Chapter II (3)

In a little while all interest was taken up in stretching our necks and watching for the “pony-rider”--the fleet messenger who sped across the continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters nineteen hundred miles in eight days! Think of that for perishable horse and human flesh and blood to do! The pony-rider was usually a little bit of a man, brimful of spirit and endurance. No matter what time of the day or night his watch came on, and no matter whether it was winter or summer, raining, snowing, hailing, or sleeting, or whether his “beat” was a level straight road or a crazy trail over mountain crags and precipices, or whether it led through peaceful regions or regions that swarmed with hostile Indians, he must be always ready to leap into the saddle and be off like the wind! There was no idling-time for a pony-rider on duty. He rode fifty miles without stopping, by daylight, moonlight, starlight, or through the blackness of darkness--just as it happened. He rode a splendid horse that was born for a racer and fed and lodged like a gentleman; kept him at his utmost speed for ten miles, and then, as he came crashing up to the station where stood two men holding fast a fresh, impatient steed, the transfer of rider and mail-bag was made in the twinkling of an eye, and away flew the eager pair and were out of sight before the spectator could get hardly the ghost of a look. Both rider and horse went “flying light.” The rider’s dress was thin, and fitted close; he wore a “roundabout,” and a skull-cap, and tucked his pantaloons into his boot-tops like a race-rider. He carried no arms--he carried nothing that was not absolutely necessary, for even the postage on his literary freight was worth _five dollars a letter_. He got but little frivolous correspondence to carry--his bag had business letters in it, mostly. His horse was stripped of all unnecessary weight, too. He wore a little wafer of a racing-saddle, and no visible blanket. He wore light shoes, or none at all. The little flat mail-pockets strapped under the rider’s thighs would each hold about the bulk of a child’s primer. They held many and many an important business chapter and newspaper letter, but these were written on paper as airy and thin as gold-leaf, nearly, and thus bulk and weight were economized. The stagecoach traveled about a hundred to a hundred and twenty-five miles a day (twenty-four hours), the pony-rider about two hundred and fifty. There were about eighty pony-riders in the saddle all the time, night and day, stretching in a long, scattering procession from the Missouri to California, forty flying eastward, and forty toward the west, and among them making four hundred gallant horses earn a stirring livelihood and see a deal of scenery every single day in the year.

We had had a consuming desire, from the beginning, to see a pony-rider, but somehow or other all that passed us and all that met us managed to streak by in the night, and so we heard only a whiz and a hail, and the swift phantom of the desert was gone before we could get our heads out of the windows. But now we were expecting one along every moment, and would see him in broad daylight. Presently the driver exclaims:

“HERE HE COMES!”

Every neck is stretched further, and every eye strained wider. Away across the endless dead level of the prairie a black speck appears against the sky, and it is plain that it moves. Well, I should think so! In a second or two it becomes a horse and rider, rising and falling, rising and falling--sweeping toward us nearer and nearer--growing more and more distinct, more and more sharply defined--nearer and still nearer, and the flutter of the hoofs comes faintly to the ear--another instant a whoop and a hurrah from our upper deck, a wave of the rider’s hand, but no reply, and man and horse burst past our excited faces, and go winging away like a belated fragment of a storm!

So sudden is it all, and so like a flash of unreal fancy, that but for the flake of white foam left quivering and perishing on a mail-sack after the vision had flashed by and disappeared, we might have doubted whether we had seen any actual horse and man at all, maybe.

SLADE

From “Roughing It.” By Mark Twain.

There was much magic in that name, SLADE! Day or night, now, I stood always ready to drop any subject in hand, to listen to something new about Slade and his ghastly exploits. Even before we got to Overland City, we had begun to hear about Slade and his “division” (for he was a “division-agent”) on the Overland; and from the hour we had left Overland City we had heard drivers and conductors talk about only three things--“Californy,” the Nevada silver mines, and this desperado Slade. And a deal the most of the talk was about Slade. We had gradually come to have a realizing sense of the fact that Slade was a man whose heart and hands and soul were steeped in the blood of the offenders against his dignity; a man who awfully avenged all injuries, affronts, insults or slights, of whatever kind--on the spot if he could, years afterward if lack of earlier opportunity compelled it; a man whose hate tortured him day and night till vengeance appeased it--and not an ordinary vengeance either, but his enemy’s absolute death--nothing less; a man whose face would light up with a terrible joy when he surprised a foe and had him at a disadvantage. A high and efficient servant of the Overland, an outlaw among outlaws and yet their relentless scourge, Slade was at once the most bloody, the most dangerous, and the most valuable citizen that inhabited the savage fastnesses of the mountains.

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 trainmaster. 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 shotgun, 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 pluck, 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 bed-ridden a long time, but Jules got on 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 the 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 ascendency 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 offenses 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[24] I take this paragraph:

While on the road, Slade held absolute sway. He would ride down to
a station, get into a quarrel, turn the house out of windows, and
maltreat the occupants most cruelly. The unfortunates had no means
of redress, and were compelled to recuperate as best they could. On
one of these occasions, it is said he killed the father of the fine
little half-breed boy Jemmy, whom he adopted, and who lived with his
widow after his execution. Stories of Slade’s hanging men, and of
innumerable assaults, shootings, stabbings, and beatings, in which he
was a principal actor, form part of the legends of the stage line.
As for minor quarrels and shootings, it is absolutely certain that
a minute history of Slade’s life would be one long record of such
practices.

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 barkeeper 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 on enemy that way, just as a schoolboy saved 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 upon 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 fullness 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 was 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 employés. 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 these 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 of 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 from which I have already quoted a paragraph--“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, N. 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:

After the execution of the five men on the 14th of January, the
Vigilantes considered that their work was nearly ended. They had
freed the country of highwaymen and murderers to a great extent, and
they determined that in the absence of the regular civil authority
they would establish a People’s Court where all offenders should be
tried by judge and jury. This was the nearest approach to social
order that the circumstances permitted, and, though strict legal
authority was wanting, yet the people were firmly determined to
maintain its efficiency, and to enforce its decrees. It may here be
mentioned that the overt act which was the last round on the fatal
ladder leading to the scaffold on which Slade perished, _was the
tearing in pieces and stamping upon a writ of this court, followed
by his arrest of the Judge, Alex. Davis, by authority of a presented
Derringer, and with his own hands_.

J. A. Slade was himself, we have been informed, a Vigilante; he
openly boasted of it, and said he knew all that they knew. He was
never accused, or even suspected, of either murder or robbery,
committed in this Territory (the latter crime was never laid to his
charge, in any place); but that he had killed several men in other
localities was notorious, and his bad reputation in this respect
was a most powerful argument in determining his fate, when he was
finally arrested for the offense above mentioned. On returning from
Milk River he became more and more addicted to drinking, until at
last it was a common feat for him and his friends to “take the
town.” He and a couple of his dependents might often be seen on one
horse, galloping through the streets, shouting and yelling, firing
revolvers, etc. On many occasions he would ride his horse into
stores, break up bars, toss the scales out of doors, and use most
insulting language to parties present. Just previous to the day of
his arrest, he had given a fearful beating to one of his followers;
but such was his influence over them that the man wept bitterly at
the gallows, and begged for his life with all his power. _It had
become quite common, when Slade was on a spree, for the shopkeepers
and citizens to close the stores and put out all the lights_; being
fearful of some outrage at his hands. For his wanton destruction of
goods and furniture, he was always ready to pay, when sober, if he
had money; but there were not a few who regarded payment as small
satisfaction for the outrage, and these men were his personal enemies.

From time to time Slade received warnings from men that he well knew
would not deceive him, of the certain end of his conduct. There was
not a moment, for weeks previous to his arrest, in which the public
did not expect to hear of some bloody outrage. The dread of his very
name, and the presence of the armed band of hangers-on who followed
him alone prevented a resistance which must certainly have ended in
the instant murder or mutilation of the opposing party.

Slade was frequently arrested by order of the court whose
organization we have described, and had treated it with respect
by paying one or two fines and promising to pay the rest when he
had money; but in the transaction that occurred at this crisis, he
forgot even this caution, and, goaded by passion and the hatred of
restraint, he sprang into the embrace of death.

Slade had been drunk and “cutting-up” all night. He and his
companions had made the town a perfect hell. In the morning, J. M.
Fox, the sheriff, met him, arrested him, took him into court and
commenced reading a warrant that he had for his arrest, by way of
arraignment. He became uncontrollably furious, and _seizing the
writ, he tore it up, threw it on the ground and stamped upon it_.
The clicking of the locks of his companions’ revolvers was instantly
heard, and a crisis was expected. The sheriff did not attempt
his retention; but being at least as prudent as he was valiant,
he succumbed, leaving Slade the _master of the situation and the
conqueror and ruler of the courts, law, and law-makers_. This was a
declaration of war, and was so accepted. The Vigilance Committee now
felt that the question of social order and the preponderance of the
law-abiding citizens had then and there to be decided. They knew the
character of Slade, and they were well aware that they must submit to
his rule without murmur, or else that he must be dealt with in such
fashion as would prevent his being able to wreak his vengeance on
the committee, who could never have hoped to live in the Territory
secure from outrage or death, and who could never leave it without
encountering his friends, whom his victory would have emboldened
and stimulated to a pitch that would have rendered them reckless of
consequences. The day previous he had ridden into Doris’s store, and,
on being requested to leave, he drew his revolver and threatened to
kill the gentleman who spoke to him. Another saloon he had led his
horse into, and, buying a bottle of wine, he tried to make the animal
drink it. This was not considered an uncommon performance, as he had
often entered saloons and commenced firing at the lamps, causing a
wild stampede.

A leading member of the committee met Slade, and informed him in the
quiet, earnest manner of one who feels the importance of what he is
saying: “Slade, get your horse at once, and go home, or there will
be ---- to pay.” Slade started and took a long look, with his dark
and piercing eyes, at the gentleman. “What do you mean?” said he.
“You have no right to ask what I mean,” was the quiet reply, “get
your horse at once, and remember what I tell you.” After a short
pause he promised to do so, and actually got into the saddle; but,
being still intoxicated, he began calling aloud to one after another
of his friends, and at last seemed to have forgotten the warning
he had received and became again uproarious, shouting the name of
a well-known courtezan in company with those of two men whom he
considered heads of the committee, as a sort of challenge; perhaps,
however, as a simple act of bravado. It seems probable that the
intimation of personal danger he had received had not been forgotten
entirely; though, fatally for him, he took a foolish way of showing
his remembrance of it. He sought out Alexander Davis, the Judge of
the Court, and, drawing a cocked Derringer, he presented it at his
head, and told him that he should hold him as a hostage for his own
safety. As the judge stood perfectly quiet, and offered no resistance
to his captor, no further outrage followed on this score. Previous
to this, on account of the critical state of affairs, the committee
had met, and at last resolved to arrest him. His execution had not
been agreed upon, and, at that time, would have been negatived, most
assuredly. A messenger rode down to Nevada to inform the leading men
of what was on hand, as it was desirable to show that there was a
feeling of unanimity on the subject, all along the gulch.

The miners turned out almost _en masse_, leaving their work and
forming in solid column, about six hundred strong, armed to the
teeth, they marched up to Virginia. The leader of the body well knew
the temper of his men on the subject. He spurred on ahead of them,
and, hastily calling a meeting of the executive, he told them plainly
that the miners meant “business,” and that, if they came up, they
would not stand in the street to be shot down by Slade’s friends; but
that they would take him and hang him. The meeting was small, as the
Virginia men were loath to act at all. This momentous announcement of
the feeling of the Lower Town was made to a cluster of men, who were
deliberating behind a wagon, at the rear of a store on Main street.

The committee were most unwilling to proceed to extremities. All the
duty they had ever performed seemed as nothing to the task before
them; but they had to decide, and that quickly. It was finally agreed
that if the whole body of the miners were of the opinion that he
should be hanged, that the committee left it in their hands to deal
with him. Off, at hot speed, rode the leader of the Nevada men to
join his command.

Slade had found out what was intended, and the news sobered him
instantly. He went into P. S. Pfouts’ store, where Davis was, and
apologized for his conduct, saying that he would take it all back.

The head of the column now wheeled into Wallace street and marched up
at quick time. Halting in front of the store, the executive officer
of the committee stepped forward and arrested Slade, who was at once
informed of his doom, and inquiry was made as to whether he had any
business to settle. Several parties spoke to him on the subject;
but to all such inquiries he turned a deaf ear, being entirely
absorbed in the terrifying reflections on his own awful position. He
never ceased his entreaties for life, and to see his dear wife. The
unfortunate lady referred to, between whom and Slade there existed
a warm affection, was at this time living at their ranch on the
Madison. She was possessed of considerable personal attractions;
tall, well-formed, of graceful carriage, pleasing manners, and was,
withal, an accomplished horsewoman.

A messenger from Slade rode at full speed to inform her of her
husband’s arrest. In an instant she was in the saddle, and with all
the energy that love and despair could lend to an ardent temperament
and a strong physique, she urged her fleet charger over the twelve
miles of rough and rocky ground that intervened between her and the
object of her passionate devotion.

Meanwhile, a party of volunteers had made the necessary preparations
for the execution, in the valley traversed by the branch. Beneath the
site of Pfouts and Russell’s stone building there was a corral, the
gate-posts of which were strong and high. Across the top was laid
a beam, to which the rope was fastened, and a dry-goods box served
for the platform. To this place Slade was marched, surrounded by a
guard, composing the best armed and most numerous force that has ever
appeared in Montana Territory.

The doomed man had so exhausted himself by tears, prayers, and
lamentations, that he had scarcely strength left to stand under the
fatal beam. He repeatedly exclaimed, “My God! my God! must I die? Oh,
my dear wife!”

On the return of the fatigue party, they encountered some friends of
Slade, staunch and reliable citizens and members of the committee,
but who were personally attached to the condemned. On hearing of
his sentence, one of them, a stout-hearted man, pulled out his
handkerchief and walked away, weeping like a child. Slade still
begged to see his wife, most piteously, and it seemed hard to deny
his request; but the bloody consequences that were sure to follow
the inevitable attempt at a rescue, that her presence and entreaties
would have certainly incited, forbade the granting of his request.
Several gentlemen were sent for to see him, in his last moments, one
of whom (Judge Davis) made a short address to the people; but in
such low tones as to be inaudible, save to a few in his immediate
vicinity. One of his friends, after exhausting his powers of
entreaty, threw off his coat and declared that the prisoner could not
be hanged until he himself was killed. A hundred guns were instantly
leveled at him; whereupon he turned and fled; but, being brought
back, he was compelled to resume his coat, and to give a promise of
future peaceable demeanor.

Scarcely a leading man in Virginia could be found, though numbers of
the citizens joined the ranks of the guard when the arrest was made.
All lamented the stern necessity which dictated the execution.

Everything being ready, the command was given, “Men, do your duty,”
and the box being instantly slipped from beneath his feet, he died
almost instantaneously.

The body was cut down and carried to the Virginia Hotel, where, in
a darkened room, it was scarcely laid out, when the unfortunate
and bereaved companion of the deceased arrived, at headlong speed,
to find that all was over, and that she was a widow. Her grief and
heart-piercing cries were terrible evidences of the depth of her
attachment for her lost husband, and a considerable period elapsed
before she could regain the command of her excited feelings.

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 like 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.

GENERAL SHERIDAN HUNTS THE BUFFALO

DE B. R. KEIM

From “On the Border with Sheridan’s Troopers.” Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Claxton, Remsen & Heffinger, Philadelphia.[25]

To relieve the monotony of inactivity the Commanding General, much to the pleasure of a number of the officers of the staff and garrison at Fort Hays, proposed a “genuine” buffalo-hunt. The diversion was also in part out of compliment to Captain Merryman, of the U. S. revenue cutter M’Culloch, then on a visit to headquarters. A bright day in October was fixed for the sport. Accordingly at an early hour the horses were sent to the railroad and put on the cars. Leaving Hays City we ran up the track, a distance of thirty miles. Here, by means of a gangplank, the horses were led out of the cars and saddled by the orderlies. Leaving the guard the General had brought with him to protect the train, we mounted and “lit out,” as rapid locomotion is called in that locality. Each person wore a brace of pistols for close work, and, carried a breech-loading rifle to use at greater distance.

After a lively gallop of several miles, passing within the cordon of watchful sentinels, always found on the outskirts, we struck a herd numbering several thousand animals. Our approach had already been signalled and the herd was moving off at a rapid pace. There was no time to lose. Each one of the party singled out his animal, and putting spurs to his horse dashed after, striving to get abreast his game at a distance of a few paces, in order to deliver his fire. The General led off in the charge followed by Merryman, who, accustomed to salt water navigation, swayed from side to side. He, however, maintained a vigorous hold upon the pummel of the saddle, bounded into the air and returned emphatically, but not always gracefully, into his saddle with every leap of his horse. The General, after considerable manœuvering, managed to separate a fine cow from her companions. The chase was quite spirited for several hundred yards, but a well directed shot under the shoulder, which very summarily suspended the powers of locomotion on the part of the buffalo, put a termination to the race. Several of the party soon became busily engaged on their own account in the exciting sport. One young bull, of irate temper, finding himself selected as a target, undertook to show fight and turned upon his pursuer. For some minutes the characters were reversed, and, judging from appearances, it might have been supposed that the buffalo was the hunter. In the course of an hour five animals were killed. Most of the horses, however, were perfectly “green,” and consequently no use whatever, except to follow, giving the rider an opportunity to witness the sport without participating in it.

There is something majestic and formidable in the appearance of a buffalo. It is therefore not surprising that but few horses will readily approach sufficiently near to enable the hunter to make a close shot. Some horses rebel, notwithstanding every effort to allay their alarm. Others, by a proper course of training, carry their riders, without any direction, into just the position desirable. Such an animal is a treasure in the esteem of a plainsman. He talks about his “buffalo horse” with more pride than he would of himself, had he accomplished a feat ever so wonderful. It was interesting to watch the movements of the trained horse. He approached the buffalo rapidly but cautiously. His eyes were steadily fixed upon the animal and watched every motion. Should the buffalo expedite his pace, the horse did likewise, regulating his increased rate of speed so as to get alongside without unnecessarily alarming the animal. As the horse came abreast, the buffalo naturally swayed his course away to the right or left. This was the dangerous part of the chase. Should the buffalo after moving away, the horse following, turn suddenly, a collision would be almost certain. This the horse seemed to know so perfectly that he changed direction on a long turn. After firing, should the animal fall, the horse kept up his speed, described a circle bringing him back to the carcass of the dead or wounded buffalo.

Timid horses and awkward riders run great risks of their lives by not knowing how to avoid any hostile demonstrations on the part of the buffalo. The latter has the advantage, and by not keeping a close watch, fatal results are sure to occur. An old hunter, mounted on a “buffalo horse,” in every sense of the term, dashing fearlessly across the plain in pursuit of this truly magnificent game, presents a picture the very culmination of manly sport.

During our own attempts to make a fair show of knowledge of the subject, there were several very narrow escapes as regarded personal safety. Two of our party being in pursuit of the same animal, there was quite a competition as to who would get the first shot. The rider in the rear, in the excitement had his pistol go off out of time. The ball passed within a very few inches of the front rider’s head. Both were alarmed, and the race terminated by the one apologizing, and the other feeling around to see whether he had been hurt.

While our own sport was going on, two Mexicans with us, were to be seen in the very midst of the herd following up the younger animals. Each rider had his lariat, holding the coil in one hand and with the other swinging the loop above his head in order to get the proper momentum. It was short work. At the first attempt, each man had his noose over the head of a fine yearling. The horses gradually slackened their gait, while the terrified buffaloes made every effort to escape. One of the lariats, unfortunately, parted and off went the animal with it dangling at his heels. The other calf was secured and sent to the train.

After several hours occupied in the exciting amusement of the chase, we returned to the cars. The horses, much blown, were unsaddled and put aboard. A party of soldiers were sent out to bring in the meat.

On our homeward journey a fine herd of antelopes was discovered ahead, close to the track. By a little skillful calculation of time, distance, and velocity, the engineer brought us within three hundred yards. A perfect fusilade was opened out of the car windows, during which one of the beautiful little animals was seen to fall. The train stopped and the “meat” was brought in. This terminated the day’s sport. At nine o’clock in the evening we reached Fort Hays.

I may, in this connection, make a few passing notes upon the resorts and habits of the American bison or buffalo, as he is popularly designated. With the savage nomad, he constitutes the actual and aboriginal occupant of the plains. The movements of the immense herds of buffaloes regulate the locations of the savage tribes. They constitute the commissariat of the Indian, and govern frequently his ability for war or control his desire for peace. Prior to the opening of the country to the settler, the buffalo roamed over the entire territory from the Missouri river to the Rocky mountains, and from the plains of western Texas to the head-waters of the Missouri in the north. To-day the buffalo is rarely seen south of the Red river, or within two hundred miles of the Missouri, at Kansas City. In numbers he is evidently rapidly diminishing, though the countless herds found during the summer along the railroads, would seem to indicate that the race is far from running out.

The buffalo is migratory in his habits and subject to two influences in his movements, the seasons, and the abundance or scarcity of pasturage. The migrations of the herds appear to be simultaneous. I have seen herd after herd stretching over a distance of eighty miles, all tending in the same direction. During the early spring months they are generally to be found in the regions south of the Canadian, as far as the Red. Here the winters are short and the grass shoots early. As the pasturage makes its appearance towards the north, the herds follow, moving across the Cimmaron, the Arkansas, the Smoky Hill, the Republican, and beyond the Platte. Cases frequently occur where small herds becoming detached from the main bodies, and particularly the old bulls and cows unable to travel, remain north of the Platte, and manage to eke out an existence through the coldest winters. Other small herds are found in different localities far south during the summer. These exceptions, to the general rule of their habits, are always the result of causes, such as inability to follow the main herd, or being detached and driven back.

In all his habits the buffalo displays an instinctive sense of organization and discipline which alone could accomplish the wise provisions of nature in subsisting such enormous masses of animal life. Not only does the great herd, as a mass, preserve a remarkable concert of action “on the move,” but it is subdivided into smaller herds, which seem to be composed of animals having peculiar affinities. These small herds have each their leader, always a fine young or middle-aged bull, whose fighting qualities had won for him the ascendency over all other male competitors. In the black mass presented by the great herd a space, sometimes as limited as a hundred yards, can always be detected between the sub-divisions. Each herd always preserves its relative position to the others, and, in case of alarm, takes flight in a single mass. It also preserves the same relation in galloping to water.

As a precaution against surprise, each herd has its videttes, through which the alarm is given upon the appearance of danger. Approaching a herd, groups of buffaloes in fours and fives are first seen. These, taking the alarm, gallop towards the common centre. The ever-watchful and suspicious young males immediately on the outer edge of the herd receive the movements of the videttes as warnings. They sniff the air, and with piercing vision scan the plain. If the cause of alarm be discovered, the herd-leader, heading the way, sets out, followed by the cows and calves, while the males form a sort of rear guard and flankers. For the sake of protection, the females and the young occupy the centre of the herd. By a wise instinct, the young are thus secured from the ravenous wolf, and the natural timidity of the cow is guarded against sudden or unnecessary alarm.

The evening is the usual time for the herds to set out for water. When moving for this purpose, they may be seen in single file, following their leaders, traveling at an ambling gait. Frequently they travel eight or ten miles to the nearest stream or pond. The passage of large numbers of buffalo in this way over the same ground soon marks out a well-beaten track, resembling a foot-path, and known to hunters as the “buffalo trail.” On the banks of the streams running through the buffalo country these trails may be seen converging from all directions, some faintly marked, while some are worn eight and ten inches in depth. These trails not only follow the most direct course to a given point, but always lead to water or a water-course. The traveler on the plains is frequently obliged to take to the trail of the buffalo in order to reach water. In many places the “buffalo wallow” furnishes a supply of stagnant water which, though extremely unpalatable, has often saved life. The buffalo wallow is a circular, dish-shaped, hole in the earth, about twelve feet in diameter and a foot deep at its greatest concavity. During the warm season, immense clouds of dust are to be seen rising over a herd quietly grazing. Like other animals of his species, the buffalo frequently amuses himself by wallowing in the fine sand or plowing up the earth with his horns. The surface once broken, the place becomes a common resort, until the wallow assumes the shape above described. In the wet season, the rain fills up the wallow, and, unless consumed, standing water is to be found there far into summer.

Among the young buffalo bulls there seems to be a remarkable aspiration to secure the leadership of the herd. This question of rank is annually settled by a test of strength. Certain ambitious males set themselves up as competitors. The first opportunity that offers is accepted. The contests are stubborn and severe--frequently fatal. If the old leader gets the upper hand, he is doubly a hero, and his claims to pre-eminence are greater than ever. Next in rank to the herd-leader are a number of young buffalo, courtiers and gallants, who have free range of the herd so long as they do not come in contact with the leader, or trespass upon his privileges. Between the young and the old males there is an inveterate hostility. As the young grow in ability to cope with the fathers of the herd, a regular conflict takes place. If it terminates in favor of the former, the old buffaloes are unceremoniously driven out. Thus banished from their associations when strong and active, the old animals form a sort of hermit order on the outskirts of the herds, where they constitute the outer guard. These competitive encounters are constantly taking place. As one generation of males succeeds another, those driven out can never return, but live an exiled existence until age, the hunter’s bullet, disease, or the ravenous wolf, finishes their days.

The females display, most remarkably, the attachments of maternity. In one instance, I remember, our party shot and badly wounded a fine calf about six months old. As the calf fell, the mother turned and looked upon it with an expression of absolute grief. Her offspring made repeated efforts to rise, but without avail. The mother, in perfect despair, ran around her young, uttering low moans. As we approached, the mother’s nature was entirely changed. She stamped upon the ground as if to warn us to “keep off.” Although she made no direct attack, she manifested a disposition to defend her young, which was only exceeded by the shouts and firing, which seemed to terrify her. To put the calf out of its suffering and relieve the distress of the mother, and insure our own safety, both animals were dispatched.

Always in the vicinity of the buffalo herd the hunter encounters that beautiful little animal, the antelope. Shy and timid, with an acute scent and far-reaching vision, it is difficult of approach. An old animal is killed now and then by a long-range rifle. Like other timid animals, the antelope has a remarkable development of that too-often fatal instinct, curiosity. By taking advantage of this failing, the experienced hunter succeeds in taking the game. The usual means resorted to is “still hunting.” A red flannel flag, fastened to a short stick, is posted in a conspicuous place. The hunter then secretes himself and waits for an opportunity. This is always a slow process; but, with a proper degree of patience, if anywhere in the vicinity of antelopes so that the flag can be seen, he is sure “to bring a haul.”

The wolves and the coyotes are the inveterate enemies of the antelope, and continually waylay its path. The fleetness of the animal, however, is its complete protection until weakened by age, or probably, it has been crippled. In times of danger, if possible, the antelope takes refuge within the lines of the nearest herd of buffaloes. Its excessive fright at these times often causes whole herds of the mighty beasts to take to their heels as if a battalion of hunters were on their tracks.