The body was placed in a tin coffin filled with alcohol, and conveyed to the ranche, where it remained until the following spring, when it was taken to Salt Lake City and buried in the cemetery. A plain marble slab, with name and age graven thereon, marks the burial-place of Slade,—a man who surrendered all that was noble, generous, and manly in his nature to the demon of intemperance. A friend of his, in a recent letter to me, relating to him, says: “Slade was unquestionably a most useful man in his time to the stage line, and to the cause of progress in the Far West, and he never was a robber, as some have represented; but after years of contention with desperate men, he became so reckless and regardless of human life that his best friends must concede that he was at times a most dangerous character, and no doubt, by his defiance of the authority and wholesome discipline of the Vigilantes, brought upon himself the calamity which he suffered.” CHAPTER XLV A MODERN HAMAN “We’ve got a woman for breakfast this time, and a Chinawoman at that,” said X. Beidler, as he drew up to the well-filled breakfast table of the saloon where he boarded. “There’s no want of variety. We had a negro election day, and plenty of white men the week before.” (The expression “a man for breakfast,” signifies, in mining parlance, that a man has been murdered during the night.) “What is the new sensation, X.?” inquired one of the boarders. “Nothing remarkable,” replied X., “a Chinawoman choked to death, and robbed of a thousand dollars during the night.” “Who did it?” “That’s the mysterious part of it. It was done by some one who don’t wish to be known. He’s an exceptional scoundrel; generally, our murders are committed publicly.” “Have you no idea who committed the deed?” “Oh, yes, but then I may be mistaken. I’ll say nothing about that at present. The woman was ready to leave for Boise this morning with the negro Hanson, who has been living with her for some time. I don’t think Hanson killed her, but it can do no harm to arrest him on suspicion, and hear his statement.” This brief colloquy occurred in Helena on a Sabbath morning in September, 1867. The town was at that time infested with thieves, ruffians, and murderers. Shooting affrays, resulting in death to some of the parties concerned, had been of almost daily occurrence for several weeks, and the citizens began to fear a return of the days of 1863. X. Beidler ate deliberately, and when he had finished, sauntered out in pursuit of Hanson, whom he soon found, arrested, and took before a magistrate. The negro was frightened, but protested his innocence. “How was it?” inquired the justice, in a kind tone. “Tell us all you know.”