Dan Vanderhoof, a friend of mine whom I had known for several years, accompanied me portion of the way to Carson City. I went to this place with the view of meeting Colonel P. E. Connor with his command of California Volunteers. My friend introduced me to him and Major Gallagher, and I was asked to accompany them some eight miles down the Carson River to Reed's Station. It was to talk upon "business." Otherwise, I should have certainly declined deviating from the road, so increasingly anxious was I to see the little woman from whom I had so long been separated.
This business was, after the evening meal, speedily arranged.
They needed a guide and scout through Idaho and Utah, in the Fall. My qualifications as the last, would counterbalance any deficiency I might have as to the first-named. The necessary details were quickly agreed upon, and early on the next morning I was crossing the Desert towards the big bend of the Carson River. On the day following this, I came upon a large train of stock, and one of the guides told me a larger train was then some four miles behind them, at a distance of something more than a mile from the main track. Pushing on at once, in less than half an hour I came in sight of the encampment.
While I was riding up to it, my wife recognized me. How she was able to do so, has, on thinking the matter over, always astonished me. The tan of exposure on the frontier, fuller muscle, and the general style of my dress and equipment, had so thoroughly changed my personal appearance.
However, she certainly did know me. As for her, I should have recognized her features, even had she been dressed in the unsightly garb of an Esquimaux.
It would be little use for me to detail the words and actions of this meeting. Any man who has been so long separated from his wife as I had been, and any female who had, for so long a period, not seen the face of her husband, will readily imagine what passed between us. We were, nevertheless, quickly compelled to bring our outburst of natural joy to an end, by the approach of Chart Gregory with Mr. and Mrs. Devine, and others of her companions on the train. Then I heard of all the trouble she had been exposed to, and more especially of a fellow named Mat Carpenter, who had been consistently unkind to her since they had first struck the Plains. He had been an old school-mate of hers, and had displayed the memory of their childish intimacy, by doing all he possibly could to increase the discomfort she had experienced in her preliminary taste of Western civilization.
"You needn't look round for him, Mr. P——," said Gregory, as he saw my eyes wandering round the camp, with an ominous look for him. "No sooner had your lady recognized you, than the scamp cleared out."
At the instant, the employment of my real name, for the first time in so many years, as well as the polite appellation he had bestowed on "Mrs. P——," so completely astonished me, that I momentarily lost my self-possession. After this I could not help laughing, as my wife also did, although she, very certainly, could not comprehend the motive which induced such an audible peal of merriment on my part. Then she told me that Mr. Gregory had already thrashed Mat, some two days since. At the same time he had told him, I should be made acquainted with his conduct the moment that I met the train. This very clearly accounted for his disappearance, without waiting for an introduction.
Having adjusted the side-saddle for my wife, and seen that she was safely mounted, I took behind me what positively needful articles she might require. With a friendly farewell upon our part, and a grateful leave-taking on mine to those of her fellow-travellers who had shown her kindness, we started across the great Desert.