I do not know why it is that only in novels and posthumous writings do
men speak much of their wives, and even the novel usually _ends_ where I
think it should _begin_, with the marriage. The man who writes of his
own career usually treats the most important event of his life
incidentally or in a casual way, and if he praises any woman it is
usually his mother. I suppose there must be some good reason for this
general rule, and I deviate from it only to say that for a third of a
century my wife has been the best, the truest and the most constant
friend I have known, and if these writings shall have any interest for
even a few friendly readers, it will be largely due to the fact that she
is still by my side, aiding me with her intelligent criticism and her
finer fancy.
Well, on the 8th day of February, 1869, we were married, she, surrounded
by her family and the friends of her youth, and a few disappointed
beaux, and I, attended by Generals Canby and Carleton, with whom I had
served in the army, and the Hon. William P. Bacon, then Judge of the El
Paso District, who, though he encountered misfortune later on, was, I
believe, an honest man and a true friend. Camped in a grove near the
Hamilton residence was the “outfit” which had brought me from El Paso,
consisting of an ambulance made by Dougherty of St. Louis, especially
for such journeys over the plains, and much more comfortable and better
adapted for ladies and families than even the fine, large Concord stage
coaches. It would “make up” at night like a berth in a Pullman palace
car. My pair of fine, large Kentucky mules, “Seymour” and “Blair,” which
were mine for ten years, hauled us over this long route four different
times without fault or accident. “Johnnie,” my faithful, watchful driver
and companion, was on hand, and also a “Mozo” (Mexican servant) and a
saddle horse. My other team of four horses awaited us at Fort Stockton,
midway of the route, where the mules were to be left, to follow later to
El Paso. The ambulance was a little arsenal. I had a repeating rifle, a
shotgun and a pistol, and Johnnie a rifle and pistol.
The day after the wedding, I called on General Canby and asked for an
escort of ten infantrymen and a Government wagon and team. The soldiers
and our baggage and provisions were to ride in the wagon and the team
was to be changed at each military post. The General at first suggested
that I might take advantage of the escort of a certain army officer,
Captain ——, whom we had both known in New Mexico, and whom I had once
reported to the General as being unfaithful to his country. (I would not
have objected to an out and out Confederate.) When I declined to travel
with this gentleman, Canby replied: “Yes, I remember. You shall have an
escort of your own.”
And now we started westward over the long road of more than seven
hundred miles to our El Paso home, where my wife was to see no familiar
face except my own. But we had youth, and health, and hope, and
self-reliance, and a faith in human nature, which, I regret to say,
subsequent experience did not justify. But enough of that.
During the whole journey of twenty-three days we slept under a roof only
three nights, and usually made our camp away from the mail stations
(which could afford us no accommodations, anyhow), and in order to have
better pasture for the animals.
Here let me say a word in behalf of the much-abused mule. You have been
told that he will kick the hat off your head while you are on his back.
This is a slander. A horse will kick when he is violently and cruelly
treated, but a mule very seldom does, and ours were as gentle as pet
dogs. They roamed unfettered and untethered about the camp day and
night, but would come in at call.
On the Concho River we encountered herds of buffalo, now extinct in
Texas, not so many as I had often seen on the Northern plains, but
many—hundreds and thousands.
I never had the desire, as many had, to wantonly butcher these lubberly
animals, but almost every man has inherited the hunter’s instinct, and I
indulged it to some extent, making the excuse that we needed fresh meat,
as indeed we did.
Shooting antelope was far better sport, but these, like the buffalo and
the wild deer and the Indian, will soon be but traditions, and there
will be no frontier at all. Mrs. Mills had never seen an antelope, and
the first one I shot fell some distance from the ambulance, and I called
out, with some pride, “Send a couple of men to bring in this antelope.”
She repeated my command, mimicking my voice and manner, and then said,
“Why don’t you pick the thing up and bring it yourself?” She said she
supposed it was about the size of a jack-rabbit.
A few days later I alone killed three of these animals within three
hundred yards of our “train,” and _in less than half a minute_. There
were a hundred or more of them on the flat top of a little hill, and I
climbed to the top unseen, and with a repeating rifle fired into the
bunch at about thirty yards. They ran toward me, and I fired seven shots
in quick succession with the result given above. The frightened, crazy
herd of beautiful animals ran toward our little “train” and passed on
each side of it and the colored soldier fired about twenty shots at
them, but not one took effect. Although it was midwinter, the weather
was pleasant with the exception of two or three cold days. There was no
snow or rain on this whole trip.
At that time, thirty years ago, small bands of marauding Indians might
be expected almost anywhere, and particularly as we approached the Rio
Grande, and our chief care was to guard against surprise, which was
almost our only danger. We saw none on this journey, but we passed
several scenes of bloody tragedies, some of them quite recent. When we
descended into the valley of the Rio Grande I pointed to a Mexican
“jacál” and told Mrs. Mills that was the style of house we were to live
in. She was silent for a long time, but when we drove up to my
comfortable, well-furnished little home on San Antonio street, with the
shade trees in front, and she set her feet upon the first plank floor
ever laid down in El Paso, and saw the preparations which my good friend
and neighbor, Mrs. Zabriskie, had made for her reception and comfort,
she brightened up wonderfully.
Yes, other families also crossed these plains, but they were either army
people for whom the Government furnished teams and provisions and
attendants and protection, or others who traveled in the dusty rear of
some freight train at a speed of about ten miles a day. Our voyages were
mostly made independently, comfortably, and speedily, and without a
single accident. All depends upon thorough preparation, good judgment
and constant vigilance.
Mrs. Mills’ reception by the people of both races and on both sides of
the river was very flattering, and I am sure it was sincere, and we
spent nearly a year very happily at El Paso, but now (November, 1869) it
was thought best that I should return to Austin to assist General
Hamilton in his contest for the Governorship and control of the State.
We returned with the same outfit with which we had come, except that we
had no military escort, and Colonel Zabriskie went as our guest.
Soon after we left Fort Davis we saw far to our right a party of mounted
Indians, how many we could not tell, but certainly too many for our
small party. A company of infantry soldiers had left Fort Davis, going
eastward, an hour before we did, and we had passed them on the road, so
we knew they could not be far behind us, and we halted to await their
arrival. The Indians also halted and gave us a free exhibition of fancy
horsemanship and curious antics, until the gleaming rifles of the troops
appeared on the road, when they scurried away around the mountain. We
traveled in company with the soldiers until we reached Fort Stockton.
A year before I had sent five hundred gallons of wine of my own
manufacture to each of the military posts, Davis and Stockton, and on
arriving we found that it had all been sold at $5 per gallon, and Mrs.
Mills stuffed the greenbacks into her little handsatchel for future use.
The postmaster at Fort Concho, “Jim” Trainer, whom I had never seen, had
threatened to whip me on sight because he had been told that I had said
he gave false receipts to the Mail Company, as other postmasters had
done. After we got into camp near Concho I told my wife that I would go
up to the sutler’s store and see Mr. Trainer, and I remember her cheery
words to me as I walked away: “Look out for yourself!”
Arrived at the store I entered and asked for Mr. Trainer. A
good-looking, good-natured gentleman behind the counter replied that he
was the man, and when I told him who I was he hesitated awhile and then
invited me into the office, gave me a chair and a cigar, and after we
had chatted awhile he asked me if I knew he had intended to thrash me. I
told him yes, but that I had never spoken unkindly of him and did not
know anything about his acts as postmaster. He said he had been the
victim of liars, and presented me with a bottle of fine brandy and
wished me a pleasant journey. Trainer was not a coward but had been
played upon by my enemies.
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