“Just as I thought,” he replied; “you’re the very man who sold the lumber to Slade. We boys thought Slade would shoot you, when you refused to trust him for the boards. He came pretty near doing it, and it wa’n’t a bit like him not to. I was one of the teamsters then, and we all expected a big row about it, and stood by, ready to pitch in. I ain’t that kind of a man now, but things were different then, and anybody that worked for Slade, if he wished to escape being shot, had to stand by him in a fight. I never knew why Slade didn’t shoot you, but there was never any telling what he would do, and what he wouldn’t. Sometimes it was one thing and sometimes another, just as the notion took him; but if he ever was put down by a man, which wasn’t often, he always seemed to remember it, and was civil to him afterwards. You were in mighty big luck to get out of the scrape as you did.”
In illustration of this latter peculiarity, an incident is related of Slade, which occurred during that portion of his life passed on the Overland Stage route. He and one Bob Scott, a somewhat noted man of the time, had become interested in a set-to at poker; game followed game, and drink followed drink. Both were exhilarated by liquor, bets grew larger, and finally in one game each had “raised” the other till Slade’s money was exhausted. Slade pointed to the piles of coin heaped upon the table, exclaiming,
“Bob, that money belongs to me.”
“It does if the cards say so,” said Bob, “not otherwise.”
“Perhaps,” rejoined Slade, “my cards are not better than yours; but,” drawing his revolver and pointing it at Scott, “my hand is.”
Scott glanced at him with amazement, and for a moment both parties were silent. At length Slade reached forward to pull down the pile of double eagles and transfer them to his pocket, when, with the quickness of lightning, Scott pushed aside the pistol with one hand, and dealt his antagonist a stunning blow between the eyes with the other. Slade fell, and Scott fell on him, and gave him a severe drubbing, only permitting him to rise on his promising to behave himself.
The game was renewed and no reference made to the fight, until Slade, thoroughly sobered, quietly remarked,
“Well, Bob, if you’d pounded me about two minutes longer, I’d have got sober sooner.”
Soon after he came to Virginia City, Slade located a ranche on the margin of Meadow Creek, twelve miles distant, and built a small stone house in one of the wildest dells of the overhanging mountain. This lonely dwelling, seldom visited by him, was occupied solely by his wife, who fittingly typified the genius of that majestic solitude over which she presided. This ill-fated lady was at this time in the prime of health and beauty. She possessed many personal attractions. Her figure was queenly, and her movements the perfection of grace. Her countenance was lit up by a pair of burning black eyes, and her hair, black as the raven’s wing, fell in rich curls over her shoulders. She was of powerful organization, and having passed her life upon the borders, knew how to use the rifle and revolver, and could perform as many dexterous feats in the saddle as the boldest hunter that roamed the plains. Secure in the affection of her husband, she devoted her life to his interests, and participated in all the joys and sorrows of his checkered career. While he lived, she knew no heavier grief than his irregularities. In his wildest moments of passion and violence, Slade dearly loved his wife. Liquor and license never made him forgetful of her happiness, nor poisoned the love she bore for him.
The frequent and inexcusable acts of violence committed by Slade made him the terror of the country. His friends warned him of the consequences, but he disregarded their advice, or if possible behaved the worse for it. It was an invariable custom with him when intoxicated, to mount his horse and ride through the main street, driving into each saloon as he came to it, firing at the lamps, breaking the glasses, throwing the gold scales into the street, or committing other acts equally destructive and vicious, and seldom unaccompanied by deeds of personal violence as unprovoked as they were wanton and cruel. People soon tired of pecuniary reparation and gentlemanly apologies for a course of brutality, which, sooner or later, they foresaw must culminate in outrage and bloodshed. All the respect they entertained for Slade when sober, was changed into fear when he was drunk; and rather than offend one so reckless of all civil restraint, they closed and locked their doors at his approach. In the absence of law, the people, after the execution of Helm, Gallagher, and their associates, established a voluntary tribunal, for the punishment of offenders against the peace, which was known as the People’s Court. It possessed all the requisites for trial of a constitutional court; and its judgment had never been disputed. Alexander Davis, a lawyer of good attainments in his profession, and a man of exemplary character, was the judge. Slade had been often arrested and fined by this tribunal, and always obeyed its decrees, but an occasion came when he refused longer to do so, and treated its process and officers with contempt.