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Satisfied, the john pays Louis, who turned back to hustling after the death of his lover Spencer Quest put him in financial straits. Sex Scene Two: Meanwhile, also needy for money, pimp Vic Ray Star gives kinky German Kurt Lars Svenson the business card for his next client and tells him to turn the extreme sex play down before someone gets hurt. Kurt heads to Ken Jergesons Jason Sparks apartment and after some intense dick sucking and toe licking, the two forcibly fuck. Ken swallows every last drop of Kurts cum. They eye Nate Zack Randall and take him home to give him a test run.

Nate sucks Vics cock with vigor, and soon Nate and Vic are having their way with JJs tight ass, taking turns pounding it from behind. Sex Scene Four: Vic confronts Louis, who used to work for him, at a restaurant, telling him he cant turn a trick unless it goes through him. Vic threatens Louis with a knife and puts him down, showing off his new guy Ben Lucas exclusive Ben Andrews as younger and more hung.

The couple worship Bens monster uncut cock, followed by tons of 2-on-1 action that includes ass-eating and toe-sucking. Steve and Ben then take turns fucking Kyle until cum flies. He heads over and does his job, and while he leaves the building to his next client, we see Kurt sneakily re-enter before the door closes after him. Nate gags on Nicholas huge cock and opens his hole wide for Nicholas tongue in order to prep for a deep fuck. Closing: A cop questions Louis about the murder of Ken Jergeson, his first trick from the previous night. Panicked, Louis goes to his second tricks apartment, hoping to get him as an alibi, but he only gets his wife.

Convinced that he was framed, Louis tracks Vic down to the Slipper Room, only to get roughed up by Vics bodyguards. Defeated, Louis heads back to the bar, has a drink, and encounters Kurt. Flash forward to the present, where the CSI crew is investigating the crime scene of Louis murder. A detective picks up a wallet from the floor. For gay guys that like their porn real and raw without any Vanilla watching real men fucking bareback and giving those breeding shots that we all love — lets face it who pulls out unless you are coming on someones face — Treasure Island Media is the answer and this week we have a treat at Xvideo Australia — not 1, not 2 but 4 New Releases from Treasure Island Media.

The first one we would like to share a review on is Lost Unreleased Sex Tapes taking us to a decade ago when guys like Christian and Matt Walker were in their prime. Deep in the dusty raiders of their video vault, Treasure Island found several hard drives that had a ton of unreleased footage on them. Volume 1: Lost Unreleased Sex Tapes, newly edited and remastered. Featuring many of their all-star Hall-of-Fame exclusives as well as fan favorites from over the years, this is is a lost moment in sexual time and TIM history.

Each scene is a gem. Many of these guys stopped doing porn, some moved away, and some they still work with today. Two of our favorite men in one gay scene. A true cum pig in his most cherished environment … on his knees and bending over for sperm. It is sexual chaos TIM-style. Many years ago being gay was a crime.

Sadly, it still is a crime depending on what country you live in. In developed countries of the world these thoughts are slowly moving to those of acceptance for the past few decades. A literary club named The Violet Quill was formed by seven gay partners to focus in the positive views of being gay in modern society.

These studies showed that many gay men wished to remain monogamous but unfortunately there were very few truly monogamous gay relationships. Though Gay life was very staid in those times and as such were not socially received or accepted. The subject was still avoided and many gay men lived their lives in denial as to who they truly were.

In this modern age, the old access for gay civilization has changed and modern civilization allows and accepts relationships between same sex people. In recent years the whole scenario has changed, especially in modern countries of the world. The general trend towards homosexuality is one of acceptance. Both of these guys have a firm hand during sex, so watching the dynamic between the two of play out makes this scene an incredible start to However, I will drop a few hints.

First of all, Fabio Lopez is hot as hell -- he's cute and sex at the same time, and best of all he's versatile. He loves using his toned young body and cock to fuck, and he loves the feeling of raw dick up his ass. Fabio is also very much attracted to guys older than him, so when Tomas and Valentino cruise him in a bath house, the three of them hook up for some of the hottest dick sucking and bareback ass fucking seen on Lucas Entertainment yet! We are used to seeing Tomas doing what he does best: fucking a bottom that loves taking a thunderous pounding from a top as hot as Tomas.

This is an ideal scenario for Tomas Brand, the King of All Muscle Daddies, who knows a thing or two about showing hot up-and-coming porn stars what it means to hand over his ass and learn how to properly take dick. Remember the time he and Logan Rogue taught Drae Axtell an important lesson in physical submission? Gabriel Taurus is a sexy young Latin top that is always hungry for a new sexual conquest, and when he got a look at Tomas Brand he knew he wants to get the muscle daddy on his back and fuck raw and without mercy. Tomas strips down and gets ready for his ass pounding by sixty-nine sucking with his top.

And when he finally gets on all fours, Gabriel in no way takes it easy on Tomas. Damon Heart is young, slender, and enjoys being submissive for the right guy. Though Vlad Larin looks a bit nervous when he first sees the hulking Dario Leon and Tomas Brand, they both know how to take care of him and ease his concern. Massimo is a gorgeous guy, and Tomas Brand has all the required attributes to show Massimo an incredible time. Eye contact during oral sex is a Dick-Sucking must, and Massimo Piano certainly delivers that to Tomas Brand at But when Tomas is around, we want to see him take charge and fuck his bottom.

Check out for a taste of it. The Lucas Entertainment production team was more than happy to accommodate him, as Sergeant Miles is a blast to watch on camera. But allow me to point you in two directions, at least: check out and Note: Sergeant Miles for the win when it comes to facial expressions in gay porn. Tomas Brand one of the sexiest porn stars at work in the industry today quickly found himself enamored with the fresh meat, and it took little thought to pair the two of them together. But Leo enjoys bottoming too, which is more than evident at when you consider the adorable smile on his face as Tomas fucks him raw!

Who could have asked for a hotter pairing? Tomas Brand and Toby Dutch spirit themselves away to a beautiful European hotel where they meet with their favorite bottom bareback sex partner to play with -- Alejandro Alvarez. At the height of the action, both Tomas and Toby slip into Alejandro Alvarez at the same time for some hole-stretching double penetration bareback sex! After the first gay bareback sex party clears out of their apartment, Tomas Brand and Lucas Entertainment Exclusive Model Fernando Torres are still hot and bothered.

They continue to mess around: Tomas gets another hard-on and fucks Fernando some more. But one thing is for sure: Watching Fabio Lopez fuck the ass raw of a muscle baddy Tomas Brand, of course surrounded by their admiring onlookers makes this scene worth every second! What a turn-on it would be to receive an invitation from Tomas Brand and Fernando Torres to stop over at their apartment and strip down for some bareback fucking.

The strength of this sexual encounter is the diversity of the guys included, all led by the insanely hot Tomas. If only all trips to a German bathhouse could end up like this. Valentino Medici has a varied taste in men, from younger handsome guys like Fabio Lopez to older hot daddies like Tomas Brand, who Valentino has the lucky chance to run into in a Berlin sex club.

When two hot gay guys like this have the chance to meet and fuck, who would say no? Valentino, despite being a huge beefcake, loves being over and taking a raw cock and taking raw cock up his ass -- both the feeling and the knowledge knowing that he's being dominated by someone just as strong as him. Valentino gets Tomas rock hard with a wet blowjob before taking a seat on Tomas' raw uncut cock and riding until Tomas comes to the brink of shooting his load.

Valentino gets on all fours after that and Tomas slams him; in this position Tomas cannot hold back, and shoots his cum all over Valentino's back! Tomas Brand has been performing for Lucas Entertainment ever since the studio has filmed in London, and ever since his first scene was released his popularity has exploded on the site!

Donato Reyes is dressed in his best suit to impress the men in charge during his interview. Instead, Tomas works out another deal: if he puts out for Tomas then and there on the spot he will fix his car. Dean bends over so Tomas can eat him out vigorously, wetting down his hole before rolling on a condom and claiming what he really wants. Tomas takes his payment by giving Dean a long fuck he will not soon forget!

In it he chases his lover Marco Milan, along with an all-star cast of bareback sex stars through a fused reality of conscious and unconsciousness. Mathew Mason takes a ride on the uncut monster Kayden Gray has between his legs. Tony Rivera teaches Paul Walker just how hard Latin power-tops fuck in the sack. Daddy-top Tomas Brand gives up his ass to the ultra-sexy Gabriel Taurus. Next morning, just before dawn, when about five hundred and fifty miles from St. Joseph, our mud-wagon broke down. We were to be delayed five or six hours, and therefore we took horses, by invitation, and joined a party who were just starting on a buffalo hunt.

It was noble sport galloping over the plain in the dewy freshness of the morning, but our part of the hunt ended in disaster and disgrace, for a wounded buffalo bull chased the passenger Bemis nearly two miles, and then he forsook his horse and took to a lone tree. He was very sullen about the matter for some twenty-four hours, but at last he began to soften little by little, and finally he said:.

I tell you I was angry in earnest for awhile.


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I should have shot that long gangly lubber they called Hank, if I could have done it without crippling six or seven other people--but of course I couldn't, the old 'Allen's' so confounded comprehensive. I wish those loafers had been up in the tree; they wouldn't have wanted to laugh so. If I had had a horse worth a cent--but no, the minute he saw that buffalo bull wheel on him and give a bellow, he raised straight up in the air and stood on his heels.

The saddle began to slip, and I took him round the neck and laid close to him, and began to pray. Then he came down and stood up on the other end awhile, and the bull actually stopped pawing sand and bellowing to contemplate the inhuman spectacle. He was absolutely out of his mind--he was, as sure as truth itself, and he really didn't know what he was doing. Then the bull came charging at us, and my horse dropped down on all fours and took a fresh start--and then for the next ten minutes he would actually throw one hand-spring after another so fast that the bull began to get unsettled, too, and didn't know where to start in--and so he stood there sneezing, and shovelling dust over his back, and bellowing every now and then, and thinking he had got a fifteen-hundred dollar circus horse for breakfast, certain.

Well, I was first out on his neck--the horse's, not the bull's--and then underneath, and next on his rump, and sometimes head up, and sometimes heels--but I tell you it seemed solemn and awful to be ripping and tearing and carrying on so in the presence of death, as you might say. Pretty soon the bull made a snatch for us and brought away some of my horse's tail I suppose, but do not know, being pretty busy at the time , but something made him hungry for solitude and suggested to him to get up and hunt for it. By George, it was a hot race! I and the saddle were back on the rump, and I had the bridle in my teeth and holding on to the pommel with both hands.

First we left the dogs behind; then we passed a jackass rabbit; then we overtook a cayote, and were gaining on an antelope when the rotten girth let go and threw me about thirty yards off to the left, and as the saddle went down over the horse's rump he gave it a lift with his heels that sent it more than four hundred yards up in the air, I wish I may die in a minute if he didn't. I fell at the foot of the only solitary tree there was in nine counties adjacent as any creature could see with the naked eye , and the next second I had hold of the bark with four sets of nails and my teeth, and the next second after that I was astraddle of the main limb and blaspheming my luck in a way that made my breath smell of brimstone.

I had the bull, now, if he did not think of one thing. But that one thing I dreaded. I dreaded it very seriously. There was a possibility that the bull might not think of it, but there were greater chances that he would. I made up my mind what I would do in case he did. It was a little over forty feet to the ground from where I sat. I cautiously unwound the lariat from the pommel of my saddle". Why, how you talk. Of course I didn't. No man could do that. It fell in the tree when it came down. I unwound the lariat, and fastened one end of it to the limb.

It was the very best green raw-hide, and capable of sustaining tons. I made a slip-noose in the other end, and then hung it down to see the length. It reached down twenty-two feet--half way to the ground. I then loaded every barrel of the Allen with a double charge. I felt satisfied.

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I said to myself, if he never thinks of that one thing that I dread, all right--but if he does, all right anyhow--I am fixed for him. But don't you know that the very thing a man dreads is the thing that always happens? Indeed it is so. I watched the bull, now, with anxiety --anxiety which no one can conceive of who has not been in such a situation and felt that at any moment death might come.

Presently a thought came into the bull's eye. I knew it! Sure enough, it was just as I had dreaded, he started in to climb the tree". Because you never saw a thing done, is that any reason why it can't be done? I breathed easier. He tried it again--got up a little higher--slipped again. But he came at it once more, and this time he was careful. He got gradually higher and higher, and my spirits went down more and more.

Up he came--an inch at a time--with his eyes hot, and his tongue hanging out. Higher and higher--hitched his foot over the stump of a limb, and looked up, as much as to say, 'You are my meat, friend. He was within ten feet of me! I took a long breath,--and then said I, 'It is now or never. Quicker than lightning I out with the Allen and let him have it in the face.

It was an awful roar, and must have scared the bull out of his senses. When the smoke cleared away, there he was, dangling in the air, twenty foot from the ground, and going out of one convulsion into another faster than you could count! I didn't stop to count, anyhow--I shinned down the tree and shot for home.

I never saw anybody as particular as you are about a little thing like that. I made up my mind that if this man was not a liar he only missed it by the skin of his teeth. This episode reminds me of an incident of my brief sojourn in Siam, years afterward. The European citizens of a town in the neighborhood of Bangkok had a prodigy among them by the name of Eckert, an Englishman--a person famous for the number, ingenuity and imposing magnitude of his lies.

They were always repeating his most celebrated falsehoods, and always trying to "draw him out" before strangers; but they seldom succeeded. Twice he was invited to the house where I was visiting, but nothing could seduce him into a specimen lie. One day a planter named Bascom, an influential man, and a proud and sometimes irascible one, invited me to ride over with him and call on Eckert. As we jogged along, said he:. It lies in putting Eckert on his guard. The minute the boys go to pumping at Eckert he knows perfectly well what they are after, and of course he shuts up his shell.

Anybody might know he would. But when we get there, we must play him finer than that. Let him shape the conversation to suit himself--let him drop it or change it whenever he wants to. Let him see that nobody is trying to draw him out. Just let him have his own way. He will soon forget himself and begin to grind out lies like a mill.

Don't get impatient-- just keep quiet, and let me play him. I will make him lie. It does seem to me that the boys must be blind to overlook such an obvious and simple trick as that. Eckert received us heartily--a pleasant-spoken, gentle-mannered creature.

We sat in the veranda an hour, sipping English ale, and talking about the king, and the sacred white elephant, the Sleeping Idol, and all manner of things; and I noticed that my comrade never led the conversation himself or shaped it, but simply followed Eckert's lead, and betrayed no solicitude and no anxiety about anything. The effect was shortly perceptible. Eckert began to grow communicative; he grew more and more at his ease, and more and more talkative and sociable. Another hour passed in the same way, and then all of a sudden Eckert said:.

I came near forgetting. I have got a thing here to astonish you. Such a thing as neither you nor any other man ever heard of--I've got a cat that will eat cocoanut! Common green cocoanut--and not only eat the meat, but drink the milk. It is so--I'll swear to it.

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Now, that is the way to handle Eckert. You see, I have petted him along patiently, and put his suspicions to sleep. I am glad we came. You tell the boys about it when you go back. Cat eat a cocoanut--oh, my! Now, that is just his way, exactly--he will tell the absurdest lie, and trust to luck to get out of it again. Eckert split one open, and chopped up some pieces.

Bascom smuggled a wink to me, and proffered a slice of the fruit to puss. She snatched it, swallowed it ravenously, and asked for more! We rode our two miles in silence, and wide apart. At least I was silent, though Bascom cuffed his horse and cursed him a good deal, notwithstanding the horse was behaving well enough. When I branched off homeward, Bascom said:. In a little while all interest was taken up in stretching our necks and watching for the "pony-rider"--the fleet messenger who sped across the continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters nineteen hundred miles in eight days!

Think of that for perishable horse and human flesh and blood to do! The pony-rider was usually a little bit of a man, brimful of spirit and endurance. No matter what time of the day or night his watch came on, and no matter whether it was winter or summer, raining, snowing, hailing, or sleeting, or whether his "beat" was a level straight road or a crazy trail over mountain crags and precipices, or whether it led through peaceful regions or regions that swarmed with hostile Indians, he must be always ready to leap into the saddle and be off like the wind! There was no idling-time for a pony-rider on duty.

He rode fifty miles without stopping, by daylight, moonlight, starlight, or through the blackness of darkness--just as it happened. He rode a splendid horse that was born for a racer and fed and lodged like a gentleman; kept him at his utmost speed for ten miles, and then, as he came crashing up to the station where stood two men holding fast a fresh, impatient steed, the transfer of rider and mail-bag was made in the twinkling of an eye, and away flew the eager pair and were out of sight before the spectator could get hardly the ghost of a look.

Both rider and horse went "flying light. He carried no arms--he carried nothing that was not absolutely necessary, for even the postage on his literary freight was worth five dollars a letter. He got but little frivolous correspondence to carry--his bag had business letters in it, mostly. His horse was stripped of all unnecessary weight, too. He wore a little wafer of a racing-saddle, and no visible blanket. He wore light shoes, or none at all. The little flat mail-pockets strapped under the rider's thighs would each hold about the bulk of a child's primer.

They held many and many an important business chapter and newspaper letter, but these were written on paper as airy and thin as gold-leaf, nearly, and thus bulk and weight were economized.


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The stage- coach traveled about a hundred to a hundred and twenty-five miles a day twenty-four hours , the pony-rider about two hundred and fifty. There were about eighty pony-riders in the saddle all the time, night and day, stretching in a long, scattering procession from Missouri to California, forty flying eastward, and forty toward the west, and among them making four hundred gallant horses earn a stirring livelihood and see a deal of scenery every single day in the year.

We had had a consuming desire, from the beginning, to see a pony-rider, but somehow or other all that passed us and all that met us managed to streak by in the night, and so we heard only a whiz and a hail, and the swift phantom of the desert was gone before we could get our heads out of the windows. But now we were expecting one along every moment, and would see him in broad daylight. Presently the driver exclaims:. Every neck is stretched further, and every eye strained wider.

Away across the endless dead level of the prairie a black speck appears against the sky, and it is plain that it moves. Well, I should think so! In a second or two it becomes a horse and rider, rising and falling, rising and falling--sweeping toward us nearer and nearer--growing more and more distinct, more and more sharply defined--nearer and still nearer, and the flutter of the hoofs comes faintly to the ear--another instant a whoop and a hurrah from our upper deck, a wave of the rider's hand, but no reply, and man and horse burst past our excited faces, and go winging away like a belated fragment of a storm!

So sudden is it all, and so like a flash of unreal fancy, that but for the flake of white foam left quivering and perishing on a mail-sack after the vision had flashed by and disappeared, we might have doubted whether we had seen any actual horse and man at all, maybe. We rattled through Scott's Bluffs Pass, by and by. It was along here somewhere that we first came across genuine and unmistakable alkali water in the road, and we cordially hailed it as a first-class curiosity, and a thing to be mentioned with eclat in letters to the ignorant at home.

This water gave the road a soapy appearance, and in many places the ground looked as if it had been whitewashed. I think the strange alkali water excited us as much as any wonder we had come upon yet, and I know we felt very complacent and conceited, and better satisfied with life after we had added it to our list of things which we had seen and some other people had not. In a small way we were the same sort of simpletons as those who climb unnecessarily the perilous peaks of Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn, and derive no pleasure from it except the reflection that it isn't a common experience.

But once in a while one of those parties trips and comes darting down the long mountain-crags in a sitting posture, making the crusted snow smoke behind him, flitting from bench to bench, and from terrace to terrace, jarring the earth where he strikes, and still glancing and flitting on again, sticking an iceberg into himself every now and then, and tearing his clothes, snatching at things to save himself, taking hold of trees and fetching them along with him, roots and all, starting little rocks now and then, then big boulders, then acres of ice and snow and patches of forest, gathering and still gathering as he goes, adding and still adding to his massed and sweeping grandeur as he nears a three thousand-foot precipice, till at last he waves his hat magnificently and rides into eternity on the back of a raging and tossing avalanche!

This is all very fine, but let us not be carried away by excitement, but ask calmly, how does this person feel about it in his cooler moments next day, with six or seven thousand feet of snow and stuff on top of him? We crossed the sand hills near the scene of the Indian mail robbery and massacre of , wherein the driver and conductor perished, and also all the passengers but one, it was supposed; but this must have been a mistake, for at different times afterward on the Pacific coast I was personally acquainted with a hundred and thirty-three or four people who were wounded during that massacre, and barely escaped with their lives.

There was no doubt of the truth of it--I had it from their own lips. One of these parties told me that he kept coming across arrow-heads in his system for nearly seven years after the massacre; and another of them told me that he was struck so literally full of arrows that after the Indians were gone and he could raise up and examine himself, he could not restrain his tears, for his clothes were completely ruined.

The most trustworthy tradition avers, however, that only one man, a person named Babbitt, survived the massacre, and he was desperately wounded. He dragged himself on his hands and knee for one leg was broken to a station several miles away. He did it during portions of two nights, lying concealed one day and part of another, and for more than forty hours suffering unimaginable anguish from hunger, thirst and bodily pain. The Indians robbed the coach of everything it contained, including quite an amount of treasure.

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.

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 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.

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! 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 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:.

This remark created an entire revolution in my curiosity. I cared nothing now about the Indians, and even lost interest in the murdered driver. 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. Really and truly, two thirds of the talk of drivers and conductors had been about this man Slade, ever since the day before we reached Julesburg. In order that the eastern reader may have a clear conception of what a Rocky Mountain desperado is, in his highest state of development, I will reduce all this mass of overland gossip to one straightforward narrative, and present it in the following shape:.

Slade was born in Illinois, of good parentage. At about twenty-six years of age he killed a man in a quarrel and fled the country. At St. Joseph, Missouri, he joined one of the early California-bound emigrant trains, and was given the post of train-master. One day on the plains he had an angry dispute with one of his wagon-drivers, and both drew their revolvers.

But the driver was the quicker artist, and had his weapon cocked first. So Slade said it was a pity to waste life on so small a matter, and proposed that the pistols be thrown on the ground and the quarrel settled by a fist-fight. The unsuspecting driver agreed, and threw down his pistol--whereupon Slade laughed at his simplicity, and shot him dead!

He made his escape, and lived a wild life for awhile, dividing his time between fighting Indians and avoiding an Illinois sheriff, who had been sent to arrest him for his first murder. It is said that in one Indian battle he killed three savages with his own hand, and afterward cut their ears off and sent them, with his compliments, to the chief of the tribe. Slade soon gained a name for fearless resolution, and this was sufficient merit to procure for him the important post of overland division-agent at Julesburg, in place of Mr.

Jules, removed. For some time previously, the company's horses had been frequently stolen, and the coaches delayed, by gangs of outlaws, who were wont to laugh at the idea of any man's having the temerity to resent such outrages. Slade resented them promptly. The outlaws soon found that the new agent was a man who did not fear anything that breathed the breath of life. He made short work of all offenders. The result was that delays ceased, the company's property was let alone, and no matter what happened or who suffered, Slade's coaches went through, every time! True, in order to bring about this wholesome change, Slade had to kill several men--some say three, others say four, and others six--but the world was the richer for their loss.

The first prominent difficulty he had was with the ex-agent Jules, who bore the reputation of being a reckless and desperate man himself. Jules hated Slade for supplanting him, and a good fair occasion for a fight was all he was waiting for. By and by Slade dared to employ a man whom Jules had once discharged. Next, Slade seized a team of stage-horses which he accused Jules of having driven off and hidden somewhere for his own use. War was declared, and for a day or two the two men walked warily about the streets, seeking each other, Jules armed with a double-barreled shot gun, and Slade with his history-creating revolver.

Finally, as Slade stepped into a store Jules poured the contents of his gun into him from behind the door. Slade was plucky, and Jules got several bad pistol wounds in return. Then both men fell, and were carried to their respective lodgings, both swearing that better aim should do deadlier work next time. Both were bedridden a long time, but Jules got to his feet first, and gathering his possessions together, packed them on a couple of mules, and fled to the Rocky Mountains to gather strength in safety against the day of reckoning.

For many months he was not seen or heard of, and was gradually dropped out of the remembrance of all save Slade himself. But Slade was not the man to forget him. On the contrary, common report said that Slade kept a reward standing for his capture, dead or alive! After awhile, seeing that Slade's energetic administration had restored peace and order to one of the worst divisions of the road, the overland stage company transferred him to the Rocky Ridge division in the Rocky Mountains, to see if he could perform a like miracle there. It was the very paradise of outlaws and desperadoes.

There was absolutely no semblance of law there. Violence was the rule. Force was the only recognized authority. The commonest misunderstandings were settled on the spot with the revolver or the knife. Murders were done in open day, and with sparkling frequency, and nobody thought of inquiring into them. It was considered that the parties who did the killing had their private reasons for it; for other people to meddle would have been looked upon as indelicate. After a murder, all that Rocky Mountain etiquette required of a spectator was, that he should help the gentleman bury his game-- otherwise his churlishness would surely be remembered against him the first time he killed a man himself and needed a neighborly turn in interring him.

Slade took up his residence sweetly and peacefully in the midst of this hive of horse-thieves and assassins, and the very first time one of them aired his insolent swaggerings in his presence he shot him dead! He began a raid on the outlaws, and in a singularly short space of time he had completely stopped their depredations on the stage stock, recovered a large number of stolen horses, killed several of the worst desperadoes of the district, and gained such a dread ascendancy over the rest that they respected him, admired him, feared him, obeyed him! He wrought the same marvelous change in the ways of the community that had marked his administration at Overland City.

He captured two men who had stolen overland stock, and with his own hands he hanged them. He was supreme judge in his district, and he was jury and executioner likewise--and not only in the case of offences against his employers, but against passing emigrants as well. On one occasion some emigrants had their stock lost or stolen, and told Slade, who chanced to visit their camp. With a single companion he rode to a ranch, the owners of which he suspected, and opening the door, commenced firing, killing three, and wounding the fourth. From a bloodthirstily interesting little Montana book.

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He would ride down to a station, get into a quarrel, turn the house out of windows, and maltreat the occupants most cruelly. The unfortunates had no means of redress, and were compelled to recuperate as best they could. On one of these occasions, it is said he killed the father of the fine little half-breed boy Jemmy, whom he adopted, and who lived with his widow after his execution. Stories of Slade's hanging men, and of innumerable assaults, shootings, stabbings and beatings, in which he was a principal actor, form part of the legends of the stage line.

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As for minor quarrels and shootings, it is absolutely certain that a minute history of Slade's life would be one long record of such practices. Slade was a matchless marksman with a navy revolver. The legends say that one morning at Rocky Ridge, when he was feeling comfortable, he saw a man approaching who had offended him some days before--observe the fine memory he had for matters like that--and, "Gentlemen," said Slade, drawing, "it is a good twenty-yard shot--I'll clip the third button on his coat!

The bystanders all admired it. And they all attended the funeral, too.