Chapter D: R. Diffendorffer, merchant in Juarez (3)

This gentleman did not hesitate to confide to me that his mission was to purchase arms and ammunition for use against the invaders of his country. This was a delicate matter because, if United States officials favored his scheme, it might have involved our government in difficulty, or even war with France, with which country we were friendly, although all loyal Americans, from the President down, sympathized deeply with Mexico in her struggle for existence. I could not betray this gentleman’s secret, and he proceeded to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where Gen. James H. Carleton was in command of the United States troops, and thence to Washington City; and it was not long before several hundred stands of arms in New Mexico were condemned as being “unserviceable” and were moved down to Las Cruces, fifty miles north of El Paso, and advertised for sale at public auction. These rifles, with ammunition, were purchased by my friend, Don Juan Zubiran, and were to be delivered to the Governor of Sonora at Conalitos, in the State of Chihuahua, near the Sonora line, and were to be received and paid for there. _Somehow_ these arms found their way over the boundary line to Conalitos, and now comes the interesting part of their story—if it has any interest at all.

Mr. Zubiran was about to send an express to Hermisillo, the capital of Sonora, to notify Governor —— that the arms were ready for delivery, but it would have been a long and dangerous journey, and as I had a deputy collector of customs (one McWard) at Tucson, nearer Hermisillo, Mr. Zubiran requested me to forward his letter under cover to McWard, and ask him to send it by messenger to Governor —— and ask him to reply through the same channels. This was done, and in due time there came a reply to Mr. Zubiran, written on the printed letter-head paper of the “Executive of the State of Sonora,” signed by the Governor, and to every appearance genuine. But the contents of this letter were startling. It stated that the Governor regretted that he could not receive or pay for the arms; that the Mexican cause was hopeless, and it advised my friend Zubiran (than whom Mexico had no stancher patriot) to give in his allegiance to the Empire of Maximilian!

We were astounded; but there was the fact in plain black and white.

Some weeks later an express rider came in great haste from the Governor of Sonora, with a letter to Mr. Zubiran, asking why such delay about the rifles, and urging haste, and stating that the money to pay for them was already at Conalitos.

We finally got at the explanation of this chapter of misunderstandings. A former Governor of Sonora had espoused the cause of Maximilian, had fled from his country, and taken refuge at Tucson, carrying with him some of the stationery of the State, and had become intimate with Deputy McWard, who had betrayed to him the contents of Zubiran’s letter, thus enabling him to prepare and forward the bogus reply, with such appearance of genuineness.

The arms were delivered and paid for, and it is needless to state that the faithless Deputy McWard lost his official head.

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PRESIDENT JUAREZ’ GOVERNMENT AT CIUDAD JUAREZ, NEAR EL PASO—1865-66.

For more than a year, in 1865 and 1866, the village of Paso del Norte (now Ciudad Juarez), opposite El Paso, was the actual capital of the Mexican Republic. Benito Juarez, the patriot President, with his Cabinet and a little remnant of his army, had been driven from his capital by the French troops and the Mexican adherents of Maximilian, and were making a last stand on this frontier, the French troops having possession of the city of Chihuahua, only two hundred and twenty-five miles to the southward.

The writer happened at that time to occupy the most important United States office on the frontier. He spoke Juarez’s own language well, and Juarez knew that he sympathized as deeply with the republican cause in Mexico as the Mexican President sympathized with the cause of the Republic of the United States. Our Government had at that time no minister near the Juarez Government. I visited the President very often. Was it strange if we held many conversations, in which each confided to the other his hopes and fears, as to the success or failure of the two simultaneous efforts then being made to destroy the two greatest Republics in the world—our own countries? In January, 1866, I informed President Juarez that I contemplated a journey to Washington City, and before I started he confided to me a letter to the Mexican Minister, Señor Romero, and also one to his wife, who, with her two daughters, were then at Romero’s house in Washington, refugees from their own country.

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A VISIT TO WASHINGTON—POLITICAL CONTESTS.

This journey was made by stage coach via Santa Fe as far as Kansas City, thirteen hundred miles, in midwinter, and was not without interesting incidents, one of which I will relate. We left Santa Fe with six passengers, Judge S. Watts, two young ladies, two merchants and myself. There was also the stage driver and the driver of a wagon which carried our provisions and baggage. The weather, for the greater portion of the time, was intensely cold, the ground being covered with snow. We slept under a roof only twice during the journey of twelve days.

My brother, Anson Mills, was then a cavalry captain in the army, but I had not heard from him for many months, and had not the slightest idea in what part of the country he might be. One very cold day, about noon, when approaching the Arkansas River, we met a train of wagons bound for Santa Fe, and the wagonmaster informed us that he had the day before been attacked by a party of Indians at the crossing of the Arkansas, but had stood them off, and had moved on, uninjured. He advised us to return to Santa Fe, but, incredible as it may seem, we decided to proceed on our journey. I do not call this courage; to me, after so many years, it appears more like foolhardiness!

Nearing the river, but before we could see down into the valley, we saw, far to our right, and apparently flanking us, two men with rifles, whom we supposed might be Indians.

The coach was halted, we four male passengers, with our arms, moved toward the strangers and beckoned them to approach. They did so, and I soon recognized the familiar uniform of United States soldiers! I asked, “Where are you camped?” Reply: “Down yonder at the crossing.” “Who is in command?” “Captain Mills.” “What Mills?” “_Captain Anson Mills._”

The ladies slept that night in the captain’s tent and we brothers, by the camp fire, told each other our adventures since we had separated at El Paso, five years before, each to take his chances in the desperate game of war.

Captain Mills gave me his application for promotion to present at Washington, and after the stage had started he called to me: “Get me a leave of absence, and I will go to Washington and return your visit.”

Arrived in Washington, I presented the application for promotion to Gen. John B. Steedman, who indorsed it thus: “Captain Mills served on my staff for three years. He is the best officer of his rank I ever knew; intelligent, efficient and fearless. I recommend him for promotion.”

A few days later I went with some New Mexican friends to call on General Grant, who was then Secretary of war. I told the General about meeting my brother, and asked a leave of absence for him. The General replied that such applications must come through the regular channels. I showed the Secretary the application for promotion, with Steedman’s indorsement, and told him something of our troubles at El Paso at the outbreak of the Rebellion. He read the papers and seemed pleased, but continued talking with my friends and dispatching business. On rising to take our leave, I told General Grant that I was sorry not to meet my brother at Washington, but I could not complain, as I saw good reasons for the refusal. To which he replied: “The telegram has gone, sir; your brother will be here in a few days.”

He came, and got his promotion also.

Soon after this I was summoned to the State Department for an interview with the Secretary, William H. Seward. He asked many questions about President Juarez and his cause, and about the real sentiment of the Mexican people, and about their probable ability to drive Maximilian and the French out of Mexico “without assistance.”

Mr. Seward asked me about our consul at Juarez, Henry J. Cuniffe. I replied that he was an able and patriotic gentleman.

The Secretary then said that in the absence of the United States Minister, our consul ought to have an extra allowance of money for expenses during the Mexican President’s stay at Juarez, and asked me what amount I thought would be sufficient.

I replied $2,500 a quarter, and the Secretary said that would not be too much, and if the consul would make requisitions they would be honored.

I wrote my friend Cuniffe immediately.

This was before the days of “Retrenchment and Reform.”

Now came one of my hardest battles. My term of four years as collector of customs at El Paso, under Lincoln, was about to expire, and there was objection to my reappointment—_there always is_—but in this case there was a serious charge of misconduct in office to the effect that I had permitted the exportation of large quantities of arms and ammunition from my district into Mexico to be used against the French, in violation of the instructions from my own Government and the neutrality laws; and “on the face of the returns” the charge appeared to be true, and my enemies believed my defeat _certain_.

Andrew Johnson was President. When I called on him, with some friends, to make my formal application, we met, by an awkward accident, a delegation of my enemies, and we “had it out” then and there. I stated my own case, and though the President was noncommittal, I felt sure of reappointment, though my friends did not. A few days afterward, when Judge Watts was talking to the President on other subjects, the President said: “Judge, where is your young friend from Texas? Is this his appointment which I signed to-day?” When told that it was, he said: “I intended from the first to appoint him. I like that young man.”

In the Senate there was opposition to my confirmation. Senator Conness of California made a sensational speech against me in executive session, and presented what he called “proof.” I saw the Senator personally and made some explanations, which it is not necessary, or proper, to repeat here, and he withdrew his opposition and moved my confirmation, and I was unanimously confirmed.

In May, 1866, the President’s private secretary, Col. Henry Cooper, asked the Texas Republicans then in Washington to agree upon some Texan to be appointed “Visitor to West Point.”

These appointments are strictly Presidential, not requiring confirmation by the Senate, and are much desired and sought after, being considered a high honor and a special favor from the chief executive of the nation. We met and selected a very distinguished Texan, Judge George W. Paschal, and sent up his name.

A few days later Colonel Cooper said to one of our friends: “The President does not like the selection of Paschal. He says he is going to appoint Mills. Tell Mills to come and see him.” I called and thanked the President, and had some conversation with him, but later gave my brother, Capt. Anson Mills, a letter to the President, requesting him to substitute his name for mine, which was done.

I have known and conversed with four Presidents—Lincoln, Johnson, Grant and McKinley—and have held office under all of them; but I knew Andy Johnson best, and I liked the rugged, stubborn Southerner, who had stood firm as a rock against rebellion in his own section. If I had been older, or bolder, I am vain enough to believe I might possibly have been of service to him. He had inherited his Cabinet from Mr. Lincoln, and some of them were, from the start, not very devoted to him personally. He was being flattered and cajoled by his late enemies, and he had been fretted and angered by certain Republican leaders, “wise men of the East,” who believed that no good could come out of Nazareth, and he was about to make the mistake of his life—_the break with his party_. I was pleased when, years later, he came to the United States Senate, supported by the votes of his best and truest friends—the Union people of Tennessee.

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RECONSTRUCTION—CONSTITUTIONAL CONVENTION OF 1868-69.

In 1868 I was elected to represent El Paso county in the State Constitutional Convention, which was to meet at Austin in May of that year, to frame a constitution under which Texas might be readmitted into the Union. At the start I was opposed for that office by Major Joseph Smith, a popular Democrat, who had been honorably discharged from the United States military service at El Paso, but early in the contest I badgered him into saying that if he found a single “Nigger” in the convention, he would resign.

I then suggested to the Mexican audience that if he had that much race prejudice, he would not do to represent _them_. Major Smith soon saw certain defeat before him, and withdrew, and I was unanimously elected.

During April of that year, I went in a buggy, with a single companion, Hon. W. P. Bacon, Judge of our district, to San Antonio, en route to Austin, seven hundred and forty miles, in seventeen days, without change of animals (two horses). We “camped out” and did our own cooking, and traveled much at night, because marauding Indians were then abundant on that route. I arrived at Austin a total stranger to every soul in that capital. The convention had ninety delegates, only ten of whom were Democrats. There were nine colored delegates, a large contingent of carpetbaggers, and several new recruits to the Republican party, who claimed from the day of their conversion to be more “loyal” to that party than any of us. But about one-half of the body were able, representative, old-time Texans, who had taken the Union side of the secession question and had become Republicans. These were led by Gov. A. J. (“Jack”) Hamilton, a man of Southern birth, once a slave-owner, who had been from the start the most prominent, boldest and most eloquent of the Union men of Texas, if not of the whole South. He was a member of Congress in 1861, and denounced secession both there and at home, and later was appointed a brigadier general and Provisional Governor of Texas by President Lincoln, and had gained a national reputation as an orator. And now the usual thing happened. “He who surpasses or subdues mankind must look down on the hate of those below.” The small men in the convention combined to down the greatest one.

A resolution was passed the first day of the convention, without opposition, requiring all delegates to take what was then known as the “Ironclad Oath.” This would have excluded several delegates who had, in one way or another, given aid and comfort to the rebellion.

The next day, Mills of El Paso, a Republican, moved to reconsider that resolution and to admit all who had been elected by the people. He urged that we were not officers of the United States, but of Texas, and scarcely that, because we could do nothing which would bind any one. Our work would have to be approved by the people, and then by Congress, etc., etc.

Governor Hamilton came to the rescue and Mills’ motion was passed and all elected delegates were admitted. (The published records of the convention bear out the above statement.) And now the first charge was heard against Governor Hamilton, both in Texas and at Washington, that he had “sold out to the rebels.”

The opponents of Governor Hamilton had the tact to put forward, as their leader, Col. E. J. Davis, a Texas Union man, who had done good service during the war, and against whom nothing can be said except that he was inordinately ambitious, vain, vindictive, and that he was then, and for years after, surrounded and influenced by as lordly a set of unscrupulous adventurers as ever tyrannized over or wronged the people of any Southern State. He and Morgan Hamilton, a brother of Jack Hamilton, were almost the only leaders of respectability in the whole “Davis party.”

The three questions upon which the Davis Republicans and the Hamilton Republicans wrangled so long in that convention were these:

1st. Davis contended that all who had participated in the Rebellion should be disfranchised. Hamilton opposed.

2d. Davis contended that all laws passed by the Legislature during the Rebellion were null and void, _ab initio_.

Hamilton contended that only such laws as contravened the Constitution and laws of the United States were void.

3d. Davis contended for a division of Texas into three States, and Hamilton opposed.

(The proposition to divide Texas was finally killed on motion of the writer of these chapters, and if any Texan thinks that the State was not then in danger of being divided, let him remember old Virginia.)

Hamilton won on all three of these propositions, and a constitution was framed in accordance with his views, and submitted to the people. I quote below a report of the last day’s stormy session of this memorable convention, by Whilden, the brilliant correspondent of the Galveston News:

“TEXAS CONVENTION.

“Austin, Texas, February 8, 1869.

“Special to the Galveston News.

“Precisely at what point to begin I am in doubt. This convention, which we thought was to give civil government to Texas and to which we necessarily attached some dignity, has in the end proved itself to be a farce on the civilization of the nineteenth century. Jack Hamilton and a few others did all that genius could do to turn its purposes to legitimate ends. Partially they failed; but in that failure they left the impress of brains upon the wild waste of passion which this convention has given to the world. * * * All mortal things shall ever have an ending, and this convention is as all other mortal things.

“Strategic movements on the part of Davis and Hamilton have filled up the time. Between these two men there can be no comparison. * * *

“On last Friday night the cloud burst, and for a few moments the curse of heaven seemed to hang as a pillar of flame over the convention hall.

“Stern as Davis is, he quivered when Mills of El Paso tore from his bosom the thin gauze with which he hoped to hide the dark, selfish and damning purposes of his heart. Yes, he quivered, but it was for a while only. The devil never deserts his own for a long time at once. Davis rallied and poured the long pent-up passion of his heart upon Mills. Confusion ensued. The issue was now made. Davis was right and Mills very wrong, or Davis was wrong and Mills the Nemesis of the night. A majority of the convention agreed with Mills. But Davis has his tools. The convention had one more than a quorum. This quorum must be broken or Davis meets a Waterloo defeat. Two of Davis’ tools resigned their seats then and there. Thus was a quorum, under the standing rules, broken, and fortune for a while declared for Davis.

“But Hamilton was not thus to be defeated. He brought all his forces up against the political traitors, raised a point of order as to whether a quorum consisted of a majority of ninety members, which the convention ought to have had, had every delegate been in his seat, or of a majority of those who, at that time, were entitled to seats. Plausibility and common sense were on Hamilton’s side. Davis’ wrath was terrible. Mills must be punished. The convention could not see it through his spectacles, and he ordered the sergeant-at-arms to take Mills in custody. It was a wordy order. Davis, seeing his inevitable defeat, on his own motion, declared that the convention, as no quorum was present, stood adjourned till next day at 10 o’clock, and, with the mien of a lieutenant of his satanic majesty, left the rostrum.

“Before he had gotten half way down the aisle, Armstrong of Lamar had been elected president. Davis ordered the doorkeeper to open the doors so that members could go out. The doorkeeper refused.

“Then ensued a scene which cannot be described. Hamilton arose and spoke under all the excitement of the evening—spoke as only those can speak who are orators born—spoke until, if I had been in Davis’ place, I would have prayed that the capitol might crush upon me and hide my awful shame.”

The constitution was then adopted as a whole and this revolutionary attempt to break up the convention and prevent the reconstruction of the State and her readmission into the Union met a humiliating defeat.

The good General Canby, being then in command of the Department, approved of our course of action and submitted the constitution to the people.

Three days later, February 8, 1869, at Austin, Texas, the writer married Mary, eldest daughter of Governor A. J. Hamilton, who in this year of Grace 1900, still abides with him; but that is “another story,” which he reserves for a later chapter.

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HAMILTON-DAVIS CONTEST OF 1869—ADOPTION OF CONSTITUTION.

The reader may think it strange that I give so much space to so common an occurrence as a State election, but the explanation is simple. It was the first reasonable attempt to carry our State back into the Union. The Democrats had made one effort and had failed, because they had offended the dominant sentiment of the country by “Apprentice Laws,” and other measures which virtually reduced the freedman to a state of slavery, and by electing to the United States Senate a man who had presided over the convention which carried Texas out of the Union. Because of this failure, the Democrats, as a party, took no part in the second effort to reconstruct the State, but divided, those of them who voted at all, between the two Republican candidates.

Thousands of them sullenly refused to vote at all. It was therefore a contest between _men and ideas_. _The questions were all new._ True, there have been many State elections since then, but the results have all been foregone conclusions, so that the younger generation of Texans know nothing of the excitement, the strenuousness, the manliness, of a real contest for the political control of a great State.

Davis and his party publicly denounced this constitution as being “framed in the interest of rebels,” and swore to defeat it either before the people or at Washington. Will the reader believe that a month later these same men publicly declared _in favor_ of this same constitution, and for E. J. Davis as their candidate for Governor under it? But that is history.

Hamilton also became a candidate for Governor. Gen. J. J. Reynolds was in command of the Department of Texas, and the elections were held under military supervision. Although both candidates were Republicans, General Reynolds and others secured the support of the national administration and the Republican National Committee for the Davis faction.

This Reynolds, a stranger to the people of Texas, desired to make himself United States Senator from the State, and with that purpose in view, permitted the frauds which defeated Hamilton, and he (Reynolds) declared Davis elected by a majority of only seven hundred votes, several whole counties being denied by Reynolds the right to vote at all. The Davis Legislature _did_, later on, elect this same J. J. Reynolds to be Senator, but the Senate of the United States refused to admit him, and he was subsequently suspended from the army by sentence of a court-martial!

The State was admitted to the Union, Davis was inaugurated, and the notorious Twelfth Legislature convened. I had the honor to be elected a member of that memorable body, and also had the honor to be counted out by Reynolds.

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MARRIAGE AND JOURNEY TO MY EL PASO HOME.

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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ASSAULT BY KUHN AT FREDRICKSBURG.

When we arrived at Fredricksburg, sixty-five miles west of Austin, where Mr. Zabriskie left us for San Antonio, we stopped at Nimmit’s Hotel for a day’s rest, and Mrs. Mills and I were given a room upstairs. During the day I met in the hall of the hotel Albert Kuhn, who has been mentioned in my war story as the man who piloted the party of Texas soldiers who kidnapped me in Juarez in 1861, and who had received the reward for my capture. Kuhn had left El Paso with the Confederates in 1862, and I had not seen or heard of him for eight years. Kuhn was a very large man of rough and almost frightful appearance, and prided himself on being considered _bad_. He was a prototype of Mark Twain’s “Mr. Arkansas.” We passed each other without speaking, but when we met a second time in the back yard Kuhn said: “Mills, don’t you know me?” I replied: “Yes.” “Then why didn’t you speak to me?” “Because I did not wish to do so.” Kuhn then went to the bar and proceeded to get himself drunk. I told “Johnnie” what had occurred and instructed him to harness the team and be ready to proceed on our journey. I told my wife that Kuhn was at the hotel and that there might be trouble. I went down stairs again, armed, of course, and met Kuhn, but he made no demonstration. Mrs. Mills and I then went to the ambulance, Johnnie being already on the box, and Mrs. Mills got inside, but before I could take my seat Kuhn appeared with a cocked pistol in his hand and swore great oaths that if I did not get out he would kill me where I was.

What could I do? My wife was in as much danger as myself, so I attempted to descend from the carriage and make the best fight possible, but Mrs. Mills had more presence of mind than I, and catching hold of me she said to Kuhn: “You cowardly murderer, would you kill a man in the presence of his wife? Get away from here.” Kuhn said he had great respect for ladies, but swore that he would kill me the first time we met. But we never met. If we had my opinion is that the chances would have been against him.

We drove only a few miles that evening and camped for the night about a quarter of a mile from the road and thinking that Kuhn might follow, I took position with my shotgun at a tree _near_ the road and waited to give him both barrels of buckshot as soon as he should turn the corner of the fence. My old friend, Judge Cooley of Fredricksburg, says that Kuhn _did_ saddle his horse that night and swore he would follow and kill me, but was restrained by others.

Now, what did this man want to quarrel with _me_ about? I was the one who had been wronged. I give it up.

We arrived at Austin safe and well. The election resulted in the defeat of the Hamilton party as related elsewhere, and I made a campaign of several months in Washington City, where, though the wrong could not be fully righted, I was of some service to some of our defeated friends, and was somewhat successful in a business matter.

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THIRD VOYAGE OVER THE PLAINS—ENEMIES AND PLOTS.

And now, April, 1871, we again turned our faces toward our El Paso home, in the hope of recuperating in other business what we had lost in politics, for my expenses had been very heavy.

I still held my town lots, and having faith in the future of El Paso I took out a license as a real estate agent ten years before any one else. “Seymour” and “Blair” and the ambulance were still on hand, and I purchased another pair of very large mules (which we named “Insect” and “Fairy”) and a wagon for our baggage, provision, etc., and employed two Mexican drivers. “Johnnie” was absent this time, but the _Mozo_, Lorenzo was still with us. The most important and interesting personage in our party was Hamilton Mills, aged twelve months, who had joined our family at Austin.

Governor Davis had given El Paso a new District Judge, S. B. Newcomb, and a new District Attorney, J. P. Hague, neither of whom had ever been heard of on the frontier. These and two adventurers asked permission to join our party, which was granted, and these four “tenderfeet” made the journey with us in a wagon drawn by two little mules. Our ideas as to traveling over the plains were so different that we sometimes separated for a day or night. They fondly believed that a “station” was a place where warm meals and clean beds and forage for animals were to be had, and their greatest anxiety was to “get in.” We depended upon our mess chest for ourselves, and grassy camps for our animals, and fared much better.

Much depends upon selecting a good camp, and some of ours were very pleasant, and even beautiful, so that we had the appearance of a picnic party. I remember that sometimes we have made a long drive in order to reach some remembered nook where we had spent a night on former journeys, and we would drive into it with a feeling akin to coming home.

We reached the Pecos river at Horsehead crossing (where I had camped twelve years earlier with the Boundary Commission) at daybreak one morning. The river was swollen and the crossing dangerous. I first sent a man across on horseback, and then placing my wife and child in the ambulance I mounted the box and drove through the torrent, _leading the way for the four adult male tenderfeet_. Their cries to us when we had reached the western bank, “We can make it,” “We can make it,” were intended to cheer us, but really it was not a matter of the greatest importance to us whether they “made it” or not; and, could we have foreseen the future we might have felt still more indifferent. It is but fair to state that, later on Mr. Hayne forsook my enemies and became my friend and remained so till his death.

And now, arrived at my home, came the most trying days of my life. Up to this time the malignity of my enemies could affect only myself, but now my wife and child must suffer also. There were never more than a dozen of these enemies. They were composed of men of both political parties, each of whom aspired to be the political leader of El Paso. They were in full accord only in one aim—the political and personal ruin of W. W. Mills. The Republicans reasoned thus: “We cannot _lead_ the Republican party until we down Mills.” The Democrats reasoned thus: “We cannot _defeat_ the Republican party until we down Mills!” They called themselves the “Anti-Mills Party.”

In June, 1871, there appeared in all the Republican (radical) newspapers of Texas to which these parties could gain access a most slanderous and libelous publication against myself, purporting to be the resolutions of a Republican convention of El Paso County, declaring me to be of infamous character and “capable of all the crimes in the calendar.”

This document was signed by three Americans as “President” and “Secretary” of the convention, and _purported_ to be signed by fifteen of the most prominent Mexicans of the county, _all_ of whom were my friends and _none_ of whom had ever attended any such “convention.”

I received written statements from _all_ of these Mexican gentlemen declaring their friendship for me and denouncing the forgery of their names. This crime was severely punishable by the laws of Texas, and the punishment was double wherever the name of another person was used to give respectability to the libel, and I could have caused these men to have been arrested and carried to Austin and punished there, but now that so many years have elapsed and these vicious and guilty men have gone to their last account I do not regret that they escaped, and I omit their names.

Simultaneously with the publication of the libel mentioned above there appeared in all the accessible Democratic papers in the State a letter signed “Victor” (B. F. Williams), containing the same slanders but somewhat changed in form, showing concert of action.

Then Governor Hamilton wrote me a letter cautioning me against any resort to violence and bidding me bide my time.

Then our little boy sickened and died, and Mrs. Mills’ health began to fail, and as my enemies, nearly all of whom had received substantial favors from me, showed no sign of relenting, we went again to Austin, this time in the mail coach, carrying the remains of our first born in the “boot,” to be buried at the Capital of Texas, where we hope also to rest when life’s fitful fever is past.

But neither then nor at any time did we intend to abandon our El Paso home.

Two years later the beautiful little Mary, our second and last child, died at Austin, and we laid her beside her brother. Then, indeed, our skies were gray.

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A. J. FOUNTAIN—MY WORST ENEMY.

In 1869 there arose a bitter controversy between myself and A. J. Fountain, who had for several years been my special deputy in the customs house at El Paso, which controversy attracted great interest on this frontier, and even in Austin and Washington City. There was much angry correspondence and an official investigation, but as I came out of the contest unscathed I will content myself with publishing only one of Fountain’s letters and “let it go at that.”

EL PASO, TEXAS, May 13, 1869.

W. W. MILLS, ESQ.:

_My dear Sir_—The conversation I had with you last evening left upon my mind the impression that you entertained a belief that I would oppose you and your friends, politically, should your choice for the Legislature in the coming contest fall upon some other person than myself, and that I would endeavor to secure to my support cliques and factions of our party, in this county, that are antagonistic to you, and that to do so, I would be compelled to give pledges which, if carried out, would result to your prejudice. If I am correct in my impression (and I hope I am not), I regret very much that our years of intimate acquaintance has made you know me only to doubt me.

I, therefore, desire to enter upon a full explanation of my feelings towards you, not for the purpose of trying to secure your support or influence in my behalf, but to disabuse your mind of any impression that you may have that under any circumstances, whatever, I would place myself in opposition to you. It is unnecessary for me to recapitulate the circumstances under which we first became associated as friends. I received from you a lucrative appointment, which I held some two years. It is not on account of pecuniary obligations that I feel myself in honor bound to stand your supporter to the last extremity. The year previous to my coming to El Paso to live I had been engaged in an enterprise which promised, if successful, a fortune. I had partners who advanced a small portion of the original capital invested, and who, when I was confined to my bed suffering for months from wounds received while risking my life to advance their interest as well as my own, not only robbed me of all I had, but slandered me to my friends to excuse their conduct. Weak and poor as I was, I made them such a fight that they were compelled to use the most despicable means to defeat me, and I endeavored to find employment to support my children; they, having the aid of men of influence who still were my friends and desired to assist me, poisoned them against me by villainous lies and slanderous misrepresentations of my conduct. They acknowledged that they endeavored to poison _your_ mind against me when I had a prospect of again rising, and that if you had not stood my friend they would have succeeded in their threats of driving me from the country. It was then through your interposition that these parties failed, and that I have had the satisfaction of receiving humble apologies from some of them for the wrong they did me. I was taught in my youth never to allow an insult to pass unresented, never to forgive an enemy who deliberately injured me, never to be ungrateful to one who befriended me. I believe that you were my friend when I most needed one, you _shall never have cause to regret that act_, and I would consider myself as great a villain as the world contains, if _under any circumstances whatever_, I arraigned myself among the number of your enemies, personal or political; or if I should passively witness any attack upon your private or political character, and not strike a blow in your defense. Whatever bad qualities I may possess (and I know I have many faults) I am no _ingrate_. I consider myself bound to support you whenever you require that support, and will give you all the assistance in my power to enable you to accomplish any object you have in view, and if you are not entirely satisfied that all I do in this connection is to show my gratitude, I am indeed unfortunate and can only wait patiently for time to prove my sincerity.

Very respectfully,

A. J. FOUNTAIN.

The recent mysterious murder or disappearance of Fountain in New Mexico renders further comment from me improper, except to state that very soon after writing the above letter he became my bitter assailant and traducer, and at the time _he wrote the letter_ he was secretly conspiring with my most unscrupulous and most relentless enemies. His malignity appeared to increase with the failure of every effort to do me harm.

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ARREST AT SAN ELEZARIO—ASSAULT BY ATKINSON.

In 1871, when the Davis administration was in full power and the notorious State police of that day were “rough riding” over the State, one John Atkinson (of whom more anon) commanded that force in El Paso County.

I went, with my wife and brother, A. E. Mills, in my ambulance to attend court at San Elezario, which was then the county seat. There was a State law against carrying arms, “except when traveling,” and we went armed. Immediately upon arriving at the county seat my brother and myself were arrested by Atkinson and his police and taken from the ambulance, leaving Mrs. Mills alone, and carried toward the jail. At that time the Mexican people thoroughly hated Atkinson and his party, but were devoted to me and my friends. There was some halting and parleying before we reached the jail door, and we saw groups of Mexicans consulting here and there and occasionally one with arms. I remember my brother whispering to me: “These people will take us out of jail before morning, but we will probably be dead.”

A Mexican, Maximo Aranda, who was justice of the peace, summoned Atkinson to bring his prisoners before him, and immediately ordered our release upon the ground that we were travelers and had a right to carry arms.

That night I went alone and unarmed to the house of a respectable citizen, where I had been invited to a party. I took a seat at one side of the room. The District Judge, District Attorney, Sheriff and Clerk of the Court, all enemies of mine, were dancing. When all were seated and the music ceased Atkinson stood before me, one hand on his six-shooter and the other in my face, and called me many pet names, the mildest of which were “coward” and “liar,” and threatened to shoot me if I spoke or moved.

I remained silent, and my assailant was called away. Presently Johnnie Hale sat down beside me and whispered that he had two pistols and would give me one if I would not use it unless attacked and would go away with him. I accepted, and we left the house.

Court was in session, and the next day the grand jury presented an indictment against Atkinson for aggravated assault. The District Attorney declined to prosecute, and James A. Zabriskie volunteered to take his place. Will the reader believe that that “carpetbag” Judge (from Canada), appointed by Governor Davis to administer justice over a people he had never seen or heard of, forbade Zabriskie to prosecute for aggravated assault, and declared from the bench that he knew it was merely a simple assault _because he witnessed it himself_! I take pleasure in recording the fact that this Judge was removed from office by the Legislature of Texas. Atkinson’s violent death is recorded in my account of the San Elezario mob, and that of Johnnie Hale in the account of the killing of Kramkrauer, Campbell, Hale and a Mexican at El Paso in 1881.

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FROM EL PASO TO AUSTIN—STAGE DRIVERS.

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.