But both,
having earned the reputation of gun-fighters, became too eager to live
up to it. Eventually both became outlaws.
Slade, though always a dangerous man, and extremely rough in his
manner, never failed to treat me with kindness. Sober, he was cool and
self-possessed, but never a man to be trifled with. Drunk, he was a
living fury. His services to the company for which he worked were of
high value. He was easily the best superintendent on the line. But his
habit of man-killing at last resulted in his execution.
Another man who gained even greater notoriety than Slade was "Wild
Bill" Hickock, a tall, yellow-haired giant who had done splendid
service as a scout in the western sector of the Civil War.
"Wild Bill" I had known since 1857. He and I shared the pleasure of
walking a thousand miles to the Missouri River, after the bull-train in
which we both were employed had been burned by Lot Smith, the Mormon
raider. Afterward we rode the Pony Express together.
While an express rider, Bill had the fight with the McCandless gang
which will always form an interesting chapter in the history of the
West.
Coming into his swing station at Rock Creek one day, Bill failed to
arouse any one with his shouts for a fresh mount. This was a certain
indication of trouble. It was the stock-tender's business to be on hand
with a relief pony the instant the rider came in.
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