Part 7

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

MARRIAGE AND JOURNEY TO MY EL PASO HOME.

I do not know why it is that only in novels and posthumous writings do men speak much of their wives, and even the novel usually _ends_ where I think it should _begin_, with the marriage. The man who writes of his own career usually treats the most important event of his life incidentally or in a casual way, and if he praises any woman it is usually his mother. I suppose there must be some good reason for this general rule, and I deviate from it only to say that for a third of a century my wife has been the best, the truest and the most constant friend I have known, and if these writings shall have any interest for even a few friendly readers, it will be largely due to the fact that she is still by my side, aiding me with her intelligent criticism and her finer fancy.

Well, on the 8th day of February, 1869, we were married, she, surrounded by her family and the friends of her youth, and a few disappointed beaux, and I, attended by Generals Canby and Carleton, with whom I had served in the army, and the Hon. William P. Bacon, then Judge of the El Paso District, who, though he encountered misfortune later on, was, I believe, an honest man and a true friend. Camped in a grove near the Hamilton residence was the “outfit” which had brought me from El Paso, consisting of an ambulance made by Dougherty of St. Louis, especially for such journeys over the plains, and much more comfortable and better adapted for ladies and families than even the fine, large Concord stage coaches. It would “make up” at night like a berth in a Pullman palace car. My pair of fine, large Kentucky mules, “Seymour” and “Blair,” which were mine for ten years, hauled us over this long route four different times without fault or accident. “Johnnie,” my faithful, watchful driver and companion, was on hand, and also a “Mozo” (Mexican servant) and a saddle horse. My other team of four horses awaited us at Fort Stockton, midway of the route, where the mules were to be left, to follow later to El Paso. The ambulance was a little arsenal. I had a repeating rifle, a shotgun and a pistol, and Johnnie a rifle and pistol.

The day after the wedding, I called on General Canby and asked for an escort of ten infantrymen and a Government wagon and team. The soldiers and our baggage and provisions were to ride in the wagon and the team was to be changed at each military post. The General at first suggested that I might take advantage of the escort of a certain army officer, Captain ——, whom we had both known in New Mexico, and whom I had once reported to the General as being unfaithful to his country. (I would not have objected to an out and out Confederate.) When I declined to travel with this gentleman, Canby replied: “Yes, I remember. You shall have an escort of your own.”

And now we started westward over the long road of more than seven hundred miles to our El Paso home, where my wife was to see no familiar face except my own. But we had youth, and health, and hope, and self-reliance, and a faith in human nature, which, I regret to say, subsequent experience did not justify. But enough of that.

During the whole journey of twenty-three days we slept under a roof only three nights, and usually made our camp away from the mail stations (which could afford us no accommodations, anyhow), and in order to have better pasture for the animals.

Here let me say a word in behalf of the much-abused mule. You have been told that he will kick the hat off your head while you are on his back. This is a slander. A horse will kick when he is violently and cruelly treated, but a mule very seldom does, and ours were as gentle as pet dogs. They roamed unfettered and untethered about the camp day and night, but would come in at call.

On the Concho River we encountered herds of buffalo, now extinct in Texas, not so many as I had often seen on the Northern plains, but many—hundreds and thousands.

I never had the desire, as many had, to wantonly butcher these lubberly animals, but almost every man has inherited the hunter’s instinct, and I indulged it to some extent, making the excuse that we needed fresh meat, as indeed we did.

Shooting antelope was far better sport, but these, like the buffalo and the wild deer and the Indian, will soon be but traditions, and there will be no frontier at all. Mrs. Mills had never seen an antelope, and the first one I shot fell some distance from the ambulance, and I called out, with some pride, “Send a couple of men to bring in this antelope.” She repeated my command, mimicking my voice and manner, and then said, “Why don’t you pick the thing up and bring it yourself?” She said she supposed it was about the size of a jack-rabbit.

A few days later I alone killed three of these animals within three hundred yards of our “train,” and _in less than half a minute_. There were a hundred or more of them on the flat top of a little hill, and I climbed to the top unseen, and with a repeating rifle fired into the bunch at about thirty yards. They ran toward me, and I fired seven shots in quick succession with the result given above. The frightened, crazy herd of beautiful animals ran toward our little “train” and passed on each side of it and the colored soldier fired about twenty shots at them, but not one took effect. Although it was midwinter, the weather was pleasant with the exception of two or three cold days. There was no snow or rain on this whole trip.

At that time, thirty years ago, small bands of marauding Indians might be expected almost anywhere, and particularly as we approached the Rio Grande, and our chief care was to guard against surprise, which was almost our only danger. We saw none on this journey, but we passed several scenes of bloody tragedies, some of them quite recent. When we descended into the valley of the Rio Grande I pointed to a Mexican “jacál” and told Mrs. Mills that was the style of house we were to live in. She was silent for a long time, but when we drove up to my comfortable, well-furnished little home on San Antonio street, with the shade trees in front, and she set her feet upon the first plank floor ever laid down in El Paso, and saw the preparations which my good friend and neighbor, Mrs. Zabriskie, had made for her reception and comfort, she brightened up wonderfully.

Yes, other families also crossed these plains, but they were either army people for whom the Government furnished teams and provisions and attendants and protection, or others who traveled in the dusty rear of some freight train at a speed of about ten miles a day. Our voyages were mostly made independently, comfortably, and speedily, and without a single accident. All depends upon thorough preparation, good judgment and constant vigilance.

Mrs. Mills’ reception by the people of both races and on both sides of the river was very flattering, and I am sure it was sincere, and we spent nearly a year very happily at El Paso, but now (November, 1869) it was thought best that I should return to Austin to assist General Hamilton in his contest for the Governorship and control of the State. We returned with the same outfit with which we had come, except that we had no military escort, and Colonel Zabriskie went as our guest.

Soon after we left Fort Davis we saw far to our right a party of mounted Indians, how many we could not tell, but certainly too many for our small party. A company of infantry soldiers had left Fort Davis, going eastward, an hour before we did, and we had passed them on the road, so we knew they could not be far behind us, and we halted to await their arrival. The Indians also halted and gave us a free exhibition of fancy horsemanship and curious antics, until the gleaming rifles of the troops appeared on the road, when they scurried away around the mountain. We traveled in company with the soldiers until we reached Fort Stockton.

A year before I had sent five hundred gallons of wine of my own manufacture to each of the military posts, Davis and Stockton, and on arriving we found that it had all been sold at $5 per gallon, and Mrs. Mills stuffed the greenbacks into her little handsatchel for future use.

The postmaster at Fort Concho, “Jim” Trainer, whom I had never seen, had threatened to whip me on sight because he had been told that I had said he gave false receipts to the Mail Company, as other postmasters had done. After we got into camp near Concho I told my wife that I would go up to the sutler’s store and see Mr. Trainer, and I remember her cheery words to me as I walked away: “Look out for yourself!”

Arrived at the store I entered and asked for Mr. Trainer. A good-looking, good-natured gentleman behind the counter replied that he was the man, and when I told him who I was he hesitated awhile and then invited me into the office, gave me a chair and a cigar, and after we had chatted awhile he asked me if I knew he had intended to thrash me. I told him yes, but that I had never spoken unkindly of him and did not know anything about his acts as postmaster. He said he had been the victim of liars, and presented me with a bottle of fine brandy and wished me a pleasant journey. Trainer was not a coward but had been played upon by my enemies.

ASSAULT BY KUHN AT FREDRICKSBURG.

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

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

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

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

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

THIRD VOYAGE OVER THE PLAINS—ENEMIES AND PLOTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A. J. FOUNTAIN—MY WORST ENEMY.

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

EL PASO, TEXAS, May 13, 1869.

W. W. MILLS, ESQ.:

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

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

Very respectfully,

A. J. FOUNTAIN.

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

ARREST AT SAN ELEZARIO—ASSAULT BY ATKINSON.

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