Chapter D: R. Diffendorffer, merchant in Juarez (1)

F. R. Diffendorffer, merchant in Juarez.

G. W. Gillock, justice of the peace and hotel-keeper; dead.

J. E. Terry, with the stage company; lives in El Paso.

Charles Music, merchant; lives in Mexico; and

Andrew Hornick, H. McWard, George Lyles, —— Tibbits, —— Milby, David Knox, Bill Conklin and Tom Miller.

There were usually about a dozen United States army officers at old Fort Bliss, now East El Paso.

The most prominent Mexican citizens in Paso del Norte (now Juarez) were:

Dr. Mariano Samaniego, Inocente Ochoa, José M. Flores, all still residing in Juarez; José M. Uranga, Jefe Politico, dead; Juan N. Zubiran, collector of customs, my partner and friend; and the venerable Ramon Ortiz, who ministered there as curate for fifty years, and died a few years since, beloved of the two races.

The Americans living at Ysleta and San Elizario before the war were: Price Cooper, Henry Corlow, Tom Collins, Henry Dexter, James McCarty, A. C. Hyde, William Claude Jones; and Fred Pierpoint, who died of hydrophobia at El Paso in 1869.

Of those named above as residing at El Paso in 1860, the following left with the retreating Texans in 1862: Crosby, Hart, the Gilletts, the Magoffins, Herbert, Merritt, O’Bannon, Morton, Cook, Skillman, Dowell, Richardson and Russ Howard. Some of the last named remained away for years and others never returned.

In their places there came soon (mostly discharged Union officers and soldiers): A. H. French, J. A. Zabriskie, G. J. Clarke, E. A. Mills, Nathan Webb, A. J. Fountain, William P. Bacon, Edmond Stein, S. C. Slade, John Evans, George Rand, Joe Shacker, Solomon Schutz, Louis Cardis, and Charles H. Howard.

Except those last named, there was but little increase in the American population of El Paso for about fifteen years.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

INCIDENTS BEFORE THE WAR AND EARLY IMPRESSIONS.

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.

The new El Paso got away from me. _Que sea por Dios._

Our merchandise and supplies were brought from St. Louis, a distance of sixteen hundred miles, or from Port Lavaca, Texas, a distance of nine hundred miles, by large trains of immense freight wagons, “Schooners of the Plains,” drawn by fourteen to eighteen mules, usually four abreast, at a cost of twelve and one-half to fifteen cents per pound for freight only. These trains were usually accompanied by twenty-five to forty men, including the drivers, all of whom were well armed, and stood guard like soldiers.

The “wagonmaster” was a character of importance and authority, and a hunter was usually employed to procure fresh meat and to look out for Indians and for Indian “sign.” These trains, like the stage coaches, were often attacked by Indians, but because of the greater number of men and better means of defense, they were not so frequently “taken in” as the latter.

I quote here the prices of a few of the articles purchased by me of El Paso merchants during the “sixties,” having preserved the original bills: One common No. 7 kitchen stove, $125; ham and bacon, 75 cents per pound; coffee, 75 cents per pound; sugar, 60 cents per pound; lard, 40 cents per pound; candles, 75 cents per pound; one-half ream letter paper, $4; nails, 50 cents per pound; matches, 12½ cents per box; tobacco, $2 per pound; calico (print), 50 cents per yard; bleached muslin, 75 cents per yard; unbleached muslin, 50 cents per yard; coal oil, $5 per gallon; alcohol, $8 per gallon; lumber, rough sawed, 12½ cents per foot; empty whiskey barrels, $5 each; starch, 50 cents per pound. But if we paid high prices, we also received high prices for what we had to sell. I will here state briefly a few of my own business experiences. I made large quantities of wine from the El Paso grape, and sold it readily at $5 per gallon, $200 per barrel of forty gallons. For two years I furnished the Government with all the vinegar and salt used in the Military Department of New Mexico, vinegar at $1.70 per gallon, and salt at 17 cents per pound, delivered at El Paso. Vinegar, four thousand gallons, and salt, one thousand bushels. The vinegar was manufactured from the El Paso grape, and the salt was brought from a natural salt lake, one hundred and twenty-five miles northeast of El Paso, and ground at Harts Mills, near El Paso, and sacked here.

The Government had previously been hauling these articles from St. Louis, a distance of sixteen hundred miles. My partner, Don Juan Zubiran, and myself one day delivered three hundred head of beef cattle to the Government at Las Cruces, New Mexico, at 18 cents per pound on the hoof—$90 per head. For a year I delivered beef on the block to the troops at Fort Bliss at 22 cents per pound.

I will now give some items from the other side of my ledger. Three hundred head of cattle belonging to my partner, Mr. Norboe, and myself were taken by Indians in Arizona in 1865, and half of our herders killed. These cattle were being driven to California, where there was then a good market. A white man, also a partner, got away with $11,000 worth of my cattle at Fort Sumner, New Mexico, by selling them and running away with the money.

Another partner, an honest man, died my debtor to the amount of $14,000. This would not have occurred had the gentleman not become insane and unable to settle his large and complicated business.

From the day of my first arrival at El Paso, I determined to make the place my permanent home, and I have never had any desire to change that choice. From the first I foresaw the prospective importance of the place, and many a still, lonesome night have I listened to the roaring of the waters over the dam at Harts Mill, a mile above the village, and tried to fancy it the rumbling of railroad trains, which were then fifteen hundred miles away. No, I do not claim to have foreseen that El Paso would be the center of so many railroads, but I felt sure that the first road to the Pacific Ocean would pass through El Paso, and _so it would_, had it not been for the Rebellion. I would not claim to have had this foresight, did not my letters to my friends during those early years (some of which are still extant) bear out the statement. I probably wrote more and spoke more about the certain future of El Paso than any one who ever lived here. I did more. I proved my faith by my acts. For ten years, amid all the folly and extravagance and vices of my bachelor youth, I kept one object constantly in view: to acquire and hold and pay taxes on a sufficient number of town lots to make me reasonably independent when the railroads should come, and for a time I owned more desirable property in El Paso than any other individual ever owned except the proprietors of the town tract.

Well, the greater portion of this valuable property was taken from me by corrupt courts and officials and by faithless lawyers and supposed friends, and by other means which I may or may not refer to in these writings. If any man says he would have defended himself and his rights better or more courageously than I did, I can only reply that I think I was fortunate to escape with my life! After all this, more than a hundred strangers (who never owned enough of mother earth to be buried in) have said to me: “You have been here a long time, Mr. Mills, and if you had only known what El Paso would be you could have bought town property very cheap and could have been wealthy,” etc., etc. Then, for a moment, homicidal thoughts come into my mind. But it would do no good to kill such a man. A fool or two more or less in the world, or even in a community, would make no perceptible difference. There are so many!

It has been said these men of the frontier in those early days led indolent, idle lives in a “Sleepy Hollow,” and that is true in a way.

The conditions were such that constant toil and endeavor were almost impossible. A train of wagons would arrive from Mexico with silver or other products and in a few days the El Paso merchant would sell or exchange thousands of dollars’ worth of goods, and then for weeks he might not have a customer worthy of his attention.

Another man would labor almost incessantly night and day for a time in filling some Government contract, and then for months, perhaps, no other opportunity would offer for the exercise of his energy. It was “enforced idleness.” But in the long run these men expended as much effort, physical and mental, in chasing the nimble dollar as the most plodding, methodical Chicago business man of today.

Profits were often great and risks were always great. I do not think the desire for money, for its own sake, was as strong as in older communities, and this led to what we called liberality and what the wise call extravagance. If any man had devoted all his energies to accumulating and hoarding money he would have been viewed with disfavor by his neighbors, and at that time men were in many ways dependent upon the good will of their fellows.

If any gentleman did not care to bet on the horse race or to “sit in” at the poker game, no one criticised his peculiarity, because each granted to the other the right he claimed for himself, to do as he pleased about such amusements. But if such a one gave out that he thus refrained because he feared to set a bad example to others or because he feared Divine wrath, his sincerity would have been doubted, and frankness and candor were rated among the essential virtues.

Within the memory of men still living there occurred an incident which illustrates men’s views of law and order in those days. A certain desperado had been getting drunk and riding into stores and saloons and firing his pistols at random in the streets and threatening people’s lives, till the “good citizens” became weary. Finally he took a snap shot at the popular member of the Legislature, Mr. Jeff Hall, on the main street. This was too much. In a few moments fifteen or twenty of the aforesaid “good citizens” were chasing him over town with shotguns, rifles and pistols. The desperado was brought to earth in the corral of the old Central Hotel—“Hell’s half acre”—pierced by many missiles. Then there was an animated dispute among the above mentioned good citizens as to who had fired the fatal shot. One claimed to have done the work with his shotgun. Another said that such small ammunition at long range could not kill such a man, but that it was his rifle shot in the neck that did it. A third said that he had dispatched the deceased with three body shots from his sixshooter, and so on.

At last “Uncle Ben” Dowell said: “Gentlemen, some day some judge or other may come along and be holding court, and some of us may have trouble about this business.” Thereupon they organized a coroner’s jury, composed of the identical men who did the shooting, and sat upon the corpse and agreed upon a verdict, to the effect that “Deceased came to his death by gunshot wounds _from the hands of parties unknown_.”

It was about this time that an El Paso merchant, still living in this valley, had a little experience with the rough Americans here, mostly gamblers. There were many of the latter class.

At this time the fraternity were broke, and some of them had pawned their pistols with this merchant for money. But finally one of them reported to the “boys” that Mr. —— had refused to make any more loans on pistols. “How did you approach him?” was asked.

“Why, I presented the handle of my pistol and asked him to loan me $25 on it.” “Idiot,” said “Snap” Mitchell, the leader, “you don’t know how to soak a pistol; watch me.” So “Snap” went to the store and presenting the _muzzle_ of his pistol asked for a loan. He got it, and went away with the pistol also.

I believe my friend remembers the transaction. Later this same merchant was called upon by a party of secessionists, who accused him of being a —— abolitionist, and talked to him seriously about the penalty, which was hanging. My friend was a foreigner and did not understand our language as well as he does now. I asked him what he said to them when they threatened to hang him, and he replied: “Well, I told them that I had no ‘scruples’.” Of course, he meant that he had no preference for either the Union or Confederate cause. It is certain that he did not mean that he had no scruples about being hanged!

An officer of volunteers bought goods of this same merchant, refused to pay him, swindled him, and because asked to pay called him a —— Jew and other pet names, and finally sent him a formal challenge to fight a duel. The merchant came to me greatly agitated, and declared that he would rather die than suffer such indignities, and asked my advice. I knew that he was in earnest, and the officer was notified to appear at sunrise at the graveyard on the hill, distance ten paces, double-barreled shotguns loaded with buckshot, to fire at the word. The officer declined, declaring the terms “barbarous,” and that ended his career as a valiant son of Mars.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MURDER AND ROBBERY OF GIDDINGS’ STORE (SHELDON BLOCK).

In 1859 the San Antonio Mail Company had its headquarters on the lot where the Sheldon building now stands. They had in the old adobe house as large a stock of general merchandise as any El Paso merchant now carries. The clerks who slept in the store were a Mr. Atkins, familiarly known as “Ole Dad,” and “Fred” ——, a young German. One night Atkins was absent and Fred was sleeping in the store alone.

The next morning a window in the south side of the building was found to have been dug out of the wall and poor Fred was lying dead in his bed with fourteen knife wounds in his body. A large amount of money had been taken from the store (there were no safes nor banks here then) and quantities of valuable goods had also been carried away. This was evidently the work of robbers from the Mexican side of the river. No trace of the robbers or money or goods was ever discovered.

After this murder Mr. Atkins declined to sleep in the store alone. The writer was at that time clerking for St. Vrain & Co., merchants, in the old Central Hotel building, which was burned down a few years ago. As we had plenty of people to protect the St. Vrains store it was agreed that I should go over each night and sleep in the store which had been robbed. But soon the scare was over and Atkins, saying that “lightning never struck twice in the same place,” left me alone for one night. I had a shotgun and pistol, and a good watchdog. The merchants of the village had employed a Mr. Cullimore (now of Austin, Tex.), familiarly called “Bones,” to patrol the town of nights.

That night about 2 o’clock I heard the report of both barrels of “Bones’” shotgun resounding in the little plaza, and his voice calling to me to “look out, Mills!” Robbers, probably the same party, had commenced to dig out the same window and had half finished the work when “Bones” fired on them without effect. They fled, of course, and left only a hat and handkerchief on the ground as remembrances. It was long before any one would sleep alone in that store.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE CANBY-SIBLEY CAMPAIGN IN 1861-2.

The following notes are published substantially as they were written soon after the close of the campaign.[1] The remoteness of New Mexico from the scenes of vastly more important conflicts prevented historians of the war from writing of that campaign, which, though insignificant by comparison, was one of the knightliest and most romantic in history. I have here aimed to do justice to the brave men, of both armies, who marched and countermarched, and fought and fled and fought again along the banks of the Rio Grande forty years ago.

In 1858, when still a youth, accident and adventure brought me to El Paso. * * * Determining to make my home in this valley, and being without money or friends or a profession, I commenced life as a merchant’s clerk. I had spent about three years in that capacity when the news of the firing on Fort Sumter and the inglorious surrender by General Twiggs, of all the United States troops in Texas, startled us as much, though ten days old, as though the lightning had brought it. We had heard a great deal of street corner talk about secession, and a packed convention had passed a resolution declaring Texas out of the Union, which resolution had been submitted to a vote of the people; my brother (now Col. Anson Mills), myself and only two or three others voting against it in El Paso County. The Mexican voters, of course, knew but little about the questions involved in secession and were influenced by the Americans, most of whom favored secession, those of Northern birth being loudest in their protestations of devotion to the South and loudest in denunciation of “abolitionists,” which meant all who did not favor rebellion.

There was at that time a garrison of United States troops at Fort Bliss, within a mile of El Paso; another at Fort Quitman, ninety miles below, on the river, and several other posts in striking distance, all of which were included in the surrender of General Twiggs to the “Texas commissioners” at San Antonio, 700 miles away! There was not a Confederate soldier within 500 miles of Fort Bliss, but such is the power of military discipline that the post commander, Colonel Reives, though urged by my brother and myself and others to disregard Twiggs’ order of surrender, turned over his arms and valuable stores to Commissioner McGoffin and marched with his command, as prisoners, to San Antonio.

Then we determined that my brother should go to Washington city and report the condition of affairs here, and try to get the Secretary of War to order these officers not to respect Twiggs’ surrender, but he arrived too late.

I and a younger brother, Emmet Mills, remained at El Paso. The feeling against Union men grew still more bitter. I could see no good in rebellion. I was willing to make some sacrifices and incur some dangers for my flag and country.

Colonel Loring at that time commanded the United States troops in the adjoining territory of New Mexico. There was a garrison at Fort Fillmore, fifty miles north of El Paso, but United States officers who had resigned (?) and passed through El Paso going south, gave out that Loring was “with the South.”

By this time a small force of Texas troops were en route to El Paso and New Mexico and it was claimed that Fort Fillmore would be surrendered without a fight.

I then went to Fort Fillmore and en route was given a letter, with the request that I was to hand it to Captain Lane, then commanding that post. Being introduced to Captain Lane, in conversation about secession he complained that we El Paso people had taken advantage of his position to treat him badly. He said we knew his feelings were with the South, and that we had presumed upon the fact in taking his horses and placing him in an embarrassing position. He said he could recapture the horses and destroy our town, but he would not. This satisfied me that nothing could be hoped for from him. Of course, Lane supposed that I was in sympathy with rebellion, and for good reasons I did not undeceive him. I told him in a jocular way that he might as well turn over his saddles as they were useless to him without horses, at which he became angry and I left him. I then proceeded to the town of La Messilla, five miles from the fort, and found a secession flag flying in the street and the secession leaders notifying Union men to leave. They had held a convention and organized a Confederate territorial government for what they called Arizona.

By this time Colonel Loring had passed south to join the Confederates. Gen. E. R. S. Canby was now in command of the Department of New Mexico, with headquarters at Santa Fe. From Messilla I wrote to Hon. John S. Watts at Santa Fe as follows:

“La Messilla, N. M., June 23, 1861.

“Hon. John S. Watts: Sir—I came up here from El Paso two days ago hoping to meet you. I assure you that I found matters here in a deplorable condition. A disunion flag is now flying from the house in which I write, and this country is now as much in the possession of the enemy as Charleston is. All the officers at Fort Fillmore except two, are devotedly with the South, and are only holding on to their commissions in order to embarrass our Government and at the proper time to turn over everything to the South, after the manner of General Twiggs. The Messilla Times is bitterly disunion and threatens with death any one who refuses to acknowledge this usurpation. There is, however, a latent Union sentiment, especially among the Mexicans, but they are effectually overawed. * * * The regular soldiers, in defiance of the teachings of their officers and the offer of gold from Hart, are yet faithful, and if a second lieutenant were to ask them to follow him they would tear down the secession flag and throw the Times office into the river in an hour. Fifty of them could go to Fort Bliss and capture all the Government stores at that place, but instead of this a few thieves came up from El Paso and stole forty of the horses belonging to a mounted company at Fort Fillmore. No effort was made to recapture these horses, although the soldiers plead with their officers to allow them to do so. * * * About 300 Texans are expected at Fort Bliss in about two weeks, and if something is not done before that time Fort Fillmore will be surrendered. Very respectfully,

W. W. Mills.”

(The above letter is copied from the Records of the Rebellion.)

In contrast with this letter, and to show the plots and counterplots of those days, I copy from the same page of the Rebellion Records the following:

“Hart’s Mills, Tex., June 12, 1861.

“Col. W. W. Loring: We are at last under the glorious banner of the Confederate States of America. * * * We shall have no trouble in reaching San Antonio. Four companies of Texas troops have been ordered to garrison this post (Fort Bliss). Meanwhile Colonel Magoffin, Judge Hart and Crosby are very much exercised and concerned on account of the public stores here in their present unguarded condition. Meanwhile, you may, by delaying your departure (from New Mexico) a week or two, add much to the security of this property.

“I regret now, more than ever, the sickly sentimentality by which I was overruled in my desire of bringing my whole command with me from New Mexico. I wish I had my part to play over again.[2]

“Should you be relieved of your command too soon to prevent an attempt on the part of your successor to recapture the property here send a notice by extraordinary express to Judge Hart. Your seat in the stage to San Antonio may be engaged. * * * Faithfully yours,

H. H. Sibley.”

(Note.—Sibley, who afterward commanded the Texas expedition, was a major of United States cavalry and Colonel Loring was then commanding, and betraying, the United States troops in New Mexico.)

Judge Watts indorsed my letter to General Canby, who sent a young officer, Lieutenant Hall, to Fort Fillmore with a copy of it, to investigate and report.

General Canby read Major Sibley’s letter of June 12th and mine of June 23d on June 29th, and Major Lynde having assumed command of Fort Fillmore he (Canby) wrote that officer as follows:

“Headquarters Department of New Mexico,

“Santa Fe, N. M., June 30, 1861.

“Maj. I. Lynde, Seventh Inf., Comdg. Fort Fillmore, N. M.: Sir—I had occasion on the 24th inst. to put you on your guard against the alleged complicity of Colonel Loring in the treasonable designs of the Texas authorities at Fort Bliss and El Paso. I now send a copy of one and extracts from another letter sent to me after the arrival of the mail yesterday, which fully confirm all the information I had previously received. Although Colonel Loring was still in the department, I have not hesitated, since this information was communicated to me, to exercise the command and to give any orders or to take any measures that I considered necessary to protect the honor or the interests of the Government.

“Sibley’s letter shows the Texas authorities at Fort Bliss and El Paso count upon Colonel Loring’s aid in furthering their plans and indicates the manner (by delaying his departure) in which this aid is to be rendered. Colonel Loring’s resignation was tendered on the 13th of last month, and has doubtless long since been accepted; but this is not material, for any failure to act at once, or any hesitancy in acting, may be in the highest degree disastrous. In this case, then, as in all similar cases which may occur, you will at once arrest the implicated parties and hold them securely until their guilt or innocence can be determined by the proper tribunals. No considerations of delicacy or of regard must be permitted to interfere when the honor of the country and the safety of your command are involved. I send these communications by Lieutenant Hall, Tenth Infantry. Very respectfully, sir, your obedient servant,

“Ed. R. S. Canby,
“Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel, U. S. Army, Comdg. Dept.”

I then returned to El Paso and settled my affairs preparatory to going to Santa Fe to take part with the Union people. There was then residing at El Paso a Col. Phil Herbert, who had been a member of Congress from California, but who, on account of bad conduct or misfortune, had left the State under a cloud. Having never seen anything in the conduct of this gentleman that was not honorable, generous and brave, it is not for me to speak of his supposed faults. He was an enthusiastic rebel, but my personal friend. When the stage coach was ready to start I took this man aside and confided to him where I was going, and why I was going. He approved of my determination and wished me personal success. I passed Fort Fillmore again en route to Santa Fe, July 1, 1861, and met Dr. Cooper McKee, the post surgeon, whom I knew well, and appealed to him to do something to prevent the surrender of the post. He appeared displeased at my remarks about his brother officers, and said that their sympathies or intentions were not his business, nor mine.

I met at the post another young army surgeon, Dr. Alden, who had lately arrived from Santa Fe. I found him as enthusiastic and as distrustful of the officers as myself. He told me he had thought of sending a private express to General Canby, advising him of the danger, but as I was going he would intrust it to me. He promised to meet me next day in Mesilla, and did so, but such was the feeling against Union men that this United States officer, almost under the guns of his post, did not dare to speak to me on the street, but beckoned me to an outhouse, where he privately handed me a letter to Lieutenant Anderson, Canby’s adjutant.

I then called upon Dr. M. Steck, a loyal man, who was Indian agent, and received from him some encouragement and a letter to some friends of the government at Santa Fe. We started the next morning to Santa Fe by stage coach. There were nine passengers, all Union men, I believe, and well armed. When about ten miles out we were overtaken by a Mexican courier with a note for Don Lorena Labide, a loyal Mexican passenger, informing him that a force of rebel horsemen had left Mesilla that morning, intending to capture the stage at the Point of Rocks that night. We held a consultation and determined to proceed and fight if attacked. When near the Point of Rocks eight of us got off the coach, with arms, and followed it at a distance, instructing the driver that if halted he should get them into a parley and give us the first fire. We, however, passed the point unmolested, probably because a company of United States troops camped near there. I went into this camp and found Lieutenant McNally, with his company, en route to Fort Fillmore, and informed him of the condition of affairs there. At my request he gave us an escort. I found him loyal and ready for any duty. Arriving at Santa Fe I was introduced to General Canby, and delivered Dr. Alden’s letter to his adjutant, Captain Anderson, who read it and handed it to Canby.

I made a verbal report of all I had seen and heard. General Canby informed me that he would order Captain Lane away from Fort Fillmore, and he did. The general also stated that he had ordered Maj. Isaac Lynde to leave his station in Arizona and take command of Fillmore. He had confidence in Lynde, and, telling me something of his plans, requested me to return to Fort Fillmore with dispatches for that officer.

I arrived at Las Cruces, six miles from Fillmore, with these dispatches at sunset about the 15th of July, and met Dr. Steck, who avoided recognizing me. I took a room in the hotel, locked the door and tried to sleep. About 10 o’clock Dr. Steck came by stealth to my room to advise me of danger. The contents of my letter to Canby had been unwisely made known, and even United States officers were threatening vengeance.

Before reaching the fort next morning I met two loyal friends, Dr. Knour, now of Las Vegas, and Mr. Brady, who also informed me that I had been threatened. I rode into the post and met Captain Lane, who angrily asked me if I had reported him to General Canby as a traitor. I replied that I had stated facts and left General Canby to draw his own conclusions. A strange officer then asked if I had said or written anything about him. He said whoever called him a traitor was a liar. That night he ran away from the post and joined the rebels at Bliss. This was one Captain Garland.

I called on Major Lynde and delivered my dispatches. He sent for his adjutant, Lieutenant Brooks, who opened and read them with some remarks, which satisfied me that he was not anxious to lose much blood in defense of his country. I believe, though I cannot know, that a message went that night to Colonel Baylor, who had arrived at Fort Bliss with his command, informing him of the contents of these dispatches. There was an order from Canby to Lynde to recapture Fort Bliss and the stores there, which he could easily have done.

After Brooks withdrew Lynde spoke to me of the feeling among his officers against me. He said he believed I had acted honestly, but unwisely. Many of his officers, he said, sympathized with the South, but they had pledged their honors that, as long as they remained in the service they would stand by him. I pleaded, entreated and tried to reason with him for half an hour. I told him treachery and ruin were all around him. “He had six hundred regular troops, well armed and eager for the fray.” I advised him to arrest a few officers and send them under guard to Canby! To march on Fort Bliss and capture the three hundred half-armed Texans and the military stores which had been surrendered there. Poor old man! It was useless. I have never seen Lynde since that day, but ten years later I received a letter, from which I extract the following:

“St. Paul, October 22, 1871.

“W. W. Mills: Dear Sir—Well do I remember the interview you refer to, but I did not believe then that my junior officers would act toward me as they did. Sincerely yours,

I. Lynde.”

Major Lynde, in answer to Canby’s letter indorsing me insisted that I should undertake to learn and report the exact strength of Colonel Baylor’s command, promising to fight him if it was not stronger than represented. I consented to undertake this dangerous service, but before starting I went to Dr. McKee’s quarters. Several officers were there. The doctor received me by saying that he had been my friend, but I had incurred the displeasure of his brother officers and he could be so no longer. Doctor Alden said I had misrepresented him, that he had never doubted the loyalty or good faith of any officer. I reminded him of his letter to Anderson. He replied that it was only a friendly letter, having no reference to military matters.

A year later, when in the field with Captain Anderson, he referred to his files and found Alden’s letter to be a warning of treachery and danger. The gallant Lieutenant McNally was present, but appeared to be in doubt. I have never seen him since, but subsequent events must have satisfied him of the truth of my representations to him that night on the Jornado del Muerto.

But I am running ahead of my story. I procured a horse from my friend, Dr. Knour, and rode to Paso del Norte (Jaurez, Mexico), fifty miles in six hours, to watch Colonel Baylor, keeping off the road. While en route, at Canntilla, I met a deserter from Baylor’s command, Sergeant Kemp, whom I knew to be a Union man who had been forced by circumstances to join the Texans. I gave him a letter of credence to Major Lynde, and he reported the exact strength of Baylor’s command, but Lynde moved not. Several efforts were made to decoy me off the streets of Juarez, so as to kidnap me, but I saw through the design and avoided them.

One morning I met three acquaintances near the bridge on the main street, and as I had a letter for one of them I saluted them with “Good morning, gentlemen.” One of them, Kelly, secession editor of the Mesilla newspaper, said: “So you are a spy.” I replied: “No, who says I am?” He said: “I do.” “Then you are a liar.” He struck at me, but I avoided the blow and placed a cocked pistol at his breast. He threw up his arms and said, “Don’t fire,” and I put up my pistol. Kelly was soon after killed by Colonel Baylor in a street fight at Mesilla. (Kelly was from Michigan.) There was at that time, at El Paso, a German named Kuhn, whom I knew, and who had the reputation of being a bad man. He professed to hate the Texans, and I did not suspect him of any connection with them.

I was ready to return to New Mexico when one day about noon, when walking on the sidewalk near the corner of the plaza in front of the store of Mr. Duchene, I saw that Dutchman Kuhn on horseback in front of me, apparently drunk. I wished to avoid him, but as I neared him he rode onto the sidewalk and seized me by the shoulder. Half a dozen other horsemen appeared, as though they had risen out of the ground. One seized my pistol and ordered me to mount his horse quickly. I did so, and he vaulted up behind me, and away we all went a clattering gallop toward the Texas side. When we had crossed the river I asked, “Where do you intend to take me?” One answered, “To Fort Bliss.” I requested that they would not take me through El Paso, but they decided to do so. Kuhn then said to me that it was all right, I would have a fair trial and so on. I said: “I want no talk with you, sir; you are a scoundrel and a murderer. These soldiers obey orders. You betray for money.” I said more, and offered to fight him if they would give me my pistol. As I expected, this piece of pluck won the chivalrous young Texans. I saw no possibility of escape, and knowing the bitter feeling against me it appeared to me the chances were in favor of being hung or shot. Not that I considered myself a spy, for I had not been in disguise nor in the enemy’s lines, but I did not suppose those gentlemen would hesitate much about technicalities.

To a soldier taken in battle imprisonment merely means exchange or parole, but this was a different matter. It was not probable that the soil of a neutral republic had been violated merely that the Texan officers might have the pleasure of my company about their quarters. At Fort Bliss I was taken before the then post commander, Major Waller, who said: “You are brought here a prisoner, sir.” I asked why they had taken me from neutral soil, and he said I would learn in time. He then sent for the officer of the day, Capt. Ike Stafford, who conducted me to the guardhouse; it was filled with vermin and bad men. (Captain Stafford still lives in Texas.)

The first night a blacksmith came and took the measure of my ankle, and presently returned with a ball and chain which he riveted on my leg. I soon found that by removing my boot I could slip the iron over my foot, but the chances for escape were very poor, and I often shuddered when awakened from troubled sleep by its clanking. The idea of kidnaping me did not originate with the Texan military, but was instigated by citizen non-combatants—my own neighbors.

The next day two of the young men who kidnaped me came to see me at the guard house. Their names were Craig and McGarvey—James McGarvey, now of Galveston. Before they left they promised to be my friends, and faithfully kept their words. They told me that Kuhn had offered to divide with them the reward paid him for my arrest, but they declined the blood-money.

Colonel Herbert also called to see me, and denounced my arrest and volunteered to act as my counsel.

The colonel applied for a writ of habeas corpus, but the district judge refused to grant it.

I asked to see Colonel Baylor, and asked to be tried and hung or shot or released. He said he had evidence enough to hang me, though he would dislike to do it. Still, if I insisted, he would give me a court martial. He recounted very correctly some of the incidents of my journey to Santa Fe.

The next day Baylor sent his adjutant to inform me that he could not grant a court martial.