Forty Years
At
El Paso
1858-1898

Recollections of War, Politics, Adventure,

Events, Narratives, Sketches, Etc.

BY

W. W. MILLS

“Around my fire a friendly group to draw

And tell of all I felt and all I saw.”

Copyright, 1901,

BY

W. W. MILLS.

...TO...

Mary Hamilton Mills

A Warning.

These writings are meant to be truthful, but they are too rambling and egotistical to possess much historical value. Few subjects are treated of except such as the writer was personally connected with or in which he felt a special interest. Much that he was tempted to write has been omitted out of consideration for the living and the dead and their relations.

The book will have little interest except for those who know something of El Paso or of the men and events treated of, or of the writer himself.

For such only is it written.

W. W. Mills.

El Paso,

November, 1901.

CONTENTS.

Forty Years at El Paso.

I was born on a farm near Thorntown, Indiana, in 1836, and labored alongside of my father and brothers and the hired men during the crop season, attending the village school during the winter months, till I was seventeen years old, when my father sent me for two years to an academy in New York State. While there he secured for me an appointment as a cadet at the Military Academy at West Point, but I gave way to my brother, Anson Mills, who is now a Brigadier General in the United States army. After returning home for a year, I came to Texas with my brother Anson. We came down the Mississippi at the time of the great flood in 1857, to New Orleans, and thence up the Red River to Jefferson, Texas. From Jefferson we walked to McKinney, in Collin County, where my brother had previously resided, and I secured a school at Pilot Grove, in Grayson County, and spent a year there happily, and, I trust, usefully. During that year my brother was appointed surveyor on the part of Texas to the joint commission which located the boundary line between Texas and the United States, Col. William R. Scurry being the commissioner on the part of Texas.

At the suggestion of my brother, I joined this expedition at Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos River, and accompanied it to El Paso. When we arrived at Waco Tanks, twenty-six miles east of El Paso, we failed to find water, and were somewhat distressed in consequence. Colonel Scurry said that young men on foot could make the trip to El Paso for relief better than any of our worn-out animals, and my brother and I volunteered for the tramp. We left the tank, thirsty, at sunset and reached the river below El Paso before daybreak, and after slaking our thirst, slept on the ground till morning, when we sent out a relief party, with water. Soon thereafter I went to Fort Fillmore, in New Mexico, forty-five miles above El Paso, where I clerked in the sutler’s store of Hayward & McGrosty, for nearly a year, when I returned to El Paso, and was employed in the same capacity by St. Vrain & Co., merchants. This firm had a branch store at the Santa Rita copper mines near where Silver City now stands, and I made two journeys to and from that place, the first time on horseback and alone. There was no habitation between La Messilla and Santa Rita, and the country was full of hostile Indians; but of them later on. I remember camping alone over night at the place now known as Hudsons Hot Springs. The second journey I made as wagonmaster of our train laden with merchandise for the Santa Rita store, and brought back a load of copper, which we sent by wagons to Port La Vaca, eight hundred miles, and thence to New York by Gulf and Sea.

While at the copper mines, three prospectors—Tayor, Snively and another—came to my camp and reported that they had discovered placer gold at Pinos Altos, near there, and, as they were out of provisions and money, I gave them what was called a “grub stake”—that is, provisions to continue their explorations. That was in 1859, and I am told that gold is still being washed out at Pinos Altos, in 1900.

EL PASO IN 1858.

El Paso is situated on the Rio Grande River, in the extreme west corner of Texas, within a mile of that river, which forms the boundary line between Texas and Mexico, and very near to New Mexico on the north and on the west.

The altitude is 3,700 feet and the climate is mild, pleasant and healthful. El Paso was then a small adobe hamlet of about three hundred inhabitants, more than three-fourths of whom were Mexicans. Nearly all that portion of the village or “ranch” south of San Antonio and San Francisco streets was then cultivated in vineyards, fruit trees, fields of wheat and corn and gardens, for at that time and for years later there was an abundance of water in the Rio Grande all the year round, and El Paso was checkered with acequis (irrigation ditches).

At the head of El Paso street, near the little plaza, where the main acequia ran, there were several large ash and cottonwood trees, in the shade of which was a little market where fruit, and vegetables, and fowls, and mutton, and venison, and other articles were sold. We had no regular meat market.

To one of these trees some enterprising citizen had nailed a plank, which for years served as a bulletin board where people were wont to tack signed manuscripts giving their opinions of each other. Here Mrs. Gillock, who kept the hotel where the Mills building now stands, notified the “Publick” when her boarders refused to pay their bills, and here, in 1859, I saw my brother Anson nail the information that three certain citizens were liars, etc., and here, just ten years later, I gave the same information regarding B. F. Williams. Foolish? Perhaps.

The flouring mill of Simeon Hart, about a mile above the village, was the chief individual industrial enterprise in the valley, and ground the entire wheat crop from both sides of the river, and supplied flour to all the people and the military posts.

The proprietor, a man of wealth and influence, staked all and lost all in the Confederate cause.

The dam which supplied water to this mill had been constructed two hundred years ago by the people of the Mexican side of the river, who kept it in repair for all these years without asking any assistance from the people of the Texas side, although they generously divided the water with us.

The patience and industry displayed by this people in repairing and rebuilding this dam, when washed away by annual floods, can only be compared to that of beavers.

The Texas bank of the Rio Grande was then (1858) only a short distance south of where the Santa Fe depot now stands, but just how far south it is impossible for me or any one else, I believe, to tell, though I have been often asked to testify as to where the river bed was then, and in later years. It found its present bed more or less gradually by erosion and revulsion during these years, and left very few landmarks.

The bed of the river was narrower then than now, and many cottonwood trees grew upon each bank.

At the end of El Paso street was the ferry, where pedestrians crossed in small canoes, and vehicles and wagon trains in larger boats.

Sometimes, when the spring floods came, it was impossible for any one to cross for several days.

Be it remembered there was not a railroad or telegraph station within a thousand miles of us. The business houses, with one exception, were on El Paso street, and around the little plaza. My brother Anson and I each built homes at El Paso before the war, he on San Francisco and I on San Antonio street. The postoffice was on the west side of El Paso street, facing the head of San Antonio street, and in this same large room there was also a whiskey saloon, a billiard table, and several gambling tables. “Uncle Ben” Dowell was postmaster. This room and the street in front of it were the favorite shooting grounds of the sporting men, and others, and here took place many bloody encounters, some of which may be treated of in these idle writings. The graveyard was convenient, being on one of the hills on what is now known as “Sunset Heights.” At one time there were more people buried there who had died by violence than from all other causes. When I state that the writer of these pages sometimes read the burial service there over the remains of our departed countrymen, it may be imagined how sadly we were in need of spiritual guidance. Every citizen, whatever his age or calling, habitually carried a six-shooter at his belt, and slept with it under his pillow. I remember a friend, Johnnie Evans, saying to me once, when I was so thoughtless as to start down street without one: “Buckle it on, Mills; we don’t often need ’em, but when we do need ’em, we need ’em—Oh, God!” Every man’s horse, or team, and arms were the best his purse could buy, and my white saddle horse, that carried me for ten years, was surely a dandy. Sometimes, when I have journeyed to Las Cruces or Mesilla, fifty miles, in my buggy, I have turned this animal loose, saddled and bridled, and he has followed me the whole distance, as a dog follows his master. I have sometimes been vexed with the best of my human friends, but “Blanco” never disappointed me in anything.

The Mexican population, now nearly all passed away by death or removal, were of a much better class than those who came in later with the advent of the railroads, to sell their labor—and their votes. It is but just to say, however, that votes cannot be sold unless there be purchasers, and that the purchasers have ever been of my own race.

The villages below El Paso were more prosperous then than now, because their population is agricultural and the lack of water in the river in recent times has caused great discouragement and even distress. The same was true of Juarez, Mexico, just opposite El Paso, then called Paso del Norte.

The county seat was first at San Elezario, twenty-two miles below El Paso, with fifteen hundred population, and later at Ysleta, with twelve hundred population (nearly all Mexicans), and still later at El Paso. Court proceedings and arguments to juries and political speeches were then made in the Spanish language.

Fort Bliss, garrisoned by regular United States troops, situated at the place now called East El Paso, was considered by army officers and their families as one of the most desirable posts in the whole country, and several officers who subsequently held very high rank during the Civil War had been stationed there. There was another fort, called Quitman, seventy miles below El Paso, on the river, and a chain of military posts from there to San Antonio. The nearest posts in New Mexico were Fort Fillmore, forty miles to the north, near Las Cruces, and Fort Craig, one hundred miles still further north toward Santa Fe.

As to hunting, there were at that time comparatively plenty of wild deer, turkeys, wild geese, ducks and mountain quail on the mountains and in the valley, and I got my share of them.

ROSTER OF ANTE-BELLUM RESIDENTS OF EL PASO.

J. F. Crosby, then district judge, Confederate; is well known in El Paso.

Simeon Hart, mill owner and contractor, Confederate. Died at El Paso.

Henry J. Cuniffe, merchant, Union man. Was United States Consul at Juarez. Died at Las Cruces.

H. S. Gillett, merchant and Confederate, lives in New Mexico.

J. S. Gillett, merchant, Confederate; lives in New Mexico.

Col. Phil Herbert, lawyer, Confederate; killed in the war.

Col. James W. Magoffin, contractor, Confederate; sutler at Fort Bliss. Died at San Antonio.

Joseph Magoffin, Confederate; served in the war; now lives in El Paso.

Sam Magoffin, Confederate; killed in the war.

Anson Mills, engineer, Union; now brigadier general, U. S. A. Lives in Washington, D. C.

W. W. Mills, clerk, Union; served in the war; now United States Consul at Chihuahua, Mexico.

Emmett Mills, Union; killed in Indian fight in Arizona in 1861.

Samuel Schutz, merchant and Union man; now in El Paso.

Joseph Schutz, merchant, Union; died in 1895.

Col. George H. Giddings, manager San Antonio Mail Co.

H. C. Hall, agent San Antonio Mail Co.

Capt. Henry Skillman, frontiersman, Confederate; killed in the war.

Brad Daily, Union scout and spy; died at Las Cruces, N. M.

Col. Hugh Stephenson, mine owner and merchant; lived and died at Concordia, near El Paso.

Uncle Billy Smith, patriarch of the valley; thrown from stage coach at El Paso in 1860 and killed.

Vicente St. Vrain, merchant, Union; died in New Mexico.

A. B. O’Bannon, deputy collector customs, Confederate; dead.

William Morton, district attorney, Confederate; dead.

Charles Merritt, manager Hart’s mill; dead.

Henry C. Cook, lawyer, Confederate; dead.

B. S. Dowell, postmaster, Confederate; died at El Paso.

Nim Dowell, Union; killed by Confederates in Texas.

Fred Percy, English gentleman, Confederate; dead.

Rufus Doane, county surveyor; dead.

Billy Watts, sheriff; dead.

Emilio Deuchesne, merchant, Union; died in 1895, in Juarez.

Russ Howard, lawyer, Confederate; now in San Antonio.

A. B. Rohman, merchant; dead.

R. L. Robertson, agent Overland Mail Company, Union; dead.

Dr. Nangle, agent San Antonio Mail Company, Union; dead.

James Buchanan, merchant in Juarez; dead.

Charles Richardson, Confederate; lives in Juarez.

D. R. Diffendorffer, merchant in Juarez.

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.

Before my arrest I had written my brother Emmett, who was employed on the overland stage line west of Mesilla, that there would be fighting between the Texas and United States troops, and suggested that he come in and report to the commanding officer at Fort Fillmore. He came, but received no encouragement at Fillmore, and learning of my arrest and being in danger of rebels at Mesilla, he attempted to make his way toward California. He went in the mail coach with a party of six other young men, all well armed.

At Cook’s canyon, about one hundred miles west of Mesilla, they were attacked by a large body of Apache Indians under Mangas Coloradas, “Bloody Sleeves,” and one of the most desperate frontier fights on record ensued. It appears that our friends had time to gain the top of a little hill and build a stone breastwork about two feet high, inclosing a space about twelve feet square. A freighter, Mr. Deguere, who passed the scene a few days later with his wagons, found and buried the bodies and found everywhere the evidences of a terrible struggle. Under a stone, on the top of the wall, he found a pencil note, dated July 23d, 1861, stating that they had been fighting two days; had killed many Indians; that all were now killed or wounded except two; that they were out of water and would try to escape that night. I have visited the scene of this conflict. A tree, not more than ten inches in diameter, about one hundred yards from the fortification, has many marks of bullets evidently discharged from inside the wall. I give a list of the names of these brave men, the extent of whose daring and suffering can never be known in this strange life of ours. They were: Emmett Mills, Freeman Thomas, Joe Roacher, M. Champion, John Pontel, Bob Avlin and John Wilson. All were killed. The Indians who sold their arms and watches in Mexico said that they lost forty warriors in the fight. The newspaper containing this sad account was thrown to me through the window of my prison.

It was about this time that I stood at the door of the guard house and saw Colonel Baylor with less than three hundred poorly armed Texans start on his march to capture Fort Fillmore, then garrisoned by seven hundred and fifty regular troops, the flower of the United States army, and I knew and said that he would succeed. That history is a short one. Baylor took possession of the town of Mesilla unopposed, Major Lynde made a show of attempting to dislodge him, and a skirmish ensued in which Lieutenant McNally, not yet knowing that it was only mimic war, exposed himself and was wounded.

Lynde retreated in good order(?) and that night abandoned the post and fled in the direction of Fort Stanton. A show was made of destroying the stores at the post, but very little damage was done. All was confusion and demoralization. A patriotic quartermaster, Lieutenant Plummer, left some government drafts in his pockets at his quarters. These were sent to Washington indirectly by the rebels, and the money collected.

The command marched, or straggled, to San Augustine Springs, eighteen miles east of Fillmore, where being overtaken by Colonel Baylor with about two hundred men, they surrendered unconditionally without firing a gun. No sooner was the surrender an accomplished fact than the same subordinate officers who had aided to bring it about, some by indifference, some by sympathy and some by treachery, united in charging the whole responsibility upon poor old Lynde.

Major Lynde was dismissed from the service, but was reinstated after the war. He was not treacherous, he was weak, and he was deceived to his ruin and the disgrace of his flag. I have never doubted but that had he been properly supported and encouraged the result would have been different. Of his subalterns some resigned, some joined the enemy and some went into the recruiting and quartermaster’s service, none, so far as I know, except McNally ever did much fighting. I do not censure all of them, but I thought, and still think, that there should have been one among them who would have assumed command, arrested Lynde, and won a colonel’s eagles.

When Colonel Baylor returned to Fort Bliss he sent to me and proposed to release me on parole. I refused to give my parole, and he informed me that I was released from close confinement and given the limits of the post. “But,” said he, “if you attempt to escape to the enemy’s lines I will capture and hang you.”

The secret of my release was that General Canby had arrested at Santa Fe a prominent secessionist, General Pelham, and, placing him in prison, threatened him with the same treatment that I should receive, and Canby was a man of his word.

At the request of my friends, McGarvey, Craig and others, the “limits of the post” were enlarged as to me, so that finally I drifted to the Mexican side of the river. I had been confined about thirty days, in July and August, 1861.

The nearest United States troops were at Fort Craig, one hundred and seventy-five miles north of El Paso, but I determined to make the journey. I obtained a horse from Craig and bought another, and secured the services of a Mexican who claimed to be a guide.

We started at 11 p. m. from Juarez. We crossed the river below Concordia and traveled north on the east side of the Organ Mountains, avoiding all roads. When we thought we had reached a point nearly east of Fort Craig, we rode west across the mountains. The journey was not so easy as I supposed. The guide did not know the country, and, the weather being cloudy, we were lost in the mountains. When the sun came out we traveled west, knowing that we must strike the river somewhere. The fifth morning out from El Paso we heard the band play guard mount at Fort Craig, and rising a little hill my heart was gladdened by the sight of the flag of my country.

This post, Fort Craig, was then commanded by Col. B. S. Roberts, of the regular army, a brave and true soldier, who was concentrating a force to resist General Sibley, who was then (December, 1861) en route from San Antonio with a force of thirty-five hundred Texans to capture and hold New Mexico. Colonel Roberts received me very kindly, and after I had made a written report of what I had seen and learned, offered to procure me a captain’s commission in the New Mexican volunteers (Kit Carson’s regiment) or to get me a commission as first lieutenant and place me on his staff as aide-de-camp. I chose the latter.

Early in February, 1862, General Sibley arrived before Fort Craig with his whole force and a battery of six guns, Major Teel’s. Roberts had collected, to oppose him, one thousand regulars, two regiments of Mexican volunteers (natives), under Colonels Carson and Peno, and two companies of Colorado volunteers. Two companies of our infantry had been detached and trained to a battery of six guns, under the brave, unfortunate Captain McRae. On a Sunday evening the Texans appeared in force in front of the post, and we marched out to fight them in the plain, but they retired.

That night they crossed to the east bank of the Rio Grande, below Fort Craig, and next morning commenced to pass round the post by a road which our engineers had declared impassable. Their advance reached the river five miles above the post at 9 o’clock a. m. at Valverde, since changed to San Marcial. General Canby, who had arrived at Fort Craig, ordered Colonel Roberts to check them with the cavalry, and I went with him. We drove their advance back from the water, and Roberts sent me back to report to General Canby that the enemy’s whole force would reach the river before noon, and to ask for re-enforcements. Canby sent Major Selden’s column of infantry, six hundred strong, McRae’s battery, Carson’s New Mexico volunteers and the two Colorado companies.

When we reached the scene of action the enemy had arrived at the foot of the hills, about a mile east of the river, there being between them and the river a level plain studded here and there with cottonwood trees, but in places the ground was open. Our right and their left rested on a round mountain on the east bank of the river. This was February 21st, 1862.

[1]. “All of which I saw and a part of which I was.”

[2]. Did Arnold experience similar regrets and wishes?

THE BATTLE OF VALVERDE.

This peaceful valley, which had scarcely before echoed to the report of the sportsman’s fowling piece, was now to resound to the thunders of artillery and become the scene of bloody conflict. The west bank of the river where we first took position, was an open, level plain. The Texans had advanced their battery and support into a clump of trees about three hundred yards from the bank of the river and almost in the shadow of the mountain. They were in position when McRae arrived. McRae unlimbered on the very brink of the river, and this fierce artillery duel commenced. It did not last more than thirty minutes.

Though McRae’s loss was heavy, his victory was complete. Teel’s battery was rendered useless for that day. When the artillery fight was nearly over Roberts sent me across the river with an order to Capt. David H. Brotherton to charge the enemy’s battery with his two companies of infantry, and to bring Major Duncan’s cavalry to his support. Brotherton prepared to obey promptly, but as Duncan refused to obey the order I took the responsibility of recalling Brotherton and was commended for so doing. The enemy had now advanced toward the river in force, and Roberts ordered Selden with his infantry to cross the river, advance into the wood and attack with the bayonet if necessary. The men received the order with a shout and plunged into the river, which was cold and reached up to their armpits. Right gallantly did they obey the order, but they encountered double their number, strongly posted, and were compelled to retire, which they did in good order. Meantime our two Colorado companies had done good service on our left. They were dressed in gray like our militia, and the Texans, mistaking them for Mexicans, charged them recklessly. The Colorado men reserved their fire for close quarters, and emptied many saddles at the first fire. The remainder retired in disorder.

The New Mexican volunteers were keeping the enemy from the water and skirmishing briskly at times. There was now, at 2 o’clock p. m., a lull in the fighting. Some of us had lunch and talked of the prospects. So far all was favorable to us except the repulse of Selden.

We had kept them from the water, McRae had beaten their battery, and the Coloradans had gained an advantage. We were well posted and provided; their animals and men were weary and without water—they could not retreat; they must surrender or starve or fight quickly and desperately. During this lull Roberts crossed our battery to the east bank and placed Selden in support of it.

At 3 o’clock that afternoon General Canby appeared on the field and was received with cheers by the troops. After a brief consultation with Roberts he advanced our battery about five hundred yards, withdrew Selden from its support, leaving only two companies to protect it, and opened fire. Carson’s Mexican regiment had been moved to our right and advanced, and with one company of regulars repulsed a charge of Texas cavalry with some loss. I observed Carson closely. He walked up and down his line, quietly encouraging his men with such words as “Firme, muchachos, firme” (steady, boys, be firm).

The Texans now rapidly concentrated all their available force at the foot of the hills in front of our battery for one last desperate charge. On they came, on foot, a mass of wild men, without order and apparently without command, with rifles, shotguns, pistols and all kinds of arms, and yelling like demons. Colonel Roberts saw the danger and ordered me to bring all the strength possible to charge their flank as they neared the battery. I found Major Duncan with his cavalry in an advantageous position, and gave him the order, but again he failed to obey. Turning to Captain Wingate, with his two companies of infantry, he responded promptly and was immediately on the jump. But he was soon mortally wounded, and Stone, his second officer, being killed, the movement was checked.

I returned to the battery. The small support was giving away; Canby, whose horse had been shot, was on foot. He had taken a musket from a retreating soldier and was urging the men to re-form and charge. It was too late. The battery worked on to the last moment. Captain McRae and his first lieutenant, Michler, were killed at their guns. Bell, the second lieutenant, was wounded. Of the ninety-three men belonging to the battery less than forty escaped. The contest was now ended, but notwithstanding this disaster, we retired to the post “with the regularity of a dress parade.”

Considering the numbers actually engaged, Valverde was one of the best fought and one of the most sanguinary conflicts of the war, the mortality on either side being near one hundred. Five officers of the regular army, McRae, Michler, Wingate, Stone and Bascom, were killed in that fight. I admired General Canby (since treacherously murdered by the Modocs) alike for his courage as for his amiable character, but I believe that if Colonel Roberts had been left to carry out his plans that day Valverde would have been a Union victory and the campaign closed. General Sibley, although present, did not seem to develop during the day. The fighting was done mostly by Green, Scurry, Lockridge and Pryon. The day after the battle a flag of truce was borne into the post by Colonel Scurry, Major Ochiltre and another. Scurry being an acquaintance inquired for me, and I was present at the interview. They demanded a surrender of the post, which Canby of course refused. Some time was spent in refreshment and conversation, and they retired.

To condense and conclude this story, the Texans reconsidered their threat of taking Fort Craig and took up their march for Santa Fe. We followed, leaving a sufficient garrison in the post, but it was not Canby’s intention to bring on a decisive engagement. He had other plans.

The Texans took possession of Santa Fe, the capital of the Territory, without opposition; but their good fortune allured them too far. They determined to attempt the capture of the Government supply depot, Fort Union, east of Santa Fe. Colonel Scurry commanded this expedition. At Pidgon’s ranch (Glorietta) they met Colonel Slough’s command of Colorado volunteers, and the regulars from Fort Union under Colonel Paul, who had united. Another battle took place almost as desperate and fatal as Valverde. In numbers they were about equal, but the result was favorable to the Federals, chiefly because during the day a detachment was sent to the Texan’s rear, which under the direction and lead of Colonel Collins, a brave citizen, utterly destroyed their supply train. They slept hungry that night and then retreated in haste to Santa Fe. Meantime Canby had from Albuquerque opened communication with Paul and Slough, and a junction was effected at Tejaras, thirty miles east of Albuquerque.

Sibley had now commenced his retreat to Texas. Our combined forces under Canby by a silent forced march overtook them at 2 o’clock one morning at Peralto, the home of the loyal Governor Connolly. We camped within two miles of Peralto without being discovered. We could hear the sounds of revelry at the governor’s house, then Sibley’s headquarters. A brief consultation was held. Roberts proposed to “go in at daybreak and wake them up with the bayonet,” and, of course, the whole command would have voted to do so but Canby’s policy was to drive them out of the county without further loss of life—to “win a victory without losing men,” he said, and perhaps he was wise.

We skirmished all that day, with advantages in our favor, but neither commander seemed disposed to bring on a general engagement, and that night Sibley, with the full knowledge of Canby, continued his retreat down the Rio Grande, a portion of our troops following them as far as El Paso.

Of the thirty-five hundred Texans who entered New Mexico only about eleven hundred returned to Texas. The others were dead, wounded, sick, prisoners or deserters. Many were buried on the west side of El Paso street, near where the Opera House now stands.

This was a disastrous expedition. They were brave men, but their management, discipline and at times their food, was not good, and the mortality from disease was great.

I accompanied Colonel Roberts to Santa Fe, where he detailed me as post quartermaster, but learning that, while I was a prisoner at Fort Bliss President Lincoln had appointed me collector of customs at El Paso, and not intending to follow the profession of arms, I resigned and returning to the home from which I had been driven, took possession of that office.

CAPTAIN MOORE.

While serving at Fort Craig, as above related, and when the Texans were advancing from El Paso nearer to Fort Craig, we had an outpost of two companies at a village called Alamosa, thirty miles south of Craig, on the Rio Grande, under command of Capt. —— Moore of the United States cavalry. One morning General Roberts said to me: “Take an escort and go and see what is going on at Alamosa.” That was all the order I had. I went and met the younger officers, who told me that their captain was “in a bad way” and had been for several days. Going to Captain Moore’s quarters I found him in a hopeless state of intoxication. After interrogating him until I was thoroughly satisfied of his condition, I demanded his sword and ordered him to go with my escort and report to General Roberts in arrest.

I charged the sergeant to take good care of him but did not think of his pistol. When they arrived in view of Fort Craig Captain Moore drew his pistol and “blew out his own brains!”

Captain Moore had the reputation of being a good officer, with only that one fault, and of course the tragedy, and my connection with it made me sad—but what else could I have done? My action was approved and commended.

After this campaign General Roberts, being in Washington and testifying before the Congressional Committee on the conduct of the war, said: “One young man, W. W. Mills, who had the courage to stand up at El Paso and Fort Bliss against the secessionists, was thrown into prison there and kept in confinement and in irons for a long time and his life threatened. He succeeded in making his escape and in reaching Fort Craig, having undergone great hardship, being three days without anything to eat and without water.

“Because of his loyalty and services General Canby appointed him an acting lieutenant. He was my aide-de-camp at the battle of Valverde, and his conduct there was not only meritorious, it was highly distinguished for zeal, daring and efficiency.”—(Report of Committee, part 3d, page 271.)

I believe every young American of spirit has a natural desire for some romantic adventure requiring unusual exertion and involving some danger. I possessed this desire and it was fully gratified. That the Confederate soldiers manifested magnificent courage and devotion I freely grant. They once preserved my life from what General Scott termed “the fury of the non-combatants;” but I am glad that my feeble efforts were put forth in behalf of a cause which the civilized world has approved and the righteousness of which no one now questions, I believe. I have met many bitter partisans in my time, but I have never heard any one attempt to defend or excuse the actions of Twiggs or Loring or Sibley or Garland or any of the officers who connived at or assisted in and about the disgraceful surrender of Major Lynde as related in these pages. Few young men ever came home from the perils of camp, prison and battlefield more victorious or better vindicated than did the writer to El Paso with the Federal forces in 1862.

The very charge against me then was that I had been the leader of the Union people of this frontier.

While the advocates of secession had been more active and boisterous in their display of power than the friends of the Government had been, there was a strong latent Union sentiment even among the Americans, and with the Mexicans it was universal; so that a large majority approved of my course and rejoiced at my safe return.

Some who had bitterly opposed and even wronged me came to make peace (and promises), and I repulsed no man, because I felt that I could afford to be generous and desired to live in peace with my neighbors.

There were a few who still cherished the hope and belief that the Confederate cause would ultimately succeed, and that the El Paso Valley would be recaptured, and I would fare even worse than before; and the very few of these latter who are yet living, while they do not now, as then, denounce me as a “Union man” or as being “false to my home and fireside,” still occasionally intimate that I must have been guilty of something wrong—but they do not specify what the wrong was.

I organized the Republican party in El Paso County, and for a decade I controlled its politics. Yes; a political “boss,” if you will have it so, but I never purchased any votes nor juggled any man out of an election after he had won it, as was done in the case of Adolph Krakaner after he had been fairly and honestly elected Mayor of El Paso in April, 1889.

A STORY WITHOUT A MORAL.

On my return journey from Washington City in 1863, when traveling in the stage coach with driver and two other passengers, we halted for supper and a change of animals at a village seventy miles north of Fort Craig, where, falling in with some officers who had served with me during the then recent campaign, I accompanied them to their tents and there became so interested in telling and hearing stories that I forgot all about time and the stage went forward without me. I was the more to blame for this thoughtlessness because I was at the time bearing important official dispatches.

With many regrets and self-reproaches and good resolutions for the future, I procured a Government horse and started alone for Fort Craig, riding all night. I arrived at Fort Craig in due time safe and well, but learned that the stage coach had been attacked by Indians and that the driver and two passengers had been killed. It is certainly right to teach schoolboys (as I did forty years ago) that promptness, perseverance, diligence and watchfulness will greatly increase their chances for success, but is it right to teach them that by these means or by any other means they can command success? But I am not writing moral philosophy or solving riddles.

BENJAMIN S. DOWELL.

On previous pages I have mentioned this character as “Uncle Ben” Dowell, the postmaster. He was a Kentuckian, who served through the war with Mexico, and at its close settled at El Paso in the “forties” and married at Ysleta.

He was an illiterate man, but of great force of character. One day in the early “fifties” he did good work by killing, in a street fight, a desperado who was known to have broken into the Customs House and robbed the safe and who, with a party of men like himself, was defying the authorities. Dowell and I became friends, but when the question of secession arose he went wild on that subject and was, in part, responsible for my arrest as an “abolitionist,” and we were bitter enemies for several years.

He left El Paso with the retreating Texans just before we (the Union troops) took possession of that place in 1862. He returned to Juarez, and we met there several times but did not speak to each other. Finally Dowell wrote me a letter (printed below) which led to a renewal of our friendship, which continued till his death:

“Paso Del Norte (Juarez), Mexico, October 12th, 1864.

“Mr. W. W. Mills: Dear Sir—You may think strange to receive a communication from me, but as circumstances alter cases I will proceed with my subject. I left Sherman, Texas, on the 27th day of December last with the intention of making my way, if possible, to El Paso, as I did not think my life safe in Texas out of the Confederate ranks, which service did not suit me. I came here with the full intention of crossing over to El Paso to live, if I could get admission by complying with all that might be required of a citizen. But when I arrived here I commenced to talk with some old friends, and changed my notion for a time. I am now tired of living a dog’s life, and I wish to live on your side of the river.

“I hope you will pass over in forgetfulness any hard feelings you might have entertained toward me, and report favorably to the commanding officer at your post. Please let me hear from you by the bearer, and let this communication be confidential, and oblige, yours, etc.,

“B. S. Dowell.”

This letter was brought to my office by Uncle Ben’s little daughter Mary, and I immediately replied that I would be his friend, and without consulting the commanding officer, Col. George W. Bowie, I invited Dowell to come to my house. He came the next day, bringing his very valuable race mare, the apple of his eye, and he told me that his brother “Nim,” whom I also knew, was a Union man and had attempted to escape from Texas and had been followed and killed by the Confederates.

While we were talking over old times and thinking no harm a file of the guard appeared at my door and informed me that they had orders to take Dowell to the guard house and his mare to the Government corral.

I was, of course, indignant. What? Federal bayonets shoved into my door after all that I had gone through? In this frame of mind I called on Colonel Bowie and gave him what in these days might be called “a song and dance.” I told the Colonel that Dowell was ready to take the oath prescribed in President Lincoln’s amnesty proclamation, but he replied that he would not permit his adjutant to administer the oath, but out of consideration for me he would permit my friend to return to Mexico with his mare. He went, but the following day I wrote out the proper paper for Dowell and he swore to it before Henry J. Cuniffe, United States Consul at Juarez, and I took my friend and introduced him to Colonel Bowie as a fully fledged American citizen!

The Colonel gracefully acknowledged that he was beaten, and Dowell remained with us. Dowell owned some desirable town lots in El Paso, which were saved from confiscation by his timely oath of allegiance. These lots were of little value at the time, but he managed to hold them till the advent of the railroads and the first El Paso boom, so that he lived poor and died wealthy.

The Dowell race mare proved useful; and here I state some facts of which I am neither proud nor ashamed. Uncle Ben assured me that she could outrun any quarter nag that would come to El Paso, and we formed a partnership under which he furnished the animal and the “horse sense” and I the money for the stakes. The race track was nearly along the line of West Overland street, the outcome being at its junction with El Paso street. Race animals were brought from California, New Mexico and Colorado to contest with us, and in four years we won several thousand dollars without losing a race.

I withdrew from the partnership and quit all such business after my marriage in 1869.

BRAD. DAILY.

While the hostile Texans were approaching Fort Craig I was a lieutenant and aide-de-camp to the commanding officer at that post, Gen. B. S. Roberts. The General directed me to try to find some intelligent, faithful citizen acquainted with the country to go as a spy to El Paso (from whence I had escaped) and bring him reliable information of the Texan forces in that vicinity. Brad. Daily, whom I had known well at El Paso, was at the time wagonmaster in charge of Ochoa’s train, and in camp near the post. He was an old frontiersman, an Indian fighter, and had often been employed as a guide by United States army officers. I knew that he was a Southerner, but I knew that when a man of that class took the Union side he could be trusted, and I knew that he possessed every other qualification for the dangerous service. I visited his camp and asked him casually what he thought about the war. He replied that while he was a Southern man “Uncle Sam” had always treated him right and that he would stand by the Government. I then told him what was wanted, and he agreed to undertake the enterprise.

I took him to the General and vouched for him, and he was supplied with two good horses and plenty of gold, and at midnight he started on his mission. I, of course, gave him no letters but referred him to two of my friends, whom he also knew very well, Don José Ma. Uranga, then Prefect of Juarez, and my former employer, Mr. Vincente St. Vrain, a merchant of El Paso. Daily entered Juarez in the night and went to the Prefect’s house, where he remained concealed for a week or more, only going out at night. He met St. Vrain and other Union men at the Prefect’s house, and he actually prowled through Fort Bliss of nights disguised as a Mexican peon, and came away as well informed about the number of troops and other matters at that post as the Texas officers themselves. He brought an unsigned letter which I knew to be in St. Vrain’s handwriting, giving wholesale military information. This letter, had its contents been known to the Confederates, would have cost my friend St. Vrain his life. Said letter has been published by the United States Government in the “Records of the Rebellion.”

On his return Daily rode in the dark into a camp of Indians and came into Fort Craig with an arrowhead in his shoulder. He was paid $2,500 for his two weeks’ work, which he deposited with the Quartermaster, and was employed as a guide during the campaign which ensued.

This man Daily was at times addicted to drink, and when intoxicated would gamble. One night an officer awakened me and informed me that Daily was at the sutler’s store drunk and gambling and being robbed. I went to the store and found him in company with some gamblers (camp followers) vainly trying, with their help, to sign his name to an order on the Quartermaster for two thousand dollars. I tore the paper into bits and took Daily away. The next morning I reported the facts to General Roberts, and he directed me to take a file of the guard and destroy all the intoxicating liquor at the store, place all loafers I found about the store in the guard house, and lock the store and bring the key to him. The order was executed. About a dozen “loafers” were provided with quarters in the guard house; barrels of whisky were rolled out and the heads driven in and hundreds of bottles were smashed. Some of the soldiers scooped up whisky in their hands and drank it.

After the campaign Daily with his savings became a respectable and successful merchant of Las Cruces, N. M., and twenty years later was sued for that two thousand dollar debt. I was interrogated as a witness, and testified to the facts as I have written them above. Daily won the suit.

JOHN LEMON.

In 1861 John Lemon, a gentleman of about my own age, resided with his wife and children at La Mesilla, N. M., fifty miles north of El Paso. I was not then acquainted with Mr. Lemon, but soon after my escape to Fort Craig from the Confederates at Fort Bliss in 1861, and after the Confederates had taken possession of La Mesilla, Lemon and one Jacob Applezoller and a Kentuckian named Critendon Marshall, were arrested and placed in the guard house as “Union men.” One midnight these three were taken from the guard house by the guard and a party of citizens to a bosque and Marshall was hung by the neck until he was dead. Applezoller was also suspended by a rope, but for some reason was cut down before death ensued, and I believe is still living in New Mexico. Lemon and Applezoller were taken back to the guard house and some time later Lemon made his escape and joined the Union people at Fort Craig, as I had done a few weeks earlier. There we two refugees met for the first time, and there commenced an intimate friendship which continued to the time of his death by assassination, which occurred at La Mesilla about ten years later. After the Confederates were driven from the frontier Mr. Lemon returned to his home, where he acquired wealth and popularity, being repeatedly elected County Judge. One night in 1865 an express came to my house at El Paso with a note from Lemon requesting me to come immediately to La Mesilla, but without intimating why. I went at once, and Lemon explained that he had been slandered by Col. Samuel J. Jones (a neighbor) and that he was determined to make Jones retract or kill him. I called on Jones as Lemon’s friend, and he referred me to a young frontier lawyer then almost unknown but who has since become very wealthy and very prominent in the politics of the nation, attaining the very highest offices excepting only those of President and Vice President.