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    Chapter IX

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    Chapter 11
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    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.
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