understanding on both sides that, if the work
they had undertaken was to be done, once for
all, faithfully and thoroughly, there must be no
half measures, no reprieve. Others died as they
lived. One, waiting his turn, looked at the
quivering body of a comrade, saying, "Kick away,
old fellow, I'll be in hell with you in a minute."
Another in his death-struggle went through the
movements of drawing a revolver from his belt,
cocking it, and firing its six barrels; even the
last convulsions of the hand repeating the act
most familiar to his life of rapine.

The body of such a man found hanging on a
tree in the morning with a label fastened to his
clothes, stating his name and crime, and that
he was hanged, "By Order of the Vigilantes,"
showed that during the night these resolved
friends of order had been afoot. "You have
treated me like a gentleman," said one of the
captured men, commonly known as "Red,"
"and I know I am going to die—I am going
to hanged." "Indeed," said his jailer, "that's
pretty rough." "It is pretty rough," said
Red, "but I deserved this, years ago. What I
want to say is that I know all about the gang,
and there are men in it who deserve this more
than I do; but I should die happy if I could
see them hanged, or know that it would be
done. I don't say this to get off. I don't
want to get off."

He was told that he had better disclose what
he knew, for the sake of his neighbours. Times
had been very hard, and "you know, Red,"
said the Vigilant, "that we have been shot
down in broad daylight—not for money, or
even for hatred, but for luck, and it must be
put a stop to." Red agreed to this, and his
confessions gave the fullest account obtained
from any one, of all the mysteries of the road
agents; they had a particular way of shaving,
a particular tie to their necks, and their
password was "Innocent."

How the Vigilantes of the Rocky Mountains
went about their duty, we shall understand well
enough if we take a single arrest for example.
Let it be that of the gentleman—Bill Hunter—
whose death-struggle showed how familiar his
hand had been with the instrument of murder.
Four of the Vigilantes volunteered to arrest
him. They had far to go; forded a river in
which flakes of ice swirled down on the flanks
of the horses; camped on the frozen earth upon
its banks; and slept under their blankets by
the fire they built. One who slept on a hillock
with his feet to the fire, slid into it, and was
startled out of sleep by heat; another went to
bed in mammoth socks, and, feeling the frost,
pushed downward as he slept to get his feet
well into them, and so worked himself out at
the bottom of his blanket to be wakened by the
cold. Next day their way was through a
snowstorm, but they welcomed this as an ally. At
two in the afternoon they came to a ranch
twenty miles from their destination, supped
there, went on at dark, and reached at midnight
the cabin in which they expected to take their
prisoner. They halted, unsaddled, and rapped
loudly at the door. "Good evening," they said
to a man who opened it. "Don't know whether
it is or not," was the reply. They were
admitted, and found in the cabin three persons—
two visible, one covered up in bed. The Vigilantes,
who talked of gold and prospecting, as if they
were travelling miners, placed themselves, very
obviously well armed, to sleep against each
possible place of exit—including the chimney—and
said nothing of their real business until far into
the morning of the next day, when the horses
were saddled, and they seemed to be on the
point of continuing their journey. Then one of
them asked who the sleeper was, who had never
waked or uncovered his face? The host said he
did not know. He was a stranger who had been
there since the beginning of the snowstorm.
He was asked to describe him, and described
the person of Bill Hunter.

The Vigilantes then went to the bed, and one
of them laid a firm hand over the sleeper's breast,
gripping the revolver then held by the sleeper
under the bedclothes. "Bill Hunter" was called
for, and on looking up saw stern men with guns
levelled at him. He asked to be taken to
Virginia city; but when he came out he knew that
a shorter journey was before him, for he was
put on a horse of which the rider followed him
on foot, and he was not himself suffered to take
the bridle. Thus he was escorted for two miles
until they reached a tree with a branch
convenient for throwing a rope over, and a spur to
which the end of the rope could be fastened.
There they paused, scraped away a foot of snow,
lit a camp-fire and breakfasted. After breakfast
there was consultation and a vote. It was
decided not to take the prisoner to Virginia city.
He became pale and faint, and asked for water.
The catalogue of his known crimes was recited
to him. He denied none of them, and only
asked that his friends should not know the
manner of his death. So he was hanged; and
every one who was present saw that as he
died, "he reached as if for his pistol, and
went through the pantomime of cocking and
discharging his revolver six times." Bill
Hunter was the last of the old road-agent band,
executed by the Vigilance committee.

The Vigilantes withdrew from their work
and trusted in the reviving power of the law.
One man—influential and popular when sober,
reckless and dangerous when drunk, defied the
law, and put men's lives in danger. After a
night of violence, when arrested by the sheriff
he tore up the writ and he and his comrades
drew their revolvers. The sheriff retired. War
against just authority was thus again declared.
The Vigilantes stepped in again for the support
of law and order; took the man, popular as he
was, and much as they liked him; condemned
him to death—one of them even with tears of
compassion—and firmly resolute to their
purpose, hanged him also on a tree. No more was
required. The ruffians left Montana and the
bullies spoke with bated breath; honest men
walked free, life and property were secure,
trade flourished and law was respected. The
foundations of a civilised community were firmly
laid, and this by acts in themselves lawless.