9. CHAPTER IX.
WE passed Fort Laramie in the night, and on the seventh
morning out we found ourselves in the Black Hills, with Laramie
Peak at our elbow (apparently) looming vast and solitary—a deep,
dark, rich indigo blue in hue, so portentously did the old colossus
frown under his beetling brows of storm-cloud. He was thirty or
forty miles away, in reality, but he only seemed removed a little
beyond the low ridge at our right. We breakfasted at Horse-Shoe
Station, six hundred and seventy-six miles out from St. Joseph.
We had now reached a hostile Indian country, and during the
afternoon we passed Laparelle Station, and enjoyed great
discomfort all the time we were in the neighborhood, being aware
that many of the trees we dashed by at arm's length concealed a
lurking Indian or two. During the preceding night an ambushed
savage had sent a bullet through the pony-rider's jacket, but he had
ridden on, just the same, because pony-riders were not allowed to
stop and inquire into such things except when killed. As long as
they had life enough left in them they had to stick to the horse and
ride, even if the Indians had been waiting for them a week, and
were entirely out of patience. About two hours and a half before
we arrived at Laparelle Station, the keeper in charge of it had fired
four times at an Indian, but he said with an injured air that the
Indian had "skipped around so's to spile everything—and
ammunition's blamed skurse, too." The most natural
inference conveyed by his manner of speaking was, that in
"skipping around," the Indian had taken an unfair advantage.
The coach we were in had a neat hole through its front—a
reminiscence of its last trip through this region. The bullet that
made it wounded the driver slightly, but he did not mind it much.
He said the place to keep a man "huffy" was down on the Southern
Overland, among the Apaches, before the company moved the
stage line up on the northern route. He said the Apaches used to
annoy him all the time down there, and that he came as near as
anything to starving to death in the midst of abundance, because
they kept him so leaky with bullet holes that he "couldn't hold his
vittles." This person's statement were not generally believed.
We shut the blinds down very tightly that first night in the
hostile Indian country, and lay on our arms. We slept on them
some, but most of the time we only lay on them. We did not talk
much, but kept quiet and listened. It was an inky-black night, and
occasionally rainy. We were among woods and rocks, hills and
gorges—so shut in, in fact, that when we peeped through a chink in
a curtain, we could discern nothing. The driver and conductor on
top were still, too, or only spoke at long intervals, in low tones, as
is the way of men in the midst of invisible dangers. We listened to
rain-drops pattering on the roof; and the grinding of the
wheels through the muddy gravel; and the low wailing of the wind;
and all the time we had that absurd sense upon us, inseparable
from travel at night in a close-curtained vehicle, the sense of
remaining perfectly still in one place, notwithstanding the jolting
and swaying of the vehicle, the trampling of the horses, and the
grinding of the wheels. We listened a long time, with intent
faculties and bated breath; every time one of us would relax, and
draw a long sigh of relief and start to say something, a comrade
would be sure to utter a sudden "Hark!" and instantly the
experimenter was rigid and listening again. So the tiresome
minutes and decades of minutes dragged away, until at last our
tense forms filmed over with a dulled consciousness, and we slept,
if one might call such a condition by so strong a name—for it was a
sleep set with a hair-trigger. It was a sleep seething and teeming
with a weird and distressful confusion of shreds and fag-ends of
dreams—a sleep that was a chaos. Presently, dreams and sleep and
the sullen hush of the night were startled by a ringing report, and
cloven by
such
a long, wild, agonizing shriek! Then we heard—ten steps from the
stage—
"Help! help! help!" [It was our driver's voice.]
"Kill him! Kill him like a dog!"
"I'm being murdered! Will no man lend me a pistol?"
"Look out! head him off! head him off!"
[Two pistol shots; a confusion of voices and the trampling of
many feet, as if a crowd were closing and surging together around
some object; several heavy, dull blows, as with a club; a voice that
said appealingly, "Don't, gentlemen, please don't—I'm a dead man!"
Then a fainter groan, and another blow, and away sped the stage
into the darkness, and left the grisly mystery behind us.]
What a startle it was! Eight seconds would amply cover the
time it occupied—maybe even five would do it. We only had time
to plunge at a curtain and unbuckle and unbutton part of it in an
awkward and hindering flurry, when our whip cracked sharply
overhead, and we went rumbling and thundering away, down a
mountain "grade."
We fed on that mystery the rest of the night—what was left of
it, for it was waning fast. It had to remain a present mystery, for
all we could get from the conductor in answer to our hails was
something that sounded, through the clatter of the wheels, like
"Tell you in the morning!"
So we lit our pipes and opened the corner of a curtain for a
chimney, and lay there in the dark, listening to each other's story of
how he first felt and how many thousand Indians he first thought
had hurled themselves upon us, and what his remembrance of the
subsequent sounds was, and the order of their occurrence. And we
theorized, too, but there was never a theory that would account for
our driver's voice being out there, nor yet account for his Indian
murderers talking such good English, if
they were Indians.
So we chatted and smoked the rest of the night comfortably
away, our boding anxiety being somehow marvelously dissipated
by the real presence of something to be
anxious about.
We never did get much satisfaction about that dark
occurrence. All that we could make out of the odds and ends of
the information we gathered in the morning, was that the
disturbance occurred at a station; that we changed drivers there,
and that the driver that got off there had been talking roughly
about some of the outlaws that infested the region ("for there
wasn't a man around there but had a price on his head and didn't
dare show himself in the settlements," the conductor said); he had
talked roughly about these characters, and ought to have "drove up
there with his pistol cocked and ready on the seat alongside of
him, and begun business himself, because any softy would know
they would be laying for him."
That was all we could gather, and we could see that neither the
conductor nor the new driver were much concerned about the
matter. They plainly had little respect for a man who would
deliver offensive opinions of people and then be so simple as to
come into their presence unprepared to "back his judgment," as
they pleasantly phrased the killing of any fellow-being
who did not like said opinions. And likewise they plainly had a
contempt for the man's poor discretion in venturing to rouse the
wrath of such utterly reckless wild beasts as those outlaws—and the
conductor added:
"I tell you it's as much as Slade himself want to do!"
This remark created an entire revolution in my curiosity. I
cared nothing now about the Indians, and even lost interest in the
murdered driver. There was such 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 offenders against his dignity; a man who awfully avenged all
injuries, affront, 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.