Meantime I drove a string of horses from Leavenworth to Fort Kearney, where I met my old friend Bill Trotter, who was then division stage agent.  He employed me at once to drive stage between Kearney and Plum Creek, the road running near the spot where I had my first Indian fight with the McCarthy brothers, and where I killed my first Indian, nearly nine years before.  I drove stage over this route until February, 1866, and while bounding over the cold, dreary road day after day, my thoughts turned continually towards my promised bride, until I at last determined to abandon staging forever, and marry and settle down.  Immediately after coming to this conclusion, I went to St. Louis, where I was most cordially received by my sweetheart; it was arranged between us that our wedding should take place on the 6th day of March, following.

At last the day arrived, and the wedding ceremony was performed at the residence of the bride’s parents, in the presence of a large number of invited friends, whose hearty congratulations we received.  I was certainly to be congratulated, for I had become possessed of a lovely and noble woman, and as I gazed upon her as she stood beside me arrayed in her wedding costume, I indeed felt proud of her; and from that time to this I have always thought that I made a most fortunate choice for a life partner.

An hour after the ceremony we—­my bride and myself—­were on board of a Missouri river steamboat, bound for our new home in Kansas.  My wife’s parents had accompanied us to the boat, and had bidden us a fond farewell and a God-speed on our journey.

During the trip up the river several very amusing, yet awkward incidents occurred, some of which I cannot resist relating.  There happened to be on board the boat an excursion party from Lexington, Missouri, and those comprising it seemed to shun me, for some reason which I could not then account for.  They would point at me, and quietly talk among themselves, and eye me very closely.  Their actions seemed very strange to me.  After the boat had proceeded some little distance, I made the acquaintance of several families from Indiana, who were en route to Kansas.  A gentleman, who seemed to be the leader of these colonists, said to me, “The people of this excursion party don’t seem to have any great love for you.”

“What does it mean?” I asked; “What are they saying?  It’s all a mystery to me.”

“They say that you are one of the Kansas jay-hawkers, and one of Jennison’s house burners,” replied the gentleman.

“I am from Kansas—­that’s true; and was a soldier and a scout in the Union army,” said I; “and I was in Kansas during the border ruffian war of 1856.  Perhaps these people know who I am, and that explains their hard looks.”  I had a lengthy conversation with this gentleman—­for such he seemed to be—­and entertained him with several chapters of the history of the early Kansas troubles, and told him the experiences of my own family.