I was once under the necessity of making
a payment of twenty-five thousand dollars in silver at an Indian
village. There were no means of transportation, and I was forced to
carry the specie in on eight pack mules. The distance was nearly two
hundred miles, and as we neared the encampment we were under the
necessity of crossing a shallow river. It was summer-time, and as we
halted the tired mules to loosen the lash ropes, in order to allow
them to drink, a number of Indian children of both sexes, who
were bathing in the river, gathered naked on either embankment in
bewilderment at such strange intruders. In the innocence of these
children of the wild there was no doubt inspiration for a poet; but
our mission was a commercial one, and we relashed the mules and
hurried into the village with the rent money.
I have never kept a diary. One might wonder that the human mind
could contain such a mass of incident and experiences as has been my
portion, yet I can remember the day and date of occurrences of fifty
years ago. The scoldings of my father, the kind words of an indulgent
mother, when not over five years of age, are vivid in my memory as I
write to-day. It may seem presumptuous, but I can give the year and
date of starting, arrival, and delivery of over one hundred herds of
cattle which I drove over the trail as a common hand, foreman,
or owner. Yet the warnings of years--the unsteady step, easily
embarrassed, love of home and dread of leaving it--bid me hasten these
memoirs.
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