Forty Years at El Paso, 1858-1898

by W. W. Mills

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.