THURSDAY, MAY 13th.
Arose about 6.30 and found the morning clear and warm. There are many wonderful, strange, and unusual things in, around, and about El Paso, but one of the most puzzling and perplexing things is its time. Traveling westward you arrive on Central time and depart on Pacific, a difference of two hours, while in the city they use local time, which is a split between the two. Over the river in Juarez they use Mexican time. Visited a barber shop for a shave, then a restaurant for breakfast and got another shave; I was taxed one dollar and twenty cents for breakfast for two. We didn’t return for dinner.
Those of our party who did not visit Juarez last evening attended the State Firemen’s ball and banquet under the escort of Colonel Whitmore, Acting Mayor of El Paso, and Chief J. J. Connors, of the city fire department, and they all speak in the highest terms of the royal treatment they received and the grand time they had. The city of El Paso contains about 12,000 inhabitants, but the population is almost double that number this week, which gives the town a very lively appearance. We learn that our train cannot be gotten over the washout to-day, and arrangements are being made to remain in the city to-night. Engaged a pleasant room for fifty cents per day at the “Wellington,” corner of Staunton and Texas Streets, kept by Mrs. Whitmore; quite a number of our party are stopping here.
Brother Wyman hired a horse to-day and rode in the parade. It is very hot in the sun. Went over in front of the Court House this afternoon to see the firemen race. There was quite an exciting time. Brother Haas was there with his kodak and had a narrow escape from being run over in trying to get a “snap” at a team as the horses galloped past. Had a pleasant chat in the evening with Mr. Pettus, an old resident of the place, who has a furnishing store next to the “Wellington.” He is an entertaining man and gave some interesting information relative to the early history and habits of the country and people. I turned in about eleven o’clock, but can’t speak for them all, for this is an interesting city.
FRIDAY, MAY 14th.
Turn out this morning about 7.30 and find the weather clear and warm. We go to a nearby restaurant for breakfast; mutton chops are one of the items on the bill of fare, and we are pleased, for we are partial to chops—nice, juicy, tender mutton chops; but these chops do not quite come up to our idea of what mutton chops should be—not so juicy nor so tender as we would like; but being hungry we quietly and uncomplainingly devour what is set before us. “Where do you people in El Paso get your mutton?” I inquired of the waiter as we arose from the table (for I had no recollection of seeing a sheep since we entered the State of Texas). “Goats,” was the short but suggestive answer. A little private inquiry elicited the information that it is a fact that the greater part of the “mutton” consumed in El Paso is a product of the goatherd. The supply is apparently inexhaustible, for thousands of those ruminating, odoriferous quadrupeds can be seen roaming the adjacent plains and plateaus in great herds, attended by boys and dogs.
Accompanied Manager Wyman to Superintendent Martin’s office, where we learn “that there is no prospect of getting our train across the washout this week. The water has fallen but very little, and while we are working day and night, endeavoring to close the break, our progress is necessarily slow on account of the action of the high water, and the work cannot be completed sufficiently to get our train across until the water recedes. And no one knows,” continued Mr. Martin, “when this will be, for the water is just as likely to rise as to fall. The weather has been very hot these last few days and has melted the snow in the mountains very rapidly, which has caused the high water here. When the snow is gone the water will fall, so you see it depends upon the supply of snow, of which we know nothing about. If you wish to continue on your journey I will send you to Los Angeles by regular train, and when we succeed in getting your train across will send it on after you.”
Brother Wyman rather favors this proposition, as he desires to reach Los Angeles before the Grand Division adjourns, but the majority of our party will not agree to it, preferring to remain with the train and take their chance with it; so the idea of going ahead by regular train is abandoned. A party of us procured a four-horse team and went over to the train to-day, some to remain and others to return. Would have remained had Mrs. S. been along, for it is a dreadful hot trip of two and one-half hours across that burning sand.
We found our train sidetracked at Alfalfa, one mile east of the washout, and had one mile to walk after leaving the wagon. Alfalfa is not a place—it is only a name. There is a sidetrack here and a post with a board on it, and on the board is painted in large black letters the word Alfalfa. That is all. It is a flagstop for accommodation trains, but there is no station, not even a shed, a platform, nor a plank. The nearest civilized communities are El Paso, 7 miles away to the west, and Fort Bliss, the same distance to the north. On the east end of the same sidetrack where our train lies are a number of cabooses of the Texas and Pacific construction train, occupied by Mexican families whose husbands and fathers are working on the repairs at the washout. They are a squalid, uninviting-looking set, but seem happy and contented with their lot.
Here and there in the edge of a sandbank can be seen a “dugout,” or, sheltered in a mesquite thicket, a “shack” occupied by the same nationality, who with their goats and burros are very pictures of meek and lowly contentment. These are the surroundings in the midst of which we are sidetracked. We find our people (those who are with the train) with smiles upon their faces as they tell us they are “all right” and are having a good and pleasant time. There must surely be an element or ingredient in this desert air and atmosphere that breeds contentment and repose.