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.
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:
