Really
and
truly,
two
thirds
of
the
talk
of
drivers
and
conductors
had been
about
this
man
Slade,
ever
since
the
day
before
we
reached Julesburg.
In
order
that
the
eastern
reader
may
have
a clear
conception
of
what
a
Rocky
Mountain
desperado
is,
in
his
highest
state
of
development, I
will
reduce
all
this
mass
of
overland gossip
to
one
straightforward narrative,
and
present
it
in
the
following
shape: Slade
was
born
in
Illinois,
of
good
parentage.
At
about
twenty-six
years
of
age
he
killed
a
man
in
a
quarrel
and
fled
the
country.
At
St. Joseph, Missouri,
he
joined
one
of
the
early
California-bound
emigrant
trains,
and
was
given
the
post
of
train-master.
One
day
on
the
plains
he
had
an
angry
dispute
with
one
of
his
wagon-drivers,
and
both
drew
their
revolvers.
But
the
driver
was
the
quicker
artist,
and
had
his
weapon
cocked
first.
So
Slade said
it
was
a
pity
to
waste
life
on
so
small a matter,
and
proposed
that
the
pistols
be
thrown
on
the
ground
and
the
quarrel
settled
by
a fist-fight.
The
unsuspecting driver agreed,
and
threw
down
his
pistol—whereupon Slade laughed
at
his
simplicity,
and
shot
him
dead!
He
made
his
escape,
and
lived
a wild
life
for
awhile,
dividing
his
time
between
fighting Indians
and
avoiding
an
Illinois
sheriff,
who
had been sent
to
arrest
him
for
his
first
murder.
It
is
said
that
in
one
Indian
battle
he
killed
three
savages
with
his
own
hand,
and
afterward
cut
their
ears
off
and
sent them,
with
his
compliments,
to
the
chief
of
the
tribe. Slade
soon
gained
a
name
for
fearless resolution,
and
this
was
sufficient
merit
to
procure
for
him
the
important
post
of
overland division-agent
at
Julesburg,
in
place
of
Mr. Jules, removed.
For
some
time previously,
the
company's
horses
had been frequently stolen,
and
the
coaches delayed,
by
gangs
of
outlaws,
who
were
wont
to
laugh
at
the
idea
of
any
man's
having
the
temerity
to
resent
such
outrages. Slade
resented
them
promptly.
The
outlaws
soon
found
that
the
new
agent
was
a
man
who
did
not
fear
anything
that
breathed
the
breath
of
life.
He
made
short
work
of
all
offenders.
The
result
was
that
delays
ceased,
the
company's
property
was
let
alone,
and
no
matter
what
happened
or
who
suffered, Slade's coaches went through,
every
time! True,
in
order
to
bring
about
this
wholesome
change, Slade had
to
kill
several
men—some
say
three,
others
say
four,
and
others
six—but
the
world
was
the
richer
for
their
loss.
The
first
prominent
difficulty
he
had
was
with
the
ex-agent Jules,
who
bore
the
reputation
of
being a
reckless
and
desperate
man
himself. Jules
hated
Slade
for
supplanting
him,
and
a
good
fair
occasion
for
a
fight
was
all
he
was
waiting
for.
By
and
by
Slade
dared
to
employ
a
man
whom
Jules had
once
discharged. Next, Slade
seized
a
team
of
stage-horses
which
he
accused Jules
of
having
driven
off
and
hidden
somewhere
for
his
own
use.
War
was
declared,
and
for
a
day
or
two
the
two
men walked warily
about
the
streets,
seeking
each
other, Jules armed
with
a double-barreled
shot
gun,
and
Slade
with
his
history-creating revolver. Finally,
as
Slade
stepped
into
a
store
Jules
poured
the
contents
of
his
gun
into
him
from
behind
the
door. Slade
was
plucky,
and
Jules got
several
bad
pistol
wounds
in
return.
Then
both
men fell,
and
were
carried
to
their
respective
lodgings,
both
swearing
that
better
aim
should
do
deadlier
work
next
time.
Both
were
bedridden
a
long
time,
but
Jules got
to
his
feet first,
and
gathering
his
possessions
together,
packed
them
on
a
couple
of
mules,
and
fled
to
the
Rocky
Mountains
to
gather
strength
in
safety
against
the
day
of
reckoning.
For
many
months
he
was
not
seen
or
heard
of,
and
was
gradually
dropped
out
of
the
remembrance
of
all
save Slade himself.
But
Slade
was
not
the
man
to
forget
him.
On
the
contrary,
common
report
said
that
Slade kept a
reward
standing
for
his
capture,
dead
or
alive!
After
awhile,
seeing
that
Slade's
energetic
administration
had
restored
peace
and
order
to
one
of
the
worst
divisions
of
the
road,
the
overland
stage
company
transferred
him
to
the
Rocky
Ridge
division
in
the
Rocky
Mountains,
to
see
if
he
could
perform
a
like
miracle
there.
It
was
the
very
paradise
of
outlaws
and
desperadoes.
There
was
absolutely
no
semblance
of
law
there.
Violence
was
the
rule.
Force
was
the
only
recognized
authority.
The
commonest
misunderstandings
were
settled
on
the
spot
with
the
revolver
or
the
knife.
Murders
were
done
in
open
day,
and
with
sparkling frequency,
and
nobody
thought
of
inquiring
into
them.
It
was
considered
that
the
parties
who
did
the
killing
had
their
private
reasons
for
it;
for
other
people
to
meddle
would
have
been
looked
upon
as
indelicate.
After
a murder,
all
that
Rocky
Mountain
etiquette
required
of
a
spectator
was,
that
he
should
help
the
gentleman
bury
his
game—otherwise
his
churlishness
would
surely
be
remembered
against
him
the
first
time
he
killed
a
man
himself
and
needed
a neighborly
turn
in
interring
him. Slade
took
up
his
residence
sweetly
and
peacefully
in
the
midst
of
this
hive
of
horse-thieves
and
assassins,
and
the
very
first
time
one
of
them
aired
his
insolent
swaggerings
in
his
presence
he
shot
him
dead!
He
began a raid
on
the
outlaws,
and
in
a singularly
short
space
of
time
he
had completely stopped
their
depredations
on
the
stage
stock,
recovered
a
large
number
of
stolen horses,
killed
several
of
the
worst
desperadoes
of
the
district,
and
gained
such
a
dread
ascendancy
over
the
rest
that
they
respected
him,
admired
him,
feared
him,
obeyed
him!
He
wrought
the
same
marvelous
change
in
the
ways
of
the
community
that
had
marked
his
administration
at
Overland City.
He
captured
two
men
who
had stolen overland stock,
and
with
his
own
hands
he
hanged them.
He
was
supreme
judge
in
his
district,
and
he
was
jury
and
executioner
likewise—and
not
only
in
the
case
of
offences against
his
employers,
but
against passing
emigrants
as
well.
On
one
occasion
some
emigrants
had
their
stock lost
or
stolen,
and
told
Slade,
who
chanced
to
visit
their
camp.
With
a single
companion
he
rode
to
a ranch,
the
owners
of
which
he
suspected,
and
opening
the
door,
commenced
firing,
killing
three,
and
wounding
the
fourth.
From
a bloodthirstily interesting
little
Montana
book.—["The
Vigilantes
of
Montana,"
by
Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale.]—I
take
this
paragraph: Slade
was
a matchless
marksman
with
a
navy
revolver.
The
legends
say
that
one
morning
at
Rocky
Ridge,
when
he
was
feeling comfortable,
he
saw
a
man
approaching
who
had
offended
him
some
days
before—observe
the
fine
memory
he
had
for
matters
like
that—and, "Gentlemen," said Slade, drawing, "it
is
a
good
twenty-yard shot—I'll
clip
the
third
button
on
his
coat!"
Which
he
did.
The
bystanders
all
admired
it.
And
they
all
attended
the
funeral, too.
On
one
occasion
a
man
who
kept a
little
whisky-shelf
at
the
station
did
something
which
angered
Slade—and went
and
made
his
will. A
day
or
two
afterward
Slade came
in
and
called
for
some
brandy.
The
man
reached
under
the
counter
(ostensibly
to
get
a bottle—possibly
to
get
something
else),
but
Slade
smiled
upon
him
that
peculiarly
bland
and
satisfied
smile
of
his
which
the
neighbors
had
long
ago
learned
to
recognize
as
a death-warrant
in
disguise,
and
told
him
to
"none
of
that!—pass
out
the
high-priced article."
So
the
poor
bar-keeper had
to
turn
his
back
and
get
the
high-priced
brandy
from
the
shelf;
and
when
he
faced
around
again
he
was
looking
into
the
muzzle
of
Slade's pistol. "And
the
next
instant," added my informant, impressively, "he
was
one
of
the
deadest
men
that
ever
lived."
The
stage-drivers
and
conductors
told
us
that
sometimes Slade
would
leave
a
hated
enemy
wholly
unmolested, unnoticed
and
unmentioned,
for
weeks
together—had
done
it
once
or
twice
at
any
rate.
And
some
said
they
believed
he
did
it
in
order
to
lull
the
victims
into
unwatchfulness,
so
that
he
could
get
the
advantage
of
them,
and
others
said
they
believed
he
saved
up
an
enemy
that
way,
just
as
a schoolboy saves
up
a cake,
and
made
the
pleasure
go
as
far
as
it
would
by
gloating
over
the
anticipation.
One
of
these
cases
was
that
of
a Frenchman
who
had
offended
Slade.
To
the
surprise
of
everybody Slade
did
not
kill
him
on
the
spot,
but
let
him
alone
for
a
considerable
time. Finally, however,
he
went
to
the
Frenchman's
house
very
late
one
night, knocked,
and
when
his
enemy
opened
the
door,
shot
him
dead—pushed
the
corpse
inside
the
door
with
his
foot,
set
the
house
on
fire
and
burned
up
the
dead
man,
his
widow
and
three
children! I
heard
this
story
from
several
different
people,
and
they
evidently
believed
what
they
were
saying.
It
may
be
true,
and
it
may
not. "Give a
dog
a
bad
name," etc. Slade
was
captured, once,
by
a
party
of
men
who
intended
to
lynch
him.
They
disarmed
him,
and
shut
him
up
in
a
strong
log-house,
and
placed
a
guard
over
him.
He
prevailed
on
his
captors
to
send
for
his
wife,
so
that
he
might
have
a
last
interview
with
her.
She
was
a brave, loving, spirited woman.
She
jumped
on
a
horse
and
rode
for
life
and
death.
When
she
arrived
they
let
her
in
without
searching
her,
and
before
the
door
could
be
closed
she
whipped
out
a
couple
of
revolvers,
and
she
and
her
lord
marched
forth
defying
the
party.
And
then,
under
a
brisk
fire,
they
mounted
double
and
galloped
away
unharmed!
In
the
fulness
of
time Slade's
myrmidons
captured
his
ancient
enemy
Jules,
whom
they
found
in
a well-chosen hiding-place
in
the
remote
fastnesses
of
the
mountains,
gaining
a
precarious
livelihood
with
his
rifle.
They
brought
him
to
Rocky
Ridge, bound
hand
and
foot,
and
deposited
him
in
the
middle
of
the
cattle-yard
with
his
back
against a post.
It
is
said
that
the
pleasure
that
lit
Slade's face
when
he
heard
of
it
was
something
fearful
to
contemplate.
He
examined
his
enemy
to
see
that
he
was
securely tied,
and
then
went
to
bed,
content
to
wait
till
morning
before
enjoying
the
luxury
of
killing
him. Jules spent
the
night
in
the
cattle-yard,
and
it
is
a
region
where
warm
nights
are
never
known.
In
the
morning
Slade
practised
on
him
with
his
revolver, nipping
the
flesh
here
and
there,
and
occasionally clipping
off
a finger,
while
Jules
begged
him
to
kill
him
outright
and
put
him
out
of
his
misery. Finally Slade reloaded,
and
walking
up
close
to
his
victim,
made
some
characteristic
remarks
and
then
dispatched
him.
The
body
lay
there
half
a day,
nobody
venturing
to
touch
it
without
orders,
and
then
Slade
detailed
a
party
and
assisted
at
the
burial
himself.
But
he
first
cut
off
the
dead
man's
ears
and
put
them
in
his
vest
pocket,
where
he
carried
them
for
some
time
with
great
satisfaction.
That
is
the
story
as
I
have
frequently
heard
it
told
and
seen
it
in
print
in
California
newspapers.
It
is
doubtless
correct
in
all
essential
particulars.
In
due
time
we
rattled
up
to
a stage-station,
and
sat
down
to
breakfast
with
a half-savage, half-civilized
company
of
armed
and
bearded
mountaineers, ranchmen
and
station
employees.
The
most
gentlemanly- appearing,
quiet
and
affable
officer
we
had
yet
found
along
the
road
in
the
Overland Company's
service
was
the
person
who
sat
at
the
head
of
the
table,
at
my elbow.
Never
youth
stared
and
shivered
as
I
did
when
I
heard
them
call
him
SLADE!
Here
was
romance,
and
I sitting face
to
face
with
it!—looking
upon
it—touching it—hobnobbing
with
it,
as
it
were! Here,
right
by
my side,
was
the
actual
ogre
who,
in
fights
and
brawls
and
various
ways, had taken
the
lives
of
twenty-six
human
beings,
or
all
men
lied
about
him! I
suppose
I
was
the
proudest
stripling
that
ever
traveled
to
see
strange
lands
and
wonderful
people.
He
was
so
friendly
and
so
gentle-spoken
that
I
warmed
to
him
in
spite
of
his
awful
history.
It
was
hardly
possible
to
realize
that
this
pleasant
person
was
the
pitiless
scourge
of
the
outlaws,
the
raw-head-and-bloody-
bones
the
nursing mothers
of
the
mountains
terrified
their
children with.
And
to
this
day
I
can
remember
nothing
remarkable
about
Slade
except
that
his
face
was
rather
broad
across
the
cheek
bones,
and
that
the
cheek
bones
were
low
and
the
lips
peculiarly
thin
and
straight.
But
that
was
enough
to
leave
something
of
an
effect
upon
me,
for
since
then
I
seldom
see
a face
possessing
those
characteristics
without
fancying
that
the
owner
of
it
is
a
dangerous
man.
The
coffee
ran
out.
At
least
it
was
reduced
to
one
tin-cupful,
and
Slade
was
about
to
take
it
when
he
saw
that
my
cup
was
empty.
He
politely
offered
to
fill
it,
but
although I wanted it, I
politely
declined. I
was
afraid
he
had
not
killed
anybody
that
morning,
and
might
be
needing
diversion.
But
still
with
firm
politeness
he
insisted
on
filling my cup,
and
said I had traveled
all
night
and
better
deserved
it
than
he—and
while
he
talked
he
placidly
poured
the
fluid,
to
the
last
drop. I
thanked
him
and
drank
it,
but
it
gave
me
no
comfort,
for
I
could
not
feel
sure
that
he
would
not
be
sorry, presently,
that
he
had
given
it
away,
and
proceed
to
kill
me
to
distract
his
thoughts
from
the
loss.
But
nothing
of
the
kind
occurred.
We
left
him
with
only
twenty-six
dead
people
to
account
for,
and
I felt a
tranquil
satisfaction
in
the
thought
that
in
so
judiciously
taking
care
of
No. 1
at
that
breakfast-table I had
pleasantly
escaped
being No. 27. Slade came
out
to
the
coach
and
saw
us
off,
first
ordering
certain
rearrangements
of
the
mail-bags
for
our
comfort,
and
then
we
took
leave
of
him, satisfied
that
we
should
hear
of
him
again,
some
day,
and
wondering
in
what
connection.