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.

CHAPTER X.