The bystanders all admired it.

And they all attended the funeral, too.
On one occasion a man who kept a little whisky-shelf at the station did something which angered Slade--and went and made his will.

A day or two afterward Slade came in and called for some brandy.

The man reached under the counter (ostensibly to get a bottle--possibly to get something else), but Slade smiled upon him that peculiarly bland and satisfied smile of his which the neighbors had long ago learned to recognize as a death-warrant in disguise, and told him to "none of that!--pass out the high-priced article." So the poor bar-keeper had to turn his back and get the high-priced brandy from the shelf; and when he faced around again he was looking into the muzzle of Slade's pistol.

"And the next instant," added my informant, impressively, "he was one of the deadest men that ever lived." The stage-drivers and conductors told us that sometimes Slade would leave a hated enemy wholly unmolested, unnoticed and unmentioned, for weeks together--had done it once or twice at any rate.