Glendale is a lonely wayside station in the western part of Lafayette county, Missouri, on the line of the Chicago & Alton railway, Kansas City branch. There is a water-tank, a little station-house, and a few houses in a narrow vale, wedged in between rugged hills, which are covered with lofty trees and tangled thickets, a fit place for the rendezvous of a banditti. Glendale is about twenty miles from Kansas City, and on the line of the road between Independence and Blue Springs, in the very midst of a region where many of the darkest crimes and deeds of blood which marked the Guerrilla warfare of the border were committed both by the Federal militia and the Confederate Guerrillas. The country about Glendale is one of the wildest regions in Western Missouri, and the hills and dark ravines afford excellent opportunities for the concealment of both men and horses. A better situation for a successful foray by brigands does not exist on the line of the road between Chicago and Kansas City. The night express train, bound from Kansas City to Chicago and St. Louis, left the Union Depot in the first-named city on the evening of the 7th, at six o'clock, and consequently was due at Glendale at about seven o'clock--a short time after daylight had faded from the west. Now, as we have before intimated, Glendale is a place with a nice name, but few inhabitants. Though perhaps it is not destined to go down to history with the historic interest attached to Arbela, Malplaquet, Shiloh, Kennesaw or Waterloo, yet so early in its history Glendale has become famous. The incident which contributed so much to this result occurred on the evening of the 7th of October, 1879. In addition to the station-house, the business of Glendale is represented by a post-office and a general store, kept by the postmaster. The evening in question was very pleasant outside of houses, and when the curtains of night were drawn, and the store was lighted, the postmaster and four others, who constituted the male population of the place, except the station agent, Mr. McIntire, had gathered in front of the little store to discuss the neighborhood's affairs. They were quietly interchanging views. Suddenly a stranger joined the circle, and, walking quickly to where the proprietor was sitting, he tapped him on the shoulder and said: "I want you." "What do you want?" asked the other. The new arrival did not deign to answer the question, but quietly stepped away, and said: "Here, boys." In a minute--nay, a moment--half a dozen rough-looking men, muffled and masked, stood by his side, armed with huge pistols and wicked-looking knives. Their pistols they held cocked in their hands. Then the leader, in a harsh, grating voice, said: "Now, take care, make tracks out of this!" The terrified citizens started to obey. As they were going, the leader said: "To the depot, do you hear!"