This portion of my history would be incomplete did I omit to mention that Smith and Thurmond, the lawyers who had on several prominent occasions defended the bloodiest of the roughs, were both banished. The former of these was a man of remarkable ability in his profession and of correct and generous impulses. To a clear, logical mind, and thorough knowledge of his profession, he added fine powers as an orator; and it was these qualities, more than any sympathy he indulged for his clients, that rendered him obnoxious to public censure and suspicion. After an exile of two years he returned to the Territory, and resumed the practice of law, which he followed with success until his death, which occurred in Helena in 1870. He was greatly lamented by all who knew him. Thurmond came from the “west side,” with a reputation for being a friend of the roughs,—one not in complicity with them, but upon whom they could always depend for assistance in case of difficulty. After his banishment he went to Salt Lake City, where he associated himself with the Danites, or Destroying Angels of the Mormon Church, whom he tried to induce to follow his leadership in an active crusade against all the members of the Montana Vigilance Committee who might pass through Utah on their way to the States. Failing in this, he afterwards removed to Dallas, Texas, where he became involved in a quarrel with a noted desperado, by whom he was shot and instantly killed. The administration of justice, and the peace and safety of the people, demanded the banishment of both these men, though many of worse character and more criminal nature but of less influence were permitted to remain. CHAPTER XLI THE STRANGER’S STORY Late in the Fall of 1872, I spent a few days in Salt Lake City. One evening at the Townsend House, while conversing with Governor Woods and a few friends upon the events which had led to the organization of the Montana Vigilantes, I mentioned the name of Boone Helm. “Boone Helm! I knew him well,” was the abrupt exclamation of a stranger seated near, who had been quietly listening to our conversation. We were no less attracted by the singular appearance of the speaker, than the suddenness of the remark. Tall, slender, ungainly, awkward in manner, he yet possessed a pleasing, intellectual countenance, and a certain magnetism, which begat an instantaneous desire in all to hear his history. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” said he, drawing his chair nearer our circle, “for obtruding myself, but the mere utterance of the name of Boone Helm brings to memory the most thrilling episode of my life’s history.” Assuring him that no apology was necessary, and that the recital of adventures was the order of the evening, we all united in the request that he should favor us with his narration.