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:
“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 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,