knife and he was feeling
for my heart!_ I have always felt sure that the man who entered my room
was not an enemy, but a hireling. But who was the instigator, and what
the motive? That remains a mystery to this day. But to me a greater
mystery still is _why_ did I change my room that night? _How_ did I know
that there was some one in the room where I was sleeping, when I could
neither see him nor hear him? “Quien sabe”!
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