This decadent period was notable for a lax administration of law and the absence of strong men at the helm of public affairs. Crime flourished as never before. Though the heroic era of Curly Bill was gone, and cattle raids across the border were out of style, and outlawry had lost its romance, the criminals were pestiferously active. It was an age of thieves rather than bandits. The country was overrun with a vermin of horse thieves and cattle thieves. Though they operated on a small scale, they kept eternally at it. No horse was safe in its stall, no milk cow in a stable lot or pasture. Burglars, practically unknown on the old frontier, made their appearance. Men were held up on dark streets. It became dangerous for a citizen to venture out of town, because of lurking highwaymen. Criminals were showing a disposition to organize. Their depredations became bolder and more extensive. Tombstone was their headquarters, and the town was gradually passing under their secret domination. Casting about for a man with the force and courage to handle a serious situation that every day was growing more sinister and menacing, Tombstone turned its eyes upon John Slaughter. He had no ambition for office. His cattle business kept him fully occupied. But his election as sheriff was a public call to the man for the hour and the job. Like a modern Cincinnatus, he turned his back upon his ranch and his personal interests to perform a public duty. For the next four years, the history of Sheriff Slaughter was virtually the history of Tombstone.
A memorable, wholly unique character was this John Slaughter. Of iron will, iron courage, iron determination—a man of iron. A remarkable combination of thinker and fighter, intellect and trigger finger. A grim, impressively silent man, isolated, wrapped about with loneliness, keeping his own counsels and his own secrets, taking advice from no one. No genius for words, almost inarticulate, but a man of quick judgments and decisive action. A cold exterior belied a fiery, restless, relentless personality. His spirit was like a flame burning in a casing of ice. An upright, honourable man, direct, businesslike. To his friends, friendly. To his enemies and the enemies of law embodied in himself, coldly, tragically, remorselessly merciless.
He was a small, powerful man; broad shoulders, thick neck, only five feet six inches in height, black hair, black moustache, black beard, coal-black eyes. A naturally fair skin had been burned by years of wind and sun to the tinge of tanned leather. He radiated alertness and energy. The snap and vim of him suggested an electric aura.
“No one on whom Slaughter bestowed the most casual glance ever forgot his eyes,” said A. H. Gardner of Tombstone. “They were the blackest, brightest, most penetrating eyes I ever saw. I should think it would, have been difficult to lie to Slaughter. When he looked at me, his eyes seemed to be burning a hole into my brain. I used to fancy he was taking an inventory of all my secrets. If someone had held a newspaper at the back of my head, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Slaughter, looking straight through my skull, had read the want ads.”
Slaughter not only saw everything in front of him with marvellously keen vision, but everything at both sides as well. He rarely turned his head. He turned his eyes instead, taking in all about him with constant sidelong glances. He talked with lips that hardly moved. His voice was low and of throaty quality, but he spoke distinctly. He rarely raised his voice, but everyone within sound of it listened. Those to whom he gave an order jumped to obey it. He did not stammer, but he had a way of beginning a remark with “I say, I say.” One of his quaint maxims was: “I say, I say, always shoot first and holler ‘Throw up your hands’ afterwards.”
Though not a dandy, he was fussy about his clothes, which were always of expensive material, tailored, and immaculate. His broad-brimmed white hat was creased along the centre in his sheriff’s days, but in later years was tucked in around the top to give the appearance of a low crown. He took a Western man’s pride in his boots—he never wore shoes—and had them made to measure by a special boot-maker. They were half-boots, after the cowboy fashion, high-heeled, with a touch of colour and fancy stitching at the tops, and of the finest, softest leather. His trousers were always tucked in them, and his heavy-rowelled spurs were never removed. Anyone who failed to see Slaughter’s face could identify him by his feet.
A black Mexican cigar clenched between his even white teeth seemed a part of him, and associated with him as indelibly in Tombstone’s memory as his gray horse were a diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand and a pearl-handled six-shooter worn at his belt where his right hand could drop on it instantly.
Slaughter was rather free and easy with his intimates, but maintained an aloof dignity
