ed in every
direction, yelling warnings to each other as they fled.

Once clear of the camp we circled to the south and came back to make
sure that we had done a thorough job. A few parting shots stampeded the
stragglers. Then, with one hundred captured ponies--most, if not all of
them, stolen from the Express and State stations--we rode back to
Sweetwater Bridge.

The recovered horses were placed on the road again, and the Express was
resumed. Slade, who was greatly pleased with our exploit, now assigned
me as special or supernumerary rider. Thereafter while I was with him I
had a comparatively easy time of it, riding only now and then, and
having plenty of opportunity for seeking after the new adventures in
which I delighted.

Alf Slade, stage-line superintendent, frontiersman, and dare-devil
fighting man, was one of the far-famed gunmen of the Plains. These were
a race of men bred by the perils and hard conditions of Western life.
They became man-killers first from stern necessity. In that day the man
who was not quick on the trigger had little chance with the outlaws
among whom he had to live. Slade and "Wild Bill," with both of whom I
became closely associated, were men of nerve and courage. 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 mou