And
sure
enough,
two
or
three
years
afterward,
we
did
hear
him
again.
News
came
to
the
Pacific
coast
that
the
Vigilance
Committee
in
Montana
(whither Slade had removed
from
Rocky
Ridge) had hanged him. I find
an
account
of
the
affair
in
the
thrilling
little
book
I quoted a
paragraph
from
in
the
last
chapter—"The
Vigilantes
of
Montana; being a Reliable
Account
of
the
Capture,
Trial
and
Execution
of
Henry
Plummer's
Notorious
Road
Agent Band:
By
Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale,
Virginia
City, M.T." Mr. Dimsdale's
chapter
is
well
worth
reading,
as
a
specimen
of
how
the
people
of
the
frontier
deal
with
criminals
when
the
courts
of
law
prove
inefficient. Mr. Dimsdale
makes
two
remarks
about
Slade,
both
of
which
are
accurately
descriptive,
and
one
of
which
is
exceedingly picturesque: "Those
who
saw
him
in
his
natural
state
only,
would
pronounce
him
to
be
a
kind
husband, a
most
hospitable
host
and
a
courteous
gentleman;
on
the
contrary,
those
who
met
him
when
maddened
with
liquor
and
surrounded
by
a gang
of
armed roughs,
would
pronounce
him
a
fiend
incarnate."
And
this: "From
Fort
Kearney, west,
he
was
feared
a
great
deal
more
than
the
almighty."
For
compactness,
simplicity
and
vigor
of
expression, I
will
"back"
that
sentence against
anything
in
literature. Mr. Dimsdale's
narrative
is
as
follows.
In
all
places
where
italics
occur,
they
are
mine:
There
is
something
about
the
desperado-nature
that
is
wholly
unaccountable—at
least
it
looks
unaccountable.
It
is
this.
The
true
desperado
is
gifted
with
splendid
courage,
and
yet
he
will
take
the
most
infamous
advantage
of
his
enemy; armed
and
free,
he
will
stand
up
before
a host
and
fight
until
he
is
shot
all
to
pieces,
and
yet
when
he
is
under
the
gallows
and
helpless
he
will
cry
and
plead
like
a child.
Words
are
cheap,
and
it
is
easy
to
call
Slade a
coward
(all
executed
men
who
do
not
"die game"
are
promptly
called
cowards
by
unreflecting people),
and
when
we
read
of
Slade
that
he
"had
so
exhausted
himself
by
tears,
prayers
and
lamentations,
that
he
had
scarcely
strength
left
to
stand
under
the
fatal
beam,"
the
disgraceful
word
suggests
itself
in
a moment—yet
in
frequently
defying
and
inviting
the
vengeance
of
banded
Rocky
Mountain
cut-throats
by
shooting
down
their
comrades
and
leaders,
and
never
offering
to
hide
or
fly, Slade
showed
that
he
was
a
man
of
peerless bravery.
No
coward
would
dare
that.
Many
a
notorious
coward,
many
a chicken-livered poltroon, coarse, brutal, degraded, has
made
his
dying
speech
without
a quaver
in
his
voice
and
been swung
into
eternity
with
what
looked
liked
the
calmest
fortitude,
and
so
we
are
justified
in
believing,
from
the
low
intellect
of
such
a creature,
that
it
was
not
moral
courage
that
enabled
him
to
do
it. Then,
if
moral
courage
is
not
the
requisite
quality,
what
could
it
have
been
that
this
stout-hearted Slade lacked?—this bloody, desperate, kindly-mannered,
urbane
gentleman,
who
never
hesitated
to
warn
his
most
ruffianly
enemies
that
he
would
kill
them
whenever
or
wherever
he
came
across
them
next! I
think
it
is
a
conundrum
worth
investigating.