and the other articles which go to supply the soldier’s larder, were
laid in. Blankets were carefully rolled so as to occupy as little
space as possible; every useless pound of luggage was discarded, for
in making a rapid pursuit after Indians, much of the success depends
upon the lightness of the order of march. Saratoga trunks and their
accompaniments are at a discount. Never was the old saying that in
Rome one must do as Romans do more aptly illustrated than on an Indian
campaign. The Indian, knowing that his safety either on offensive
or defensive movements depends in a great measure upon the speed
and endurance of his horse, takes advantage of every circumstance
which will favor either the one or the other. To this end he divests
himself of all superfluous dress and ornament when preparing for rapid
movements. The white man, if he hopes for success, must adopt the
same rule of action, and encumber his horse as little as possible.
Something besides well-filled mess chests and carefully rolled
blankets is necessary in preparing for an Indian campaign. Arms must
be reëxamined, cartridge-boxes refilled, so that each man should carry
about one hundred rounds of ammunition “on his person,” while each
troop commander must see that in the company wagon there are placed
a few boxes of reserve ammunition. Then, when the equipment of the
soldier has been attended to, his horse, without whose assistance
he is helpless, must be looked after; loose shoes are tightened by
the driving of an additional nail, and to accomplish this one may
see the company blacksmith, a soldier, with the few simple tools of
his kit on the ground beside him, hurriedly fastening the last shoe
by the uncertain light of a candle held in the hands of the rider of
the horse, their mutual labor being varied at times by queries as to
“How long shall we be gone?” “I wonder if we will catch Mr. Lo?” “If
we do, we’ll make it lively for him.” So energetic had everybody been
that before daylight everything was in readiness for the start. In
addition to the regularly organized companies of soldiers which made
up the pursuing column, I had with me a detachment of white scouts
or Plainsmen, and one of friendly Indians, the latter belonging to
the tribe of Delawares, once so famous in Indian wars. Of the Indians
one only could speak English; he acted as interpreter for the party.
Among the white scouts were numbered some of the most noted of their
class. The most prominent man among them was “Wild Bill,” whose highly
varied career was made the subject of an illustrated sketch in one
of the popular monthly periodicals a few years ago. “Wild Bill” was
a strange character, just the one which a novelist might gloat over.
He was a Plainsman in every sense of the word, yet unlike any other
of his class. In person he was about six feet one in height, straight
as the straightest of the warriors whose implacable foe he was;
broad shoulders, well-formed chest and limbs, and a face strikingly
handsome; a sharp, clear, blue eye, which stared you straight in
the face when in conversation; a finely-shaped nose, inclined to be
aquiline; a well-turned mouth, with lips partially concealed by a
handsome moustache. His hair and complexion were those of the perfect
blond. The former was worn in uncut ringlets falling carelessly over
his powerfully formed shoulders. Add to this figure a costume blending
the immaculate neatness of the dandy with the extravagant taste and
style of the frontiersman, and you have Wild Bill, then as now, the
most famous scout on the Plains. Whether on foot or on horseback, he
was one of the most perfect types of physical manhood I ever saw. Of
his courage there could be no question; it had been brought to the
test on too many occasions to admit of a doubt. His skill in the use
of the rifle and pistol was unerring; while his deportment was exactly
the opposite of what might be expected from a man of his surroundings.
It was entirely free from all bluster or bravado. He seldom spoke of
himself unless requested to do so. His conversation, strange to say,
never bordered either on the vulgar or blasphemous. His influence
among the frontiersmen was unbounded, his word was law; and many are
the personal quarrels and disturbances which he has checked among his
comrades by his simple announcement that “this has gone far enough,”
if need be followed by the ominous warning that when persisted in
or renewed the quarreller “must settle it with me.” “Wild Bill” is
anything but a quarrelsome man; yet no one but himself can enumerate
the many conflicts in which he has been engaged, and which have almost
invariably resulted in the death of his adversary. I have a personal
knowledge of at least half a dozen men whom he has at various times
killed, one of these being at the time a member of my command. Others
have been severely wounded, yet he always escapes unhurt. On the Plains
every man openly carries his belt with its invariable appendages,
knife and revolver, often two of the latter. Wild Bill always carried
two handsome ivory-handled revolvers of the large size; he was never
seen without them. Where this is the common custom, brawls or personal
difficulties are seldom if ever settled by blows. The quarrel is not
from a word to a blow, but from a word to the revolver, and he who
can draw and fire first is the best man. No civil law reaches him;
none is applied for. In fact there is no law recognized beyond the
frontier but that of “might makes right.” Should death result from the
quarrel, as it usually does, no coroner’s jury is impanelled to learn
the cause of death, and the survivor is not arrested. But instead of
these old-fashioned proceedings, a meeting of citizens takes place, the
survivor is _requested_ to be present when the circumstances of the
homicide are inquired into, and the unfailing verdict of “justifiable,”
“self-defence,” etc., is pronounced and the law stands vindicated. That
justice is often deprived of a victim there is not a doubt. Yet in all
of the many affairs of this kind in which “Wild Bill” has performed
a part, and which have come to my knowledge, there is not a single
instance in which the verdict of twelve fair-minded men would not be
pronounced in his favor. That the even tenor of his way continues to
be disturbed by little events of this description may be inferred
from an item which has been floating lately through the columns of
the press, and which states that “the funeral of ‘Jim Bludso,’ who
was killed the other day by ‘Wild Bill,’ took place to-day.” It then
adds: “The funeral expenses were borne by ‘Wild Bill.’” What could be
more thoughtful than this? Not only to send a fellow mortal out of the
world, but to pay the expenses of the transit.
THE PONY EXPRESS
MARK TWAIN
From “Roughing It.” Reprinted by permission of Harper and Brothers, New
York, and the Estate of Samuel L. Clemens.[23]
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.
[Illustration: Man and horse burst past our excited faces, and go
winging away like a belated fragment of a storm! _Page 270._]
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.