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 offence 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 shop-keepers 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 friend, 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 Dorris’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 me 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 deliberation 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 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.
CHAPTER IV.
WILD BILL HICKOK
By J. W. Buel
In the latter part of 1865, Wild Bill went to Springfield, Missouri, where he remained some time. It was while at this place that he fought a duel with Dave Tutt in the public square, and, as usual, killed his man, and came out of the encounter scatheless. The particulars of this affair are as follows: Springfield became a meeting place, after the war, of Confederates and Union men. Both sides recruited their forces from this section, and though the war had ended, many of the animosities then engendered still remained. Another peculiarity of the place consisted in the excess of border ruffianism, which made the town notorious. Murders had been so frequent in that section that the value of a life could scarcely be computed for its smallness. Among the rowdies was one Dave Tutt, a man of terrible passion, strong revenge, and one withal who had his private graveyard. He and Bill had met before; in fact, had shared the smiles of the same woman, a few years previous; but Bill had won “in a square court,” and Dave was anxious to meet Bill with pistols to settle the point finally. Some months passed while the two were in Springfield before any opportunity was presented for Dave to introduce a row, and when it came it was of Dave’s own manufacture. It is claimed that Bill killed a particular friend of Dave’s some years before, but of the truth of this we have no proof. One of the strong points of difference between the men consisted in the fact that Bill had been a Union scout and spy, and Dave had performed a similar duty for the Confederates.
Springfield was a great place for gamblers, and Bill and Dave belonged to the profession. One night, the two met in a saloon on the north side of the square, and Dave proposed a game with Bill, which, not being agreeable, Dave offered to stake a friend to play Bill. Thus the game was started. When Bill sat down to the game he drew out his heavy gold watch and laid it on the table, remarking that he intended to quit the game promptly at twelve o’clock. After nearly two hours playing he had won two hundred dollars, the greater part of which had come from Dave as a loan to his friend. Having broke the friend and Dave also, the latter remarked, “Bill, you’ve got money now, so pay me that forty dollars you’ve been owing me so long.”
“All right,” replied Bill, “there’s your money,” and thereupon passed the forty dollars to Dave.
“Now,” remarked Dave, further, “I want that thirty-five dollars I won off you Friday night.”
Bill’s reply was very courteous: “Beg your pardon, Dave, it was only twenty-five dollars; I put the amount down in my memorandum-book at the time.”
Receiving this mild reply, Dave reached across the table and took Bill’s watch, with the remark, “You’ll never get this watch until you pay me that thirty-five dollars.”
This threw Bill into a violent passion, although he restrained himself. Rising from his chair and looking piercingly into Dave’s eyes, he said: “I am anxious to avoid a row in this gentleman’s house. You had better put that watch back on the table.”
Dave returned an ugly look, and walked out of the room with the watch.
It was the only time, perhaps, in Bill’s life, that he permitted himself to be thus bullied. Everyone who knew him thought he had lost his pluck. It was indeed a seven days’ wonder with the people.
Dave kept the watch two days, during which time Bill remained in his room closely, revolving in his mind whether he should add another to his already long list of victims, or stop there and begin a life which flows in a more peaceful current. But he was not permitted to think and resolve without the advice of his friends. Almost every hour one or more of them would come to him with a new story about Dave’s boasts and intentions.
On the morning of the third day after the row, Dave sent word to Bill that he intended “to carry the watch across the square at noon, and to call the hour from Wild Bill’s watch.” Bill sent back the following reply: “Dave Tutt will not carry my watch across the square today unless dead men can walk.”
This reply satisfied everybody that there was going to be a death fight. Accordingly, shortly befor
e noon, an immense crowd had assembled on the public square to see the duel.
At five minutes to twelve Wild Bill made his appearance on one side of the square opposite the crowd, where he could command a view of Tutt and his many friends, nearly all of whom were standing with their revolvers in their hands.
Just before twelve Dave stepped out from the crowd and started across the square. When he had proceeded a few steps and placed himself opposite to Bill, he drew his pistol; there was a report as of a single discharge, and Dave Tutt fell dead with a bullet through his heart. The moment Bill discharged his pistol—both pistols having been fired at the same instant—without taking note of the result of his shot, he turned on the crowd with his pistol leveled, and asked if they were satisfied; twenty or more blanched faces said they were, and pronounced the fight a square one. Bill expected to have to kill more than one man that day, but none of Dave’s friends considered it policy to appeal the result.
Bill was arrested, but at the preliminary examination he was discharged on the ground of self-defense. The verdict may not have been in accordance with the well-defined principles of criminal jurisprudence, but it was sufficient, for all who know the circumstances believe that Tutt got his deserts.
* * *
Bill remained in Springfield several months after killing Tutt, and until he was engaged, in 1866, to guide the Peace Commission, which visited the many tribes of Indians that year. Henry M. Stanley, the African explorer, accompanied the commission as correspondent of the New York Herald, and wrote some amusing sketches of Bill during the trip, but none of a nature which would make them appropriate in the history of his escapades. They related chiefly to his feats of markmanship, knowledge of Indian cunning, and droll humor.
Upon the return of the Peace Commission, Bill made a trip into the eastern part of Nebraska, and in the spring of 1867, fought a remarkable duel in Jefferson county, with four men as his antagonists. The particulars of this fight were obtained from a gentleman now living in St. Louis, who, at the time, lived within a few miles of where the fight occurred, and heard the details from eyewitnesses.
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