My children have often asked me to write out some of my experience while a medical officer in the United States Army on the frontier, and I have often resolved to do so. But for many years after leaving the service my time was so thoroughly taken up in an effort to make a living and educate the children that my good resolutions received scant attention. Now in my 78th year the apathy of old age is such a handicap, that great effort is required to do things that at one time I could have done cheerfully but did not.

I think my experiences during the Civil War gave me something of a taste for military duty, for when in the summer or early fall of 1868 I noticed that an Army Medical Board was in session at New York, I at once made application to appear before it for examination for a position in the regular service. I was examined in October, 1868, and as the board continued in session for some time afterwards I waited with some anxiety and misgivings as to the result of my examination. I had the impression that the examination would be severe and was doubtful of my ability to pass. In this connection it is proper to say that some had failed in these examinations that afterwards became noted medical men. Among them, I was informed, was Dr. Austin Flint, Sr., whose work on the practice of medicine was standard and considered the best when I was a student. His son, Dr. Austin Flint, Jr., also became famous as our great Physiologist and his work on that subject is standard today. It was not until the following January that I heard from my examination, and was then directed to report at St. Louis to be mustered into the service as Acting Assistant Surgeon in the United States Army. There was necessarily some delay in disposing of the few things we had, some of which we sold and some of which we stored. Finally everything being disposed of, we left our home in Washington, Iowa, and from there, after a day with friends, took a train for Burlington, thence to Keokuk, where my wife remained visiting relatives, I going on to St. Louis to report.

I was mustered into the service January 29th, 1869, and ordered to report to the Medical Director, Department of the Missouri at Leavenworth, Kansas, for assignment to duty. The Department of the Missouri at the time comprised the States of Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, New Mexico, The Indian Territory, and I think Arkansas.

General Sheridan was the commanding officer of the department at that time. He also had a brother who was a captain and who was also stationed at Leavenworth. Dr. Miles was the Medical Director of the Department and Dr. McGruder was Post Surgeon at Leavenworth. I was on waiting orders at Fort Leavenworth for something over a month during which time I got my first impression of the rank and file of the Regular Army. The officers impressed me as very self important, exceedingly courteous and cordial, and charming in their broad-gauge views of current events and their unreserved candor in discussing all subjects. I must except one subject, however, and that was politics. An army officer is supposed to have no politics, or if he has he keeps them in reserve. Seldom during nearly seven years of my life in the army did I hear politics mentioned. An army officer is supposed to do his duty regardless of who holds political authority over him, and this he does most loyally. The enlisted men impressed me as a clean, attractive and well disciplined body of soldiers. Another thing that impressed me was the absolute separation of the officers and enlisted men. It may be different now but at that time there seemed to be nothing of even a fraternal interest. The officer commanded and the soldier obeyed. In this way they seemed as distinct as oil and water, and it was a rather surprising contrast to the volunteer service during the war, where enlisted men and officers often from the same town and nearly always from the same community fraternized and often addressed each other by their given names; while in the regular service there was nothing of the kind. An officer when passing an enlisted man always received a salute. The men or man standing at attention when giving it and the officer was required to return the salute. The men may be sitting down, say outside of their barracks, and when an officer approaches and gets within a certain distance they all rise at once, stand at attention, and give the salute, and this is the extent of their relations with each other.

The officers mess at Leavenworth was quite a large one, mostly of unmarried men, although there were maybe two or three married couples, and was exceedingly cordial and sociable with each other. Those of the rank of Captain or higher up in rank were always addressed by their military title of Captain or Major, as it might be, but the Lieutenants were addressed as Mister, or by their surnames, as Mr. Jones or simply Jones.

The first of March came and with it came pay-day, a matter that seemed of much interest to the officers. It did not take me long to learn its importance for army officers at that time as a rule literally lived up their salaries. I finally learned that an officer was considered by many other officers as a little off color if he was close-fisted and tried to save money out of his pay. To me it was a matter of importance because I was poor and needed it. I sent most of my first month's pay, after paying mess bill and a few other necessary expenses, to my wife, not keeping enough, as I afterward learned, for an emergency that might arise. Expecting to be ordered to some frontier post, I took the precaution to invest in a pistol, a very ridiculous thing to do, as I now think of it. The further history of that pistol will appear later on in this story.

While at Leavenworth the officers gave a hop. I never knew why it was called a hop instead of a dance, but it was always so designated in the army. Officers came from other places, particularly Fort Riley, among whom was General Custer of cavalry fame during the Civil War, and a noted Indian fighter on the frontier. I watched him with a good deal of interest, for at that time he was a distinguished man in the service, and I must say that I was rather disappointed in his appearance. He seemed to me to be under-sized and slender, and at first blush to be effeminate in appearance. Maybe his long hair, almost reaching to his shoulders, gave this impression, but the face was something of a study and hard to describe. Something of boldness or maybe dash, a quick eye, and he was intensely energetic, giving the impression that he would be a veritable whirlwind in an engagement. He did not convey the idea of a great character. He was a very graceful dancer. His career ended at the famous battle in our Indian warfare, that of the Little Big Horn. Not a man of his command escaped to tell the story.

I think it was about the 8th or 9th of March that I received orders to report to the Chief Medical Officer, District of New Mexico, for assignment to duty. The quartermaster furnished transportation, that is to say, orders to the transportation companies, railroads, stage-lines, etc., to carry the officer to point of destination. This, together with the order of assignment to duty, would carry one wherever the assignment directed. At this time the so-called Kansas-Pacific railroad was built out pretty well towards the west line of the state, but there were no transcontinental lines finished until the following summer. The Union and Central Pacifics joining that year in Utah in July.

I left Fort Leavenworth in the morning and before night was out on the plains. From Leavenworth to Topeka there was some settlement. The towns as I remember them were mere railroad stations, except Lawrence, which was more pretentious, and the scattering farmhouses were small and primitive in style. Topeka seemed to be something of a town, but from there west the country was only partially inhabited. Fort Hayes stood out prominently to the left of the railroad but the whole country seemed one great sea of desolation unlimited in extent. At that time I would not have given ten dollars per square league for what has since become one of the famous wheat fields of the country. The evening of the second day we arrived at a place called Sheridan which was the terminus of the railroad. It was a straggling place of tents and wooden shacks, dance halls, bawdy houses, gambling houses and saloons. Murders were of frequent occurrence and it was considered dangerous to be on the street at night. There was only one street in the town. I started out on this street about dusk, thinking I had better go to the stage office and arrange for my transportation on to Santa Fe. The landlord happened to notice me and called for me to wait a minute and when he had joined me he inquired where I was going. He said he would go with me as it might not be safe for me to be alone, and told me of a killing in front of the hotel the night before.

My bed that night was on the second story, merely floored, and not plastered or sealed, and the roof slanted down close to the bed. The space between the floor and the edge of the roof was open and I could look down into the saloon. I watched the patrons of this place for some time for it was altogether a new experience. The clinking of glasses; the loud talk; the dim lights; and the thorough abandonment of the motley crowd remains quite vividly in my memory. It finally occurred to me that in the event of a shooting scrape, even there in bed was not a very safe place, so I edged over to the far side of the bed and soon dropped to sleep, not waking until called in the morning.

We got an early start and I had the stage mostly to myself until we crossed the Raton spur of the mountain. The nights were chilly and I was not over-warmly clad, but I managed after the first night to get a fair amount of sleep. I felt some fear of Indians although it was too early in the season for them to go on the war-path. The summer before had been a particularly bad one on the plains. Forsythe's command was almost annihilated in October, 1868, on the Ariskaree Fork of the Republican river, and at every stage station until after we reached Trinidad, Colo., the first salutation between the men at the station and our conductor was whether either had seen any Indians. The apprehension was not that the Indians would go on the war-path at that time of the year, because their ponies could not exist until the grass was well started, but that some of the venturesome young bucks might take it into their heads to attack the stage coach. I peeked out of the coach at night and wondered if there was any probability of Indians attacking us and thought of my pistol, but was not proud of it, or of my ability to use it.

The stage stations were interesting to me. On the plains proper they were uniformly built, underground as far up as the sidewalls extended, and was located near some water hole and at an elevation that would command a view of the surrounding country for some distance. Above the dirt walls large logs were laid, upon which the cross timbers were placed for supporting the roof. These logs were raised from the ground enough, say three or four inches, to give the occupants a good view of the surrounding country, and an opportunity of using their carbines against attack from the Indians, with comparative safety to themselves. The roof was covered with dirt. The stables were built the same way with underground passages or open ditches connected with the station proper. Both station and stable were connected in the same way with the water hole. At these stations on the plains proper, were stationed a small squad of soldiers, maybe a half dozen, under the command of a noncommissioned officer, generally a sergeant, and you can readily see that the Indians would be a little cautious about getting too near such a place although during the summer season they often attacked the stage between stations. The stations were at variable distances apart, depending on the water supply, generally from eight to twenty miles apart, and were supplied by government trains on their way to the military posts of the West. There was not much to attract attention in approaching these stations, no building in sight, no sign of life. The first thing you knew some one would hollow "Hello!" and "Hello!" would come back. "Have you seen any Indians?" and there you are. The last inquiry was natural enough when you consider the near approach of spring, when the grass would be green enough to furnish feed for Indian ponies. Indians would not appear in large numbers at this time of the year, but little roving bands, maybe one or two venturesome bucks might be seen almost daily at a safe distance, evidently spying out the prospects for more serious work later in the season. Of course we got our meals at these stations, consisting generally of bacon, hot corn-bread or biscuit, a vegetable or two, and black coffee. This menu varied some after we crossed the Raton Mountains and were practically out of Indian troubles, when we had a greater variety, and it was better prepared.

We got to Trinidad late at night, the first town after crossing the plains, and located just at the base on the north side of the Raton Range near the Purgatory river. This was a mining town of some importance in those days, and had the usual quota of dance halls, gambling dens and other equipment of a typical mining town.

We got to Dick Wooton's early the following morning and had a good breakfast. His place was located near the top of Raton Pass and consisted at that time of a rambling lot of log buildings; one for a house proper, which was clean, comfortable, and attractive inside, and the others for stables, blacksmith and wagon shops, and in fact anything and everything where repairs to transportation could be made. Dick himself was an attractive personality, was large, quite above the average in size, with a cheery open face giving little evidence of the frontier man, and yet he was almost as noted as Kit Carson with whom he was associated as pioneer and scout. Both were noted men on the frontier. Wooton, however, took a more practical view of life than Carson and conceived the idea of building a wagon road over the Raton Pass. This road was completed and I think had been for some time before I crossed the pass. If I remember correctly we crossed a little stream coming down from near the top of the range thirteen times before we came to the top of the pass. Wooton had some kind of permit or authority from the government for building this road and was authorized to make it a toll road. He was reported to have made quite a fortune from the revenue derived from it.

A little place called Cimarron, (which in Spanish means mountain of sheep) or Maxwell's ranch was the next place of interest to me. This is some distance south of the Raton Range, maybe half way from Trinidad to Fort Union. It seemed that Maxwell married a high class Spanish woman whose family owned an immense estate in what was Mexico before it was ceded to the United States. In the division of the estate Maxwell's wife got a grant of many thousands of acres on the head waters of the Cimarron, a tributary of the Canadian, which I understand was very much reduced as a result of extended litigation with the government as to title. We traveled for miles on what was then called Maxwell's Ranch, where great herds of sheep, cattle and horses were to be seen, with an adobe house here and there, where herders lived. It was a great pleasure to stop even for one meal at such a place as Maxwell's. The house was commodious and handsomely furnished and everything was prosperous and home-like. Some years later I had the pleasure of acquaintance of a daughter of Mr. Maxwell's who married a lieutenant in the army and we were serving at the same post.

We passed Fort Union in the night and I did not get to see much of it, but I understand it to be only a military post and base of supplies, for the Quarter-Master or Commissary Department of the army for the District of New Mexico.

My first view of Las Vegas (The Meadows, in Spanish) was over a beautiful wide valley, some three or four miles across, through which a pretty little stream of water, the source of the Pecos river, was wending its way. The view was beautiful and the town looked to be a place of importance, but proved to be disappointing on a closer acquaintance.

Not far from Las Vegas we passed what was called the old Pecos church. It was only a little distance from the road and said to have been built in the seventeenth century. It stood alone in its desolation and had partially fallen into decay. The roof was off, the walls partly broken down and it looked to be as old as reported.

We arrived in Santa Fe late in the evening and stopped at the hotel or fonda, as it is called in Spanish. At first one feels that he is in a different country; something foreign and out of the usual, and this feeling grows with closer acquaintance. For instance you go direct from the street to your room if your wife is with you, or to a kind of a lobby or sitting room with a bar at one side if alone.

I was thankful that the stage ride was ended. We had been going night and day since leaving the railroad at Sheridan, Kans., a distance of nearly four hundred miles, and although I had the stage to myself most of the way, one passenger got on at Cimarron that I will feel grateful to the balance of my days, and from Fort Union to Santa Fe the coach was crowded all the way. The stage lines in those days had a conductor who went to the end of the route, much as our railroad conductors do today, while the drivers like our engineers, only went to what might be called division points, say twelve-hour trips.

The conductor has charge, and is responsible for the United States mail and the express packages which are carried in what is called the front boot, and where the conductor curls up among the mail sacks and packages and sleeps at night. The back boot is devoted to baggage. Inside there are generally two seats facing each other and wide enough for three persons if not too big, on each seat. The stage coach had a great swinging body resting on two immense leather straps for springs, one on each side underneath and extending from front to back. These flexible springs gave the coach an easy side swing and it was not a particularly unpleasant thing to ride in.

Having arrived in Santa Fe late Saturday evening I did not report until next morning, and about noon an orderly brought to the hotel my orders from the Chief Medical officer directing me to report to the commanding officer at Fort Selden, New Mex., for assignment to duty. This was startling news, for Fort Selden was the last military post before reaching the Mexican border and I had only $2.50 in my pocket and my hotel bill to pay. Being new in the service and something of a tenderfoot I did not want to go to the other officers for help. I left my room and went down to the hotel lobby and among others who were there was the gentleman who got on the stage at Cimarron. We had traveled together from Cimarron to Santa Fe with hardly the exchange of the usual courtesies. I was not a good mixer and he had nothing to say, but my case was very desperate. I had to talk to someone so I asked if he was acquainted in Santa Fe and he said "some." I told him my troubles and that I had a good watch and a good pistol (that pistol was a hoodoo by this time) that I would put up as security for a few dollars to pay my expenses on the way to Fort Selden. He said: "Well, nobody would give you anything for them things. If I had the money I would let you have it." This in a rather slow drowning voice. I took this as a matter of course. Anybody would talk the same way, I thought, whether they had it or not.

Dinner was soon ready. The dining room was away to the rear end of this somewhat rambling hotel building. We passed through a billiard hall and maybe some store rooms before reaching it. I think, however, there was a different route for the ladies. I suppose the dinner was good but do not remember much about it. I do remember, however, on the way back through the pool hall I stopped to glance around the room which was a very long one with many tables and many players. The second table away became very interesting to me for near it stood my man of short acquaintance apparently talking to one of the players, a large fine looking man who, laying his cue across the corner of the table, pulled out such a wad of bills as I had never seen before and commenced counting out the money to my newly made acquaintance. I passed and went up to my room wondering if he would keep his word, now that he had the money. I tried to read but made poor headway. Pretty soon there was a light tap on the door and I said "come in." The door opened and there was my new found friend who took a seat in a rather deliberate way and said nothing. I made some remark about the weather which seemed to meet his approval but directly he asked me: "About how much money do you think you will need?" I told him I thought about twenty dollars would be enough. He brought from his pocket a great bunch of bank notes and counted out twenty dollars and handed it to me. When I offered my security he politely turned them down saying he would take chances. When I asked him if he had never lost money that way he replied, "Yes, some." And when I said I would feel better myself if he would take something to make himself safe he said, "Oh no, I'll take chances." When next I inquired about his knowledge of Santa Fe and the west generally he became more communicative and informed me that he had spent all his life from a youngster as a prospector, sometimes striking it good and selling out and trying it again; sometimes having plenty of money, and at other times having nothing. Someone else would then furnish him a "grub-stake" as he called it with which to try again. He and his partners had just sold out a gold mine at Cimarron and I presume the money I saw him receive from the big man at the pool table was part of the proceeds of that sale. He finally asked me if I cared to walk about the town some. I think I would have gone with him anywhere, so I responded very promptly that I would like to. The town was utterly strange to me, so different from anything I had ever seen: adobe walls, adobe houses, and the people were as strange looking as the houses. The women wore some kind of a wrap over their head called a mantilla (pronounced man-tee-ya, with the accent on the second syllable) leaving a little open space for one eye to peep out at people they met, and the men with the wide brimmed, high peaked hats that I afterwards learned are the universal costumes of the Mexican people. After looking around a bit my companion asked me if I would like to see a cock-fight. Sure thing, of course I would, although having been raised a strict Scotch Presbyterian I felt some qualms of conscience about witnessing such an exhibition on the "Sabbath."