In February, 1872, we went in the stage coach from El Paso to Austin.
The party consisted of Mrs. Mills, myself, Charles H. Howard and a young
St. Louis lawyer named Bowman, who was taking his first lessons in
frontier life and customs.
If I desired to learn any man’s true character I would want to take a
long day and night journey with him in a stage coach. Want of sleep and
other annoyances, vexations and privations bring out at times all the
ill-nature and selfishness one may possess; and, again, when everything
goes smoothly and all are moving leisurely and silently over some long
stretch of prairie or plain and the weather is pleasant, men appear to
cast all cares and reserve to the wind and converse with each other more
frankly and confidentially than elsewhere. At least, that has been my
experience and observation.
Here and during other like experiences Mrs. Mills made the acquaintance
of the stage driver, a character difficult to describe and now almost
extinct.
He possessed the courage of the soldier and something more. The private
soldier goes where he is told to march, and fights when he is ordered,
but he has little anxiety or responsibility; but the stage driver in
those times had to be as alert and thoughtful as a General. There was
not only his duty to his employers but his responsibility for the mails
(he was a sworn officer of the Government), but the lives of the
passengers often depended upon his knowledge of the country and of the
Indian character, and his quick and correct judgment as to what to do in
emergencies. Like the sailor, he was something of a fatalist, but he
believed in using all possible means to protect himself and those under
his charge.
Your stage driver was usually of a serious, almost sad disposition;
inclined to be reticent, particularly about himself and his former life,
and his surname was seldom mentioned by himself or his associates. He
was known as “Bill” or “Dave” or “Bobo” or “Buckskin,” or some such
sobriquet. When, however, he could be induced to talk about himself as a
stage driver his stories were always interesting and sometimes
thrilling. There was occasionally a liar among them, but most of them
had really experienced such serious adventures and “hair-breadth scapes”
that it was not necessary for them to draw upon their imaginations.
Rough, profane and unclean of speech among their own sex, they were
remarkably courteous to lady passengers and ever thoughtful of their
comfort and feelings, and more than once, on arriving at a station where
the drivers were to be changed, I have heard one whisper to another:
“Remember, Sandy, there is a little lady in the coach.” This was
sufficient.
During the most interesting portion of this trip we had two drivers,
“Uncle Billy,” who was going to San Antonio on leave, and “Bobo,” the
regular driver. They vied with each other in trying to make everything
pleasant for Mrs. Mills. They would prepare the high driver’s seat with
cushions and blankets and assist her to mount it, and for hours would
call her attention to points of interest or entertain her with stories
of their experiences, humorous or tragic.
One morning just after daybreak Bobo halted the coach and said:
“Gentlemen, get your guns ready; the prints of moccasined feet here are
as thick as turkey tracks.”
And so it was, and the tracks were fresh. A large party of Indians had
very recently crossed the road, but we saw nor heard more about them.
At “Head of Concho” we came upon a herd of buffalo, and, of course, we
dismounted and wantonly fired into them, with what effect I do not know,
except that some one wounded an immense bull so seriously that he became
angry or sullen and refused to run away as the others did. We, with our
deadly Winchesters, ceased firing at him, as he was of no use to us, but
not so with the young St. Louis lawyer. He wanted to do something that
he could tell about at home, and so he advanced upon the irate animal
with his little thirty-two calibre pistol, firing as he went. He was
encouraged and animated by the shouts of Bobo and Uncle Billy: “Charge
him, mister,” “You’ve got him,” “The next shot will fetch him,” etc.
Mrs. Mills said: “Why, Uncle Billy, that animal will kill the man! Call
him back!” Uncle Billy said: “Why, _of course_, he’ll kill him. Now you
just watch, and you’ll see fine fun. He’ll toss that little lawyer
higher’n the top of this coach.” And yet Uncle Billy and Bobo were not
cruel men.
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