Your stage driver was usually of a serious, almost sad disposition; inclined to be reticent, particularly about himself and his former life, and his surname was seldom mentioned by himself or his associates. He was known as “Bill” or “Dave” or “Bobo” or “Buckskin,” or some such sobriquet. When, however, he could be induced to talk about himself as a stage driver his stories were always interesting and sometimes thrilling. There was occasionally a liar among them, but most of them had really experienced such serious adventures and “hair-breadth scapes” that it was not necessary for them to draw upon their imaginations.
Rough, profane and unclean of speech among their own sex, they were remarkably courteous to lady passengers and ever thoughtful of their comfort and feelings, and more than once, on arriving at a station where the drivers were to be changed, I have heard one whisper to another: “Remember, Sandy, there is a little lady in the coach.” This was sufficient.
During the most interesting portion of this trip we had two drivers, “Uncle Billy,” who was going to San Antonio on leave, and “Bobo,” the regular driver. They vied with each other in trying to make everything pleasant for Mrs. Mills. They would prepare the high driver’s seat with cushions and blankets and assist her to mount it, and for hours would call her attention to points of interest or entertain her with stories of their experiences, humorous or tragic.
One morning just after daybreak Bobo halted the coach and said: “Gentlemen, get your guns ready; the prints of moccasined feet here are as thick as turkey tracks.”
And so it was, and the tracks were fresh. A large party of Indians had very recently crossed the road, but we saw nor heard more about them.
At “Head of Concho” we came upon a herd of buffalo, and, of course, we dismounted and wantonly fired into them, with what effect I do not know, except that some one wounded an immense bull so seriously that he became angry or sullen and refused to run away as the others did. We, with our deadly Winchesters, ceased firing at him, as he was of no use to us, but not so with the young St. Louis lawyer. He wanted to do something that he could tell about at home, and so he advanced upon the irate animal with his little thirty-two calibre pistol, firing as he went. He was encouraged and animated by the shouts of Bobo and Uncle Billy: “Charge him, mister,” “You’ve got him,” “The next shot will fetch him,” etc.