“Slade,” said Hunt, “if I’d been sheriff, the first thing I would have done when I got up this morning would have been to arrest you. By that means I would have saved your life, probably prevented bloodshed, and we would have had a quiet town to-day.” “We had better make you sheriff, then,” replied Slade. “No, I have no wish for it; but if I were, I have got nerve enough to arrest you, and would certainly have done so.” “Well, well,” said Slade, now thoroughly quieted, “let us go out and get a drink.” The two men left the store. In a few moments Slade returned, and, approaching Davis, said, “I was too fast. I ask your pardon for my conduct, and hope you will overlook it.” In the meantime the Vigilantes, undetermined what course to pursue, had sent a request to their brethren at Nevada to join in their deliberations. Six hundred armed miners obeyed the summons, sending their leader in advance to inform the Executive Committee that, in their judgment, Slade should be executed. The Committee, unwilling to recommend this measure, finally agreed that, if unanimously adopted, it should be enforced. Alarmed at the gathering of the people, Slade again sought the presence of Judge Davis, to repeat his apologies and regrets for the violence of his conduct. He was now perfectly sobered, and fully comprehended the effect of his lawlessness upon the community. The column of Vigilantes from Nevada halted in front of the store, and the executive officer stepped forward and arrested Slade. “The Committee,” said he, addressing him, “have decided upon your execution. If you have any business to settle, you must attend to it immediately.” “My execution! my death! My God! gentlemen, you will not proceed to such extremities! The Committee cannot have decreed this.” “It is even so, and you had better at once give the little time left you to arranging your business.” This appalling repetition of the sentence of the Committee seemed to deprive him of every vestige of manliness and courage. He fell upon his knees, and with clasped hands shuffled over the floor from one to another of those who had been his friends, begging for his life. Clasping the hands of Judge Davis and Captain Williams, he implored them for mercy, mingling with his appeals, prayers and promises, and requests that his wife might be sent for. “My God! my God! must I die? Oh, my dear wife! why can she not be sent for?” were repeated in the most heartrending accents.